#Third Floor Richard
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
Ed Bickert: The Quiet Virtuoso of Jazz Guitar
Introduction: When it comes to the greats of jazz guitar, names like Wes Montgomery, Jim Hall, and Pat Metheny often spring to mind. Yet, nestled in this pantheon of innovators is Ed Bickert, a Canadian musician whose understated brilliance has left an indelible mark on the world of jazz. Known for his harmonic sophistication, warm tone, and impeccable taste, Bickert’s legacy is one of quiet…
#All in Good Time#Bill Evans#Boss Brass#Dave Brubeck Quartet#Dave McKenna#Don Thompson#Ed Bickert#Ed Bickert Trio#Jazz Guitarists#Jazz History#Jim Hall#Jimmy Amaro Sr.#Moe Koffman#Pat Metheny#Paul Desmond#Phil Nimmons#Pure Desmond#Rob McConnell#Rob McConnell and the Boss Brass#Sackville 4005#Terry Clarke#Third Floor Richard#Wes Montgomery
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
thinking about the different ways in which Gansey is relatable
#me#ganseyposting#richard campbell gansey the third#the raven cycle#trc#he’s soo *shaking him in my teeth* to me#but it’s funny bc half the reasons I’m obsessed with him are extremely sad and tied to the deeper themes of the story#and then the other half are like#‘I ALSO love mint plants!’#‘I would LOVE to build a miniature version of my city on my floor!’#he’s just a little guy
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
Day 2: Titfucking
Momo x Male Reader
Day 2
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the reports on my desk, but my mind was elsewhere. The office was quiet, the hum of the air conditioner the only sound interrupting the silence. I glanced at the clock; it was almost 5 PM. I needed a break, a distraction.
I picked up my phone and dialed Momo's extension. Her voice, smooth and professional, answered on the third ring. "Hello, Mr. Thompson. How can I assist you today?"
"Momo," I said, a playful edge to my voice, "I need you to come to my office. We have some... unfinished business to discuss."
There was a pause, then a soft laugh. "Unfinished business? I think you mean the report you asked for."
"That too," I replied, a smirk on my face. "But I have something else in mind as well."
A few minutes later, there was a knock on my door. Momo entered, her blonde hair pulled back into a neat bun, her eyes scanning the room. She was wearing a black pencil skirt that hugged her curves and a white blouse that was just a touch too tight, accentuating her ample cleavage.
"You wanted to see me, Mr. Thompson?" she asked, her eyes meeting mine.
I nodded. "Yes, Momo. Close the door, please."
She did as I asked, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor. She turned to face me, her hands folded in front of her. "What can I do for you?"
I stood up, walking around my desk to stand in front of her. I could see her pulse quicken at the base of her neck. "I've been watching you, Momo. You're a very attractive woman."
She blushed, her eyes flicking to mine before darting away. "Thank you, Mr. Thompson. But I'm your secretary. It's not appropriate for us to..."
I reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Call me Richard, Momo. And I think we can make it very appropriate."
Her breath hitched, her eyes searching mine. "How?"
I leaned in, my voice low. "By giving in to what we both want."
She was silent for a moment, her eyes locked on mine. Then, she took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay, Richard. What do you want?"
I smiled, my hand trailing down to her shoulder. "I want to touch you, Momo. I want to feel your skin, your body."
She shivered, her eyes closing briefly. "Yes," she whispered.
I leaned in, my lips brushing against hers. She responded immediately, her lips parting, her tongue meeting mine. I deepened the kiss, my hands moving to her waist, pulling her closer.
I broke the kiss, my hands moving to her blouse. I unbuttoned it slowly, my eyes on hers. She watched me, her breath coming in short gasps. I pushed the blouse off her shoulders, revealing her bra. I reached behind her, unhooking it with ease. Her breasts spilled out, her nipples hard and erect.
I groaned, my hands cupping her breasts. "You're so beautiful, Momo."
She moaned, her head falling back. I leaned down, my mouth capturing one of her nipples. I sucked and licked, my other hand fondling her other breast. She squirmed, her hands reaching for my hair.
I switched breasts, giving the other nipple the same attention. I could feel her body trembling, her breath coming in short gasps. I stood up, my hands moving to her skirt. I unzipped it, letting it fall to the floor. She stepped out of it, standing before me in just her panties.
Momo on her knees and unzipped my jeans, rub my cock with her hand and start to put my cock between her big tits, I fuck her tits and momo squeeze her own tits.
"You are so big, Momo" I groan and let her play with my cock between her tits, she look up at my face with her horny face and smile, try to tease me, with her tongue she play with my head of the cock.
I groaned, my own orgasm building. I moved faster, my cock slamming into her tits. I could feel my release coming in her tits.
I pulled out my cock and look at her tits and neck full of my cum.
"You are so incredible, Momo" I put my pants back on.
616 notes
·
View notes
Text
i love you, i do, but i cannot fucking stomach you
1. richard siken | 2. david foster wallace | 3. slavoj žižek | 4. x? | 5. succession, jesse armstrong. gif by @lesbiankendall | 6. orla gartland | 7. trista mateer | 8. ilya repin | 9. iain thomas | 10. thoroughbreds, cory finley | 11. yrsa daley-ward |
text id below
1. sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them
2. [in red highlight] everything i’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.
3. [white text on a background of a field] A FRIEND HAS TO BE OUTSIDE MY REACH, BEYOND MY GRASP. AND THERE CAN BE NO FRIENDSHIP WITH SOMEONE WHOM I AM NOT READY TO BETRAY: A FRIEND IS SOMEONE I CAN BETRAY WITH LOVE.
4. Long before Caesar and Brutus were lessons, they were friends. // They played with stick swords in their kingdom of trees // and dressed up in crowns of flowers // and painted mud on each other's faces. // The pair was often found walking down dirt roads, // Caesar stomping proud and tall, // and Brutus- step by step- placing his feet into the footprints left behind. // Caesar grew into a strong Roman man. // Brutus grew into Caesar's shoes. // They walked to a wishing well and they threw in their weapons // and Caesar whispered a prophecy: // "We live and die together." // The day before the slaughter, Brutus took pause. // He turned to Caesar and thought // "I'll love you twice as hard today to make up // for tomorrow," // and they stayed up and played cards on the kitchen floor. // It wasn't until the next morning that Brutus realized how cold the tile was. // Life and death are not mutually exclusive. // When Caesar died, so did Brutus, in the sense that he never really lived again. // In the present, when someone mentions one of them, // they seldom exclude mention of the other.
5. a scene from succession. the characters kendall and stewy are in a dimly lit alley, one walks away from the other while saying “you’re my third oldest friend. you fucked me like a tied goat. we’re great.”
6. I'm not happy if you're not happy // And swear that you're always sad // You're pathetic, I resent it // When you're down, it hurts so bad
7. I've gotten so good about not flinching at the sound of your name that people don't know I'd still throw myself mouth-open into the ocean for the chance to drown somewhere you might see it.
8. the painting ‘Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivana’. it depicts a man holding another man who is bleeding profusely from his head.
9. there are a million ways to bleed, but you are by far my favorite.
10. scene from the movie thoroughbreds. a character lays crying wrapped around her friend, she is covered in blood, her friend is unconscious.
11. [in pink highlight] and be wary of friends, yeah? they are the ones who kill you, in the end.
#web weaving#toxic frienship#toxic friends#toxic relationship#parallels#succession#thoroughbreds#yrsa daley ward#orla gartland#richard siken#david foster wallace#iain thomas#mine <3#requested <3#1k
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
one thing the tsh fandom will do is constantly overlook the significance and also implications of henry and bunny's friendship in favor of relationships like henry and camilla. (and these were all realizations i had while talking to a friend so-)
we never see Bunny directly break down. well, we never see anything period because we're looking through Richard's eyes, and Richard never sees Bunny upset. I don't mean the upset where he's being mean or being a drunk in his dorm, I mean the kind of upset where he's sobbing and yelling out insults and threats and wrestling with Henry on the floor of their palazzo. I'm talking the kind of upset where he's screaming at Henry to stop touching him while crying in his bed.
We only ever hear that fight, and the other one in Rome we just get to hear of it. None of the others ever saw Bunny in that state, and I doubt they knew how the situation even arose. Only Henry did.
Only you know the way that I break.
And matter of fact, nobody saw Henry genuinely angry too. Even when he was dealing with Charles, he wasn't pissed per se, he was just annoyed and more ready to commit his third murder. I can't remember a scene where Henry genuinely loses it with someone he knows well (so, none of his friends). We only hear of him losing his shit with Bunny EXCEPT for the scene with Judy.
You push my buttons in a way nobody else can.
You know that makes me think, again, that him losing his shit at the party had less to do with Judy and more to do with Bunny. Think about it. Why would they be at a party where Bunny is nowhere to be seen? Why wouldn't Bunny, a party animal, be there with them? You'd think he might have invited the others, or at least heard of their intent to go and wanted to join them- but he just wasn't there. Why? What made the perfectly composed, stoic Henry lose his shit over something that, characteristically, shouldn't even annoy him? Who was later established to be the only thing in Henry's life capable of making him snap to the point of losing all self-control and resorting to violence?
That's right.
Bunny.
In every other case of aggressive, intentional, sober violence displayed by Henry, Bunny is the cause, on the receiving end, both times.
Henry and Bunny knew each other too much, way too much, and I'm tired of pretending theirs was not perhaps the most significant relationship in this story. Put aside the fact that the story is literally DRIVEN by them, put aside even the fact that they both are the only ones to die at the end (too much symbolism here kms), but their relationship genuinely is so fucked up and heavy it leaves more questions the more you think about them. So no, I don't think "Camilla was the only one who saw Henry for who he was" just because she was the recipient of his occasional smiles, because Henry was not just the gentle-giant she got to see. Neither do I believe "Richard was on the same frequency as Henry" because they had a shitty childhood (tbh all of them probably did?) and because Henry saved his ass from freezing. Henry was more so his rage and the anger he tried to keep sealed with the rest of himself, a destructive force trying desperately to reign himself in. Yes, he was not a bad person per se, but he was, like Bunny, a ticking time bomb (albeit a much more destructive one).
But even despite the anger and bitterness that later poisoned their relationship, I sometimes like to think of them whilst keeping in mind the fact that Bunny was the only one who could make Henry laugh. And Henry was the only one Bunny directly told about his past/home life. I think of them as freshmen, with Bunny's hair catching the sunlight in his lazy curls as his eyes crinkle and his tone rears back in preparation for a joke Henry doesn't see coming. And Henry, awkward in his detachment, with his nose in a book, trying to keep his lips from quivering up as the awful, stupid joke registers, and then failing to keep the chuckle from slipping through when Bunny's stupidly expectant face wriggles its eyebrows at him.
They were soulmates before they were friends.
And they were friends before they were enemies
#meant to be (doomed version)#me when im tired of this fandom just refusing to acknowledge THE FACT#bro bro bro bro winterbunny is making me wanna kms rn!#wb clears <3#do u ever just#sigh#the secret history#edmund corcoran#winterhare#tsh#bunny corcoran#tsh donna tartt#richard papen#francis abernathy#winterbunny#edmund bunny corcoran#henry x bunny#camilla macaulay#henry winter#charles macaulay
271 notes
·
View notes
Note
If I may add to the "Bruce isn't fully human anymore": family edition™
Richard "I can jump from a third floor, land on my feet and not break any bones" Grayson
Jason "Once a cinder block fell on my head and nothing happened" Todd
Cassandra "I can stay so still that if someone literally walks right past me they won't see me" Cain
Damian "I can tame wild street animals even though they were aggressive two seconds ago" Wayne
The list goes on
You know what I think about all the time? How much insane cardio they’re doing every single night. Cardio and enough calisthenics to leave the average person bedbound for a week.
The average batkid patrol would take me out at the knees, I just know. And I run almost every day and do a ton of strength training!
460 notes
·
View notes
Text
CWs: discussions of sexuality (particularly demisexuality, though Steve and Eddie don’t know a term for it at the time), VERY mild sexual context
Steve Harrington has had a lot of sex.
He's not, like, trying to brag about it, or anything. Frankly, he's not even sure it's something he would want to brag about in the first place. It's just an objective fact.
The sky is blue. The Earth is round. Water is wet.
And Steve Harrington has had a lot of sex.
Which is...well, a little bit bizarre, considering the fact that he's not entirely convinced he actually enjoys it most of the time.
At first, he chalks it up to inexperience. Everyone's first times were a little bit awkward, weren't they? Maybe everyone felt weird and a little bit off-kilter the first time someone touched them like that. Maybe everyone felt icky for hours afterwards, like something was just off. Steve had spent his childhood going to church on Sundays (at least, until he turned 10, and Richard and Susan decided he no longer needed luxuries like parents), so maybe it was just guilt.
That was a thing, right? Catholic guilt, or whatever? He'll get over it. He's sure of it.
Only...he's less sure of it several months later, when he still can't get rid of that stupid icky feeling, and he can never quite grasp what Tommy is talking about whenever the dude starts obsessing over wanting to fuck some pretty actress in whatever movie they’re watching. When he’s with a girl, he feels anxious the moment clothes start to come off, despite the fact that he wants this. He wants to have sex. He wants someone to touch him and make him feel good. He wants to do the same for someone else. But it always feels wrong.
The only part he really likes is what comes after, when he can wrap his arms around whatever girl he's with that week and just hold her - no more sex required, now that it's over and done with. That part feels good. Amazing, even. He loves having someone to cuddle up with - to make him feel less alone in his fucking mausoleum of a house. It's nice. It feels good.
He's pretty sure it's the only reason he keeps having sex in the first place. It's like a transaction. Steve gets the girls off, and in exchange, they stick around for a little while afterwards to fill the echoing silence of Steve's house with soft laughter and quiet words.
And sure...sometimes Steve sort of falls apart after they leave to get home before their curfews. Usually, it just leaves him feeling squirmy and anxious. But sometimes, when it's especially bad, Steve sits on the floor of the shower with his arms around his knees for ages and cries until the water gets cold, unable to wash the icky feeling away.
He knows he should stop doing this to himself, but God, he's so fucking lonely, and now he's made a reputation for himself. Now there are expectations, and if Steve has learned one thing from Richard Harrington, it's that living up to expectations is the most important thing in life.
So he keeps doing it. His technique gets better, despite how wrong he feels, and the girls keep coming. And Steve keeps wondering what the fuck is wrong with him - why he feels physically pleasured enough to come most of the time, but always hates himself afterwards.
Then, at the beginning of his junior year, he starts dating Nancy Wheeler.
He knows right away that this feels different from any of his other flings. Nancy is sweet, and smart, and just a bit of a firecracker, and Steve loves it. Even better, she doesn't try to get him into bed on their first date, or their second, or even their third. It's not until the pool party that things take a more intimate turn between them, and by then, Steve is smitten.
He waits for the ick to kick in while he caresses her and kisses her everywhere - waits for the feeling of weirdbadwrong to make itself known - but this time... it doesn't. This time, Steve looks down at his partner and is stunned by how beautiful she looks. It's never been like this with any of the other girls - he's never wanted any of them quite like this - and for the first time, Steve really, genuinely enjoys having sex.
There's no ick; no uncomfortable feeling in his belly that sort of makes him feel ill. There's just Nancy, who looks and sounds beautiful, and smiles at him as they doze off together afterwards. It's amazing. It's perfect.
Steve thinks that maybe he's normal, after all.
He should know better than to get his hopes up, by now.
The next year is a whirlwind of absolute insanity. There are monsters, and alternate dimensions, and little kids with honest-to-God superpowers, and funerals... and sex becomes the least of Steve's worries.
He and Nancy are only intimate a handful of other times, after that first night (it's hard to get in the mood when all either of them can think about is how the first time they did this, her best friend was dying), and despite everything else going on, the ick, at least, stays away. It seems to be proof that Steve isn't broken or weird. He just needed some time to get used to sex.
He realizes how wrong he is the first time he tries to hook up with someone after Nancy breaks his heart, when the ick comes back. After that, he only tries once more, and then he just stops trying to score entirely... pretends he's just lost his touch and feels secretly relieved every time Robin Buckley puts a tally under the "You Suck" side of the whiteboard in the back room.
It goes on like this until March of 1986, when Eddie Munson comes barrelling into his life and changes everything.
His relationship with Eddie is unlike any he's ever had. They start out as tentative friends after everything with Vecna is finally over, and then it grows from there.
They hang out with the kids at Steve's place, which eventually turns into them hanging out without the kids. They talk about the weather, and the Upside Down, and music, and DnD campaigns. Anything and everything that comes to mind. Eddie tells Steve how he came to live with Wayne, and in return, Steve tells Eddie about his parents - about how he sometimes feels like he's haunting his own home.
(Eddie starts making excuses to stay the night more often, after that conversation, and Steve doesn't mention it, but he notices.)
And one day he looks over at Eddie, who's talking animatedly to El while Steve pops popcorn for their movie night, and suddenly, it hits him like a goddamn truck.
Eddie Munson is beautiful.
Steve can barely breathe as the realization takes hold, because he's not used to seeing people this way. He can appreciate when someone is objectively attractive, sure, but he rarely looks at someone and wants like this. He rarely looks at a person and wonders what their lips would feel like against his own, or what sort of sounds they make when they come, or what they'd look like with Steve's love bites riddling their skin...
He's only looked at one other person this way before: Nancy, after they'd been dating for a few weeks and had gotten to know each other better.
He's so shocked by the sheer amount of wanting he's feeling for Eddie that he blows right past the gay panic part of his bisexual awakening, straight into bumbling idiot with a crush territory.
And really, it must be obvious, because two weeks later, Eddie's gaze locks onto Steve's while they're sitting on the edge of the pool, feet dangling in the water, and Eddie smiles. It's a soft, gentle thing - so different from the maniacal grins he gives the kids when they're all hanging out together - and it steals all of the breath from Steve's lungs. His heart races as the air around them shifts, and for once, it's out of excitement rather than anxiety.
Eddie's voice is devastatingly timid when he murmurs, "Stevie, can I kiss you?"
Steve feels like he could cry out of happiness. His answer is a simple nod, and when Eddie kisses him slowly, sweetly, chastely, Steve can feel any remaining anxiety melting away.
Because this kiss isn't a demand, or a prelude to all of those other activities that Steve wants but isn't sure he's quite ready for with Eddie, yet. It's not a challenge.
It's a promise - a promise that this thing that's been blossoming between them over the last few months is real. Wordlessly, Eddie vows to treat him with care, and Steve does the same in kind.
And it's perfect.
They take things slow - slower than Steve and Nancy did, and definitely slower than Steve's ever gone with anyone else. Steve doesn't ask for sex, now that he no longer has a persona to uphold, and Eddie doesn't push. They're both perfectly content to share soft kisses and quiet words while they lay tangled together in one of their beds with their pajamas on, for now.
It takes more than a month for Eddie to bring it up.
"Baby, can I ask you something?" Eddie asks quietly.
They're curled up in Steve's bed after a long day taking the kids swimming at the quarry, and neither of them have said much for the last half hour or so. Eddie has been flipping through one of his D&D books, and Steve has been laying with his head pillowed on Eddie's chest, listening to his boyfriend's occasional mutterings about tieflings and trolls and some sort of forest quest. He's not even sure Eddie realizes he mutters to himself while he reads, and that just makes Steve love it even more.
Steve just hums sleepily and props his chin on Eddie's sternum to look up at him, face immediately falling into a frown. Eddie looks contemplative and a little nervous, and Steve already hates whatever this conversation is going to be about. He doesn't like it when Eddie is upset. It breaks his heart every time.
Swallowing thickly, he pushes himself off of Eddie's chest so they can lay on their sides facing each other, hands tangling between them because they're always touching these days. "What's up, Eds?" Steve asks. He hopes his voice is encouraging and doesn't give away the anxiety beginning to roll in his stomach.
Eddie hesitates, face scrunching up adorably like it always does when he's thinking too hard about something.
"We don't have sex," Eddie finally blurts out unceremoniously.
Steve's heart plummets, but he tries to keep his tone light when he speaks. "Is there a question in that...?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
Eddie won't meet his eyes, and it makes Steve feel strangely off-kilter. Eddie hasn't been this skittish around him in months.
"I don't know, just... doesn't that bother you, or something?" he says finally.
Steve deflects. "Does it bother you?"
He's dreading Eddie's answer.
But he only dreads it for a moment, because Eddie's eyes go wide and apologetic immediately. "No! No, Stevie, I'm fine with what we've been doing," Eddie says quickly. "I mean, I want to do more, you know? But it's totally fine if you don't. I guess I'm just worried I'm... boring you?"
Steve's expression must be incredulous, because Eddie backtracks instantly.
"Wow, okay, that sounded way worse out loud than it did in my head. Jesus H. Christ," Eddie sighs.
"Why would you think you're boring me?" Steve asks, unable to let it go, because it's quite possibly the most ridiculous thing Eddie has ever said (and that is a high bar to clear). In what world could Eddie - funny, unpredictable, unbearably sweet Eddie - be boring?
Eddie winces, then shrugs. "I don't know, man, you're just..." He pauses; Steve waits. "You're Steve Harrington, you know? It's not exactly a secret that you got around while we were in school. And I'm not saying that's a bad thing!" Eddie clarifies. "Whatever you did before doesn't bother me because it doesn't matter anymore, right? But you obviously like having sex, and we obviously haven't done anything more than kiss yet, and I was just wondering if that bothered you, I guess..."
For a moment, Steve considers lying. He considers telling Eddie that it doesn't bother him, but that he's ready for more if Eddie is, because it sounds like Eddie might be, and Steve doesn't want to disappoint him. He's pretty sure he could have a decent enough time having sex with Eddie if that's what Eddie wants. He could bite the bullet in the name of keeping everything else - the amazing parts of this little thing between them that make every part of Steve's soul feel warm and comforted and held.
So, yeah. He considers it - lying and putting on a good face while he gives Eddie what everyone always seems to want from Steve Harrington - but then he meets Eddie's eyes and reconsiders.
Eddie's gaze is open and kind and nervous, not expectant. He looks vulnerable and more than a little self-conscious, and in that moment, Steve decides that he's not going to let this thing with Eddie meet the same uncomfortable end as all the others. If Eddie can be vulnerable, if Eddie can be open and honest, then Steve can meet him halfway and do the same.
"What if I don't?" he asks, voice weak and unsure. He sounds so small - like a child, almost - and he hates it.
Eddie frowns. "What if you don't what?"
"You said it was obvious that I liked having sex," Steve replies shakily. He can't quite meet Eddie's eyes, but he sees Eddie's hesitant nod out of the corner of his eye. "Well... what if I don't?"
Steve wonders if the silence that follows feels as deafening and suffocating to Eddie as it does to him.
"I don't understand..." Eddie says. His voice is soft, like he's afraid he might scare Steve away, and Steve realizes suddenly that his own hands are trembling.
"I-" he murmurs haltingly. "It's just... sex is sort of weird for me, sometimes." He pauses, then quietly adds, "Most of the time, actually." He chances a look at Eddie's face and immediately wishes he hadn't, because Eddie's frown is deep and concerned and Steve doesn't know how to fix it.
"Okay," Eddie says slowly, giving Steve's hands a reassuring squeeze. "Do you think you could tell me what you mean by that?"
And, well... Steve does his best to explain. He tells Eddie about the way he'd felt icky back in high school, whenever he hooked up with some random girl from his class. He tells Eddie that he'd wanted to have sex, but for some reason it always seemed to feel like something was off. Sometimes, it felt like something was missing. Other times, it felt like too much.
Steve tells him about the times when he felt wrong-footed and uncomfortable for hours afterwards, even long after the girl had left. He quietly recounts, with flushed cheeks and watery eyes, those few occasions that had made him feel so terrible he'd sat on the shower floor and cried until the hot water ran out, unable to wash the feeling away.
He tells Eddie everything - about those precious few times with Nancy when he'd felt normal, about his attempts after their breakup that made him feel weirdbadwrong once again, about his relief every time he scared a new girl off at Scoops with his purposefully dismal flirting.
Steve tells Eddie everything, and Eddie listens.
By the end, there are tear tracks on Steve's face, trailing downwards towards a small damp spot on his pillow, but Eddie takes it all in stride. He simply raises a hand to brush away the tears and presses his lips to Steve's forehead, all while thanking Steve for telling him, and assuring Steve that there's no pressure, with them. There's no timeline, no expectation of sex, and there never will be. Eddie is happy to wait as long as Steve needs, and if the time never comes, then that's alright, too.
The thought alone brings additional tears of relief to Steve's eyes, and he feels a part of his heart unclench when Eddie's arms wrap around him that night as they drift off to sleep, just as they've done most nights for the last month. He feels safe inside the cocoon of Eddie’s arms, in the knowledge that Eddie knows, now, and he’s not going anywhere. Any lingering anxiety dissipates entirely the following morning, when Eddie bitches and moans about being woken up for work, but still kisses Steve just as sweetly before he goes, no less adoring than the day before.
It gives Steve honest-to-God butterflies, and he feels a bit like a lovesick teenager when he watches Eddie pull out of the driveway that morning. He wonders if maybe they’ll just carry on as though nothing has changed at all.
In the end, things do change, but it doesn’t take long for Steve to realize they’ve changed for the better. Their conversation seems to have opened the door for the kind of vulnerability that Steve’s never had with anyone else before, and it’s nice. More than nice, actually. It comes with the sort of honesty and trust he’s longed for his entire life. It comes with sweet kisses that never become too insistent, and soft touches that never wander into unwanted places. For the first time, Steve can relax and let himself be cared for…let himself fall even deeper in love with Eddie Munson than he already is.
Things progress, despite remaining temporarily paused on the physical front. They tell Robin about their relationship, and after she’s done half-crying, half-laughing her way through congratulating them, she gives Eddie an astonishingly frightening shovel-talk. They tell Dustin a few days later, and then the rest of the kids and Nancy. They go on their first official date at the drive-in, where they can cuddle up without needing to worry about the prying eyes of the ignorant assholes who make up most of the population of Hawkins.
A little over a month after The Talk, Steve holds Eddie’s hand while Eddie tells his Uncle Wayne that they’re together, and after Wayne wraps Eddie up in the biggest bear-hug of all time, he does the same to Steve and assures him that as long as he never hurts Wayne’s boy, Steve will always be welcome in the Munson home. Steve doesn’t comment on the tears shining in Eddie’s eyes, but he holds Eddie extra tightly that night. Tells Eddie how proud he is. Wonders how much longer he’ll be able to stop himself from slipping up and confessing exactly how much he loves Eddie.
And one day, after months of chaste kisses and soft, conservative touches…Steve feels ready for more.
They start slow, at Eddie’s insistence and to Steve’s relief. At first, it’s nothing but the two of them laying in Eddie’s bed, jerking themselves off side by side. They’re barely touching, aside from the occasional brush of the arm, but Steve feels like he’s on fire in the best way. Eddie’s choked off gasps go straight to his dick, and they come within seconds of each other, too satisfied to be embarrassed about how quickly the whole thing happens.
The next night, when they get their hands on each other, Steve’s are trembling with nerves frayed from wondering if the icky weirdbadwrong feeling will rear its head. But Eddie’s voice is soft and soothing, and his touch is no less gentle than it always is when he wraps his fingers around Steve’s cock for the first time. Instead of the prickly, icy feeling he usually gets, Steve thinks that this feels perfect. Like slipping into a warm bath after a long day out in the cold. It doesn’t take long for him to forget all about his worry that it might feel wrong when he’s lost in Eddie’s whispered encouragement and soft touches.
He comes that night with Eddie’s name on his lips, and when his fingers tremble as he returns the favor for his boyfriend, it’s out of excitement, not fear.
Steve tells Eddie he loves him a little over a week later, after a Corroded Coffin show at the Hideout.
Eddie says it back.
And the icky feeling continues to stay away, for the most part.
Of course, there’s still a bit of a learning curve when it comes to their sex life. There are days when Steve feels detached - untethered to the world around him, like he’s just going through the motions of life - and he can’t do anything sexual without feeling a bit like he wants to crawl out of his own skin. And they never have sex when they’re angry with each other, because the one time they try, Steve breaks down halfway through, unable to shake the feeling of wrongness that courses through his veins like poison.
It’s a lot of trial and error, and many very honest conversations, but it works. Eddie is never pushy - never seems to get frustrated with Steve’s oddly fickle relationship with sex - and eventually, Steve stops getting frustrated with himself. There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s not broken. He just is the way he is, and he doesn’t need to change that. Every once in a while, he wishes he knew someone else who felt like this, just to have someone to talk to, but it’s hard to feel lonely when he gets to fall asleep in Eddie’s arms every single night once they move in together in 1988.
Eventually, he sort of forgets about ever feeling broken in the first place, after years spent with a man who loves him unconditionally, exactly how he is.
Until a random day in the middle of June, 2015 when Eddie comes home from teaching guitar at the music center down the road with a pamphlet.
“Steve?” Eddie calls over the sound of the slamming screen door. Steve keeps meaning to replace the spring, so it won’t slam quite so hard every time, but every time he tries, he just gets distracted and forgets altogether.
“In here!” he replies from his place at the kitchen table, surrounded by dozens of middle school history essays.
Eddie comes striding into the kitchen with his guitar case slung over his shoulder and a half-nervous, half-excited grin on his face, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. It’s a habit from youth that he never quite shook, and Steve will never admit this out loud, but he finds it disgustingly adorable.
“Can I help you?” Steve asks with a slight smirk when Eddie just stares at him for a long moment.
Eddie blinks, then suddenly looks a bit sheepish as he takes a breath and pulls a folded-up pamphlet out of his jacket pocket. “So, uh…this might sound weird, but one of my students went to the Pride parade downtown with her girlfriend this weekend, and I told her to bring me a souvenir. And I was joking, obviously! Only…she brought me this random pamphlet she got from some vendor while she was there, also as a joke, and I was reading it because I was bored between lessons - Jeremy canceled because he has strep, or something - and it really wasn’t all that interesting, because, like, been there, done that, right? But-”
“Eddie,” Steve says, smirk dissolving into a fond smile. “You’re rambling, babe.”
“Right, yeah. That I am,” Eddie laughs nervously. He fidgets with the pamphlet, then abruptly holds it out for Steve to take.
Steve only hesitates for a moment before taking it and giving it a brief once-over. “Am I supposed to be-”
“Page five,” Eddie interrupts. His voice is soft, and fond, and a little nervous in a way it rarely is around Steve these days. Nearly thirty years of (unofficial) marriage has left little to be nervous about.
Steve stares at his husband, then flips open the little booklet to a page sporting a black, purple, grey, and white flag, and the word demisexuality. He frowns thoughtfully and pushes his reading glasses further up his nose as he begins to read the rest of the text on the page.
“I didn’t think much of it at first,” Eddie says softly, pulling up a chair so he can sit beside Steve. “But then I remembered that talk we had back when we first started dating…”
His voice trails off, but that’s okay. Steve already knows exactly what conversation Eddie is thinking about, because Steve is recalling it himself.
“There’s a word for it?” Steve’s voice comes out surprisingly fragile. Hopeful.
He can hear the smile in Eddie’s reply. “Yeah, sweetheart. Seems that way.”
“And there are…” Steve swallows down the tidal wave of emotion threatening to crash over him. “There are more people like me? It’s, like…a thing?”
“Sure is, baby,” Eddie says fondly, pressing a lingering kiss to Steve’s temple. “Got your own flag and everything!”
Steve chokes out a laugh just as the first tear falls down his cheek, and fuck, he can’t stop smiling. Because Eddie is right. There’s a word, and a community, and a goddamn flag. And yeah, maybe it’s been years since Steve last worried about the weirdbadwrong feeling he used to get so frequently when he was younger, but something inside of him feels like it’s settled into place. Like the final piece of a puzzle, pulled from beneath the couch years after the rest was completed: dusty and faded, almost forgotten, but a perfect fit nonetheless.
“Demisexual…” he murmurs reverently, tracing over the shape of the flag with his fingers. “I like it.”
“Yeah?” Eddie asks eagerly.
Through happy tears, Steve looks at the man who is his husband in everything but the eyes of the law. Eddie’s eyes are kind and excited - just like they always are - and God, Steve loves him. He’s loved him for decades, and he’s never going to stop.
“Yep,” Steve breathes, wrapping a hand around the back of Eddie’s head to pull him in for a slow kiss. “Love it,” he says. Another kiss. “Love you.”
“Love you too, baby,” Eddie whispers in return.
The next year, Eddie’s students don’t need to bring him souvenirs from Pride, because he and Steve go together. They hold hands as they cheer on the parade, newly-acquired wedding rings (now that it’s been legalized in all fifty states) glinting in the sunlight, and Steve wonders if he’s ever been this happy before. He’s got his husband on one side, Robin and her wife on the other, and a flag of black, purple, grey, and white painted on one cheek.
The feeling is electric.
It’s perfect.
And Steve has never, ever been more certain that there’s nothing icky or wrong about it.
#steddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#stranger things#demisexuality#demisexual steve harrington#fluff#author is demi and decided steve was too lol#bisexual steve harrington#theyre just very soft in this ok???#eddie is alive#and he’s an amazing boyfriend#and I love that for him#mcdynamite writes
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Dressing room
Summary: Judge Turpin was insatiable and always looked for an opportunity to have you, even if it was in a dressing room at a suit store.
Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader
Warnings: Smut
Author's Notes: Just a glimpse into the early days of the Turpin marriage, from the series "Love?" Although honestly, I saw this one-shot as rubbish. I think I'm getting bad at writing. 😅
First, Second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth part here.
You sat alone in the opulent suit shop, surrounded by mannequins dressed in rich, elaborate suits that bespoke a life you had never imagined. The shop was grand, with polished wood floors and walls lined with shelves of tailored garments. But despite the luxury, a shiver ran down your spine as you glanced around nervously, feeling out of place in this foreign world.
It had only been two weeks since your marriage to Richard Turpin, a man who struck fear into your heart with his cold, unyielding demeanor and imposing presence. His hooked nose and baritone voice seemed to echo through your mind, a constant reminder of his dominance over your life now.
Turpin had brought you to London from your small village, promising a life of wealth and security. Yet, as you stood here in this shop, waiting for him to finish trying on suits, you couldn't shake the feeling of dread that accompanied you wherever you went.
The loyal employee, a man named Beadle Bamford, stood nearby, his sharp eyes fixed on you as if he were watching for any signs of disobedience. His presence unnerved you; he was a reminder of the control Turpin had over you, even in public places like this.
You glanced down at your hands, your wedding band catching the light. Turpin never let you forget that he owned you now, body and soul. He kept you on a tight leash, allowing you out of the house only when he was by your side. It was suffocating.
The sound of a door being opened broke your reverie, and you looked up to see Turpin emerging from the dressing area, adjusting the cuffs of a fine silk shirt under a dark, tailored suit jacket. His expression was stern, eyes cold as he examined his reflection in the mirror. He seemed pleased with his appearance, a dangerous glint in his eye that made you shiver.
"Is this to your liking, my dear?" Turpin asked, his voice low and demanding as he turned to face you. His words were meant to sound polite, but they carried an undercurrent of authority that left no room for disagreement.
"Yes, it looks very nice," you replied softly, trying to keep your voice steady despite the fear rising within you.
Turpin nodded, satisfied with your response, and turned to tailor. "We'll take this one," he stated firmly, his tone brooking no argument.
The tailor nodded deferentially, his eyes flicking briefly to you before he turned to retrieve the suit from its display. As he disappeared into the back of the shop, you felt Turpin's gaze bore into you once more, his expression unreadable.
"You've been very well-behaved today," Turpin remarked, his voice deceptively calm as he took a step closer to you. "I trust you're learning to appreciate the finer things in life."
You nodded silently, unsure of what he wanted from you. The truth was, you were still struggling to adjust to this new life, surrounded by opulence and luxury that felt more like a gilded cage than anything else.
Turpin reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek in a gesture that should have been tender, but instead sent a shiver of dread down your spine. His touch was possessive, a silent reminder of the control he had over you.
When the tailor returned, you watched Turpin talk to him in a low voice. The exchange was too quiet for you to hear. The tailor nodded before walking away, disappearing into the back of the shop. Turpin turned to his assistant, barking a single sharp command at Beadle: "Go away!" Beadle complied without question, his demeanor subservient as he scurried off to attend to his master's bidding.
Alone in the store with Turpin, you felt a sense of unease settle over you like a suffocating blanket. His presence was suffocating, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over you as he approached, his eyes fixed on you with a predatory gleam.
Suddenly, Turpin grabbed your hand and pulled you with him into the dressing room, his grip firm and unyielding as he led you away from prying eyes. You stumbled after him, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to keep up with his brisk pace.
Once inside the dressing room, Turpin closed the door behind him with a decisive click, the sound echoing in the small space with ominous finality. You watched him warily, your nerves on edge as you waited for him to speak.
"Why are we here?" you questioned, your voice trembling with nervousness as you eyed Turpin warily. "What do you want from me?"
Turpin silenced you with a cold, calculating look, his eyes glinting with a mixture of desire and dominance. "I paid the tailor good money to leave us alone," he explained, his voice low and commanding as he stepped closer to you. "I have no intention of wasting this opportunity to fuck you."
You were shocked by your husband's shamelessness, yet another reminder of his brazen and insatiable nature. Despite your protests, Turpin paid you no mind, his intentions clear as he reached out to pull you closer to him.
And as he pressed you against the wall of the dressing room, his hands roamed over your body with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. You tried to protest, not wanting to engage in such intimate acts in such a public place, but Turpin's relentless advances left you powerless to resist.
With a rough tug, Turpin lifted your skirts, his fingers fumbling with the laces of your undergarments as he prepared to take you right then and there. You pleaded with him to stop, to show some restraint, but your words fell on deaf ears as Turpin's desire overpowered any sense of reason or decency.
But as Turpin dropped to his knees before you, instructing you to keep your skirts up, you nodded, a little stunned to see your powerful husband on his knees in front of you. But before you could fully comprehend the situation, he surprised you once again as he buried his face between your legs.
You gasped in surprise as you felt his warm breath against your skin, his tongue tracing delicate patterns along your folds. It was a strange sensation, one you had never experienced before, but you found yourself enjoying the unexpected pleasure as Turpin eagerly tasted you.
His movements were skilled and determined, his tongue exploring every inch of your sensitive flesh as he sought to please you. You arched your back in response, a moan escaping your lips as he found just the right angle to send waves of pleasure coursing through you.
With one of your legs draped over his shoulder, Turpin had a better angle to delve deeper, his ministrations becoming more fervent as he sought to elicit even more pleasure from you. His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as he devoured you with a hunger that left you breathless.
"Richard," you gasped, your voice trembling with desire as you looked down at him with lust-filled eyes. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."
Turpin's only response was a low growl of approval as he redoubled his efforts, his tongue working tirelessly to bring you to the brink of ecstasy. With each flick and swirl, he pushed you closer and closer to the edge, his own desire evident in the fervor of his movements.
Turpin continued to pleasure you with his tongue. He couldn't help but revel in the taste of your essence, his curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar sensation. Despite his usual aversion to oral sex, he found himself enjoying the experience. His tongue delved deep inside you as he thrust with a fervor that mirrored his desire to possess you completely.
And as you moaned and writhed above him, Turpin felt a sense of satisfaction wash over him, knowing that he was the one bringing you to such heights of pleasure. He teased your clit with his hooked nose, the sensation driving you wild with desire as you begged for more.
But when you finally reached the peak of ecstasy, your body trembling with the force of your orgasm, Turpin knew it was time to move on to the next phase of their encounter. With a satisfied smirk, he stood up, undoing the pants of his expensive suit to reveal his cock, already hard and throbbing with anticipation.
"Get on your knees and bend over," Turpin instructed, his voice commanding as he gestured towards one of the benches in the dressing room. You obeyed without hesitation, still limp from your earlier orgasm as Turpin fell to his knees behind you.
With one hand, Turpin spread your ass cheeks wide, his gaze fixed on your little hole with a hunger that made you shiver with anticipation. He wanted nothing more than to plunge into you right then and there, to claim you in every way possible. But he knew he had to be patient, to prepare you properly for what was to come.
For now, he contented himself with your dripping pussy, which he had trained so well since marrying you. With a low growl of desire, Turpin thrust into you with a force that made you cry out in pleasure, the sound echoing in the small confines of the dressing room.
"You're mine, my dear," Turpin growled, his voice dripping with possessiveness as he claimed you as his own. "And I'm going to make you scream my name."
With each thrust, Turpin drove you closer and closer to the edge, his cock filling you completely as he claimed you as his own. And as you surrendered to the pleasure of his touch, you couldn't help but moan in ecstasy, your body trembling with the force of your desire as Turpin ravished you with a passion that left you breathless and begging for more.
Turpin leaned into you, his chest pressing against your back as he panted in your ear, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. "Soon, my dear," he whispered, his voice low and husky with desire. "Soon, I'll fuck all your holes until you're begging for mercy."
You whimpered with each thrust, the pleasure overwhelming as Turpin claimed you as his own. But before you could fully comprehend his words, he silenced you with a firm hand pressed against your throat, his eyes burning with possessiveness as he imagined other people hearing the sweet sounds of your pleasure.
"No one else gets to hear these sounds," Turpin growled, his voice laced with possessive desire. "They're mine, and mine alone. I'll kill any man who dares to lay eyes on you or hear you moan like this."
And as he continued to ravish you with a ferocity that left you breathless, you surrendered to the pleasure of his touch, your trained pussy accepting his dick with eager anticipation. With each thrust, each moan of pleasure, you knew that you belonged to him completely, body and soul, and that there was no escaping his grasp.
Turpin continued to ravish you. His grip on your throat tightened, and his fingers dug into your skin with a possessiveness that left you breathless. You gasped for air, your heart pounding in your chest as Turpin's mouth pressed against your ear. His hot breath sent shivers down your spine.
"You're mine, my dear," Turpin growled, his voice low and husky with desire. "Mine to use, mine to fuck. Your pussy was made for me, and soon your ass will be too."
You whimpered in response, the pleasure of his touch overwhelming as he claimed you as his own. Turpin's cock pounded into you relentlessly, each thrust driving you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.
With one hand still wrapped around your throat, Turpin used his free hand to guide yours to his cock, urging you to stroke him in time with his movements. You obeyed without hesitation, your fingers trembling with desire as you pleasured him with eager enthusiasm.
"That's it, my dear," Turpin murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction as he felt your hand working his shaft. "Stroke me just like that. You're such a good little slut for me."
You moaned in response, the filthy words sending waves of pleasure coursing through you as Turpin's cock filled you completely. With each thrust, each moan of pleasure, you knew that you belonged to him completely, body and soul, and that there was no escaping his grasp.
As Turpin approached the peak of his own pleasure, he leaned in close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered his filthy desires.
"I'm going to come inside you, my dear," Turpin growled, his voice laced with possessive desire. "And you're going to take every last drop, like a good little whore."
You whimpered in response, your body trembling with anticipation as Turpin's cock pounded into you with increasing ferocity. And as he finally reached the brink of ecstasy, you felt him explode inside you, his hot seed filling you to the brim as he claimed you as his own once more.
You cried out in pleasure as you felt the warmth of his release, your own orgasm crashing over you in waves as you surrendered to the pleasure of his touch. And as you lay there in his arms, spent and satisfied, you knew that there was no escaping the clutches of the man who had claimed you as his own.
Turpin held you close, his grip on your throat loosening as he pressed kisses against your skin, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his usual cruelty. He pulled out of you, slipping out with a wet sound before releasing you, letting you fall limply to the floor as he stood up, quickly changing into his normal suit.
You stayed on the floor, catching your breath, feeling a mix of physical and emotional exhaustion. When Turpin realized this, he ordered you to get up and compose yourself.
"Get up," he commanded sharply, his voice cutting through the silence of the dressing room.
You obeyed, slowly getting to your feet and smoothing down your crumpled skirts. You picked up your underwear from the floor, putting them on quickly before watching Turpin tie his tie in front of the full-length mirror. You stood next to him, the silence between you thick with unspoken tension.
As he adjusted his tie, you surprised him by stepping closer and hugging him from behind. It took him by surprise; in the two weeks you had been married, you had never initiated such a gesture. He stiffened slightly under your touch, his back straightening as he glanced at you through the reflection in the mirror.
"What are you doing?" Turpin asked sharply, his voice laced with suspicion.
You didn't let go, your cheek pressed against his back as you murmured softly, "I don't know. I just felt like it."
Turpin remained rigid for a moment, seemingly caught off guard by your unexpected action. His demeanor softened ever so slightly, though his voice retained its edge. "Don't be foolish," he replied gruffly, but he didn't shrug you off. Instead, he allowed you to hold onto him as he continued to adjust his tie.
You stayed like that for a few moments longer, feeling the tension between you begin to ease, if only slightly. Turpin didn't push you away, allowing you to draw comfort from the embrace, however fleeting it might be.
When he finished with his tie, Turpin gently extricated himself from your embrace and turned to face you, his expression unreadable. "Compose yourself," he ordered again, though his voice lacked its usual harshness.
You nodded silently, smoothing your hands over your skirts once more, trying to regain some sense of composure. Turpin watched you for a moment longer before turning away, dismissing the moment as quickly as it had come.
As he walked toward the dressing room door, you followed suit, feeling a mix of confusion and relief. The encounter had been brief, but for a moment, you had glimpsed a different side of Richard Turpin, a side that was not solely driven by cruelty and control.
You knew that such moments would be rare, but in that brief embrace, you had found a glimmer of hope that perhaps, in time, there could be more to your marriage than fear and domination.
Turpin opened the door and gestured for you to exit first, his demeanor reverting to its usual sternness. You stepped out into the shop, feeling a renewed resolve to navigate this new life, however uncertain and terrifying it might be.
As you left the shop together, you glanced at Turpin out of the corner of your eye, wondering what lay ahead for you both. The streets of London stretched out before you, a maze of possibility and danger, and as you walked beside your husband, you knew that you would have to tread carefully to survive.
But for now, you clung to the fleeting comfort of that brief embrace, hoping that it might signal a change, however small, in the harsh reality of your life with Richard Turpin.
183 notes
·
View notes
Text
Russian Steve AU
Another plot bunny I've been unable to get out of my head...
What if Steve's parents were Russian spies and connected to the mall? What if Steve had powers? What if these were combined into two and turned into a Steddie thing?
I love the idea of Steve being like El but the Russian version, where his parents are spies and he's an experiment they willingly handed over to the government but still got to raise. They all go to the US to build the mall and Steve's trying desperately to be a normal American boy but Eddie Munson, King of Abnormality (which drives Steve absolutely crazy because who would want to stand out??) gets in the way and completely wrecks his whole situation.
TW: Dead Bodies
Steven Anthony Harrington died in 1979, sometime around midnight on the third of January. He had two parents, also lying dead in the master bedroom, a dog collapsed on the kitchen floor, and that was it. They were a reclusive bunch with an unlucky family tree filled with people that tended to die early anyway. So maybe it was fate. As the New Steve looked down at the still face of the boy he was going to replace, he thought that it's probably just the circle of life. People die, people live, and the world keeps spinning. It doesn’t have to mean much beyond that.
Old Steve felt cold. It wasn't the first time New Steve had touched or felt a dead person, but for some reason this one is different. This time, it’s his fault. He felt the body go cold and numb as it happened. He watched the emotions seep out of the body as the boy's dream ended without him waking up. His father made him watch, so he understood the sacrifice taken so he could do his job.
The weight of it makes it hard to breathe.
It was a bloodless death, caused by carbon monoxide poisoning. Painless and simple. While the house airs out, Old Steve, his dog, and his parents are quickly disposed of. There is no evidence left behind. On January fourth, sometime in the evening, the new Harrington family sat on a couch they didn’t buy, in a living room they didn’t choose, and drank a cup of hot tea, considering the moment of peace before the start of their journey.
They move without a word to the neighbors, who the Old Harringtons were never friends with anyway. Nobody knows, or cares where they are. There’s a money trail if someone bothers to look, but it doesn’t expose anything more than a house hunting vacation. Then, just before the start of the school year, they use Richard’s savings to buy a home in a sleepy little town called Hawkins, Indiana. And their new lives begin.
New Steve thought that the new home was too big. Every little noise echoed and bounced across the walls, making him jump and look around as if he’d find people hiding in them, watching their every move. When they’d arrived, he and his parents laid down on the soft, carpeted floor and stared at the pure white ceiling in silence, taking in the new world around them. They hadn’t said anything, but they didn’t need to. He knew things would be different from then on.
He spent that first week with his parents. Every morning like clockwork, they sat before the TV and repeated everything said out loud, practicing their accents and furthering their understanding of the strange phrases Americans liked to use, like, “take a rain check,” and “lipstick on a pig.” New Steve found he hated movies, where he couldn’t see people’s feelings like he could in person. They reminded him of Old Steve’s frozen body, huddled up in blankets as if he was just sleeping. Like soulless meat puppets waiting to be buried and never found again.
In the evenings, he and his mother worked through a cookbook she’d been gifted, perfecting American dishes like casseroles and meatloaf. On the second day, he helped her deliver a pie to their neighbor, and she introduced him as her shy little boy who never had much to say. It wasn’t true. He still had a hard time with the ‘th’ sound that so many English words used, so they’d decided that until he got it right, that’s who he’d be.
With his dad, during the day when nobody would question it, they cut open the wall in his office and installed a gun safe. Apparently, it was legal for normal people in America to own guns. Steve was too young to have an opinion on that, but his dad muttered in English about how it was the kind of irresponsible nonsense that made his job easier. So, maybe it was a good thing. Either way, they covered the safe with a wall once again, so they were truly out of sight.
When his parents weren’t home, New Steve quietly snuck out to dip his toes in the pool. He’d never seen a pool before. He didn’t even know how to swim. In the spot close to the deep end, where neighbors wouldn’t see him unless they stuck their heads over the fence to pry, New Steve would find the perfect stick- thin and light with no leaves, and drag it across the surface of the water, watching the ripples as they rolled across the heated surface. And that was how he found peace with his new house.
It took him a while to settle into the role of Steve, and even longer for him to climb the mantle of King Steve. But that was his job, so it’s what he did. King Steve was good at sports. Captain of the swim team, co-captain of the basketball team. Handsome, fond of parties, rich with mysterious parents who traveled often. Charming, just enough for people to wonder how he stayed out of trouble despite everything he got up to.
But secretly, Steve, just Steve, also known in his heart as Stepan, was terrified. He never let it show on his face, even more terrified that his parents would lose faith in his skills and dump him somewhere while they returned to Russia as heroes without him. He spent most of his time fueled with fear, balancing the careful images he’d built for himself as the perfect All-American Boy that his parents were relying on. Unfortunately for Steve, he hadn’t anticipated what would happen to his precious double image when he fell in love.
78 notes
·
View notes
Note
The year is 1986. Eddie is in danger of not graduating (again). Reader is his girlfriend, and she’s tired of him not taking his future seriously, so she breaks up with him. He finally decides to get his sh*t together and buckles down. But is it too late? Will he graduate? Will the love of his life take him back? Up to you, bb!
xoxoxoxo, @munson-blurbs 💚💚 PS ily
Anything for you, my love! I hope you enjoy the way I broke Eddie’s heart. It hurt me more than it did him. ily2💚
Words: 5.2k
“Eddie, we’ve got to study,” you say. He’s kneeling behind you on his bed, pressing soft kisses along the back of your neck as you try to focus on the textbook laying open in your lap.
“How am I supposed to concentrate, hmm? With you sitting on my bed, looking so beautiful,” Eddie says against your skin.
“Okay,” you say, letting your book thump onto his sheets. “I’m gonna quiz you on stuff that’ll be on our finals. For every right answer, I’ll take off a piece of clothing. For every wrong answer, it’s an extra fifteen minutes of study time.”
“Fire away, baby.” Eddie lounges back against his wall and tucks his hands behind his head, a sinful smirk on his lips.
“Let’s start with English,” you say as you shift on the bed to face him. “What two Shakespeare plays are written entirely in verse?”
Eddie purses his lips, eyes searching his bedroom ceiling as if the answers were written across it in big bold letters. “Hamlet and…McBeth?”
“King John and Richard II,” you say with a sigh. Eddie groans and lets his hands fall down to his lap.
“Ehh, shit,” Eddie says. “But just because it had two answers doesn’t mean that’s half an hour of study time! That was one question, so only one fifteen-minute addition.”
“Fine,” you say, silently knowing this is all in vain anyway. Eddie’s been caring less and less about school lately, to the point where you’re afraid he’s going to fail senior year for the third time. “We’ll move onto biology.”
“Take your clothes off and I’ll give you a biology lesson.”
“Eddie,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“Fine, fine, sorry. Go on.”
“What part of the brain deals with balance and coordination?”
One of his dark brown eyes squeezes closed and he tilts his head from side to side as if he’s deliberating what he wants for dinner.
“The left part. No, wait, that’s a joke! I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Um…the frontal lobe?” Eddie winces, knowing that this was just a wild guess—it was the first part of the brain he could think of.
“The cerebellum,” you say.
“Okay,” Eddie says, nodding his head. “I’ll remember that. The cerebrum controls balance and coordination.”
“The cerebellum,” you correct.
Eddie groans, rolling the tension out of his neck before letting his head thump back against the wall.
“Come on, hit me again.”
“Last one,” you say as you adjust your legs tucked underneath you. “History this time. What city was the first capital of the United States?”
“I know it wasn’t DC,” Eddie says, pointing his finger at you. “Hmm, what other cities were important then? Boston, Philly…Philly! Philadelphia!”
At the shake of your head, Eddie slumps down on the bed.
“New York City,” you tell him.
“Ugh, fuck me.” Eddie rubs his hands over his face, and you give him a pat on the leg.
“Not tonight, hot shot. Grab your books.”
Spending your free period in the library, pouring over books, you’re jarred out of the world of microeconomics by the chair across the table from you screeching against the floor as it’s pulled out. A dark figure plops down in it, and you glance up to see the dark leather jacket and black Judas Priest t-shirt that you’d sat next to in last period English. Eddie runs a hand over his unruly curls and shoots you a smile.
“Hey, babe.”
“Eddie, what the hell are you doing here?” you get out through gritted teeth. You’re almost certain the pencil in your hand is going to snap in half. “You’re supposed to be in history.”
“Ugh, O’Donnell,” Eddie complains, dropping his head back. “I swear, she was there for half the shit she’s telling us about. God, I couldn’t take it anymore. She’s just droning on and on. Told her I had to take a leak and knew this is where I’d find my best girl.”
“Eddie!” You all but shout his name before remembering you’re in the library and you lower your voice. “Eddie, you’re already in danger of failing her class. Among others. Should you really be skipping class?”
“Babe, it’s been five minutes,” he says with a chuckle, his carefree attitude that you usually love grating on your nerves.
“Okay. So, go back and pay attention now.” Your tone is sharp and curt, but you’ve put up with this long enough.
“Trying to get rid of me?” Eddie asks, jutting out his lower lip in what is an admittedly adorable pout. He leans forward on the table, letting his hand slide over to rest on top of one of yours.
“Trying to get you to graduate,” you say, snatching your hand away. Your boyfriend watches you with wide eyes as you slam your book closed and shove it into your backpack. Slinging it over your shoulder, you stand up and nod your head towards the library door. “Let’s go.”
Eddie follows behind you like a lost puppy as you storm out of the library and stalk down the hall. Once you’ve turned down an empty hallway, you spin around to face him. The anger in your eyes takes him aback, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“You’re mad,” he says softly.
“Yes, I’m mad,” you snap. “My boyfriend doesn’t seem to give a shit if he graduates high school or not.”
“I care,” Eddie defends weakly.
“If you cared, you’d be in class right now. Or would study with me when I ask—or at all! Jesus, Eddie, I’ve been trying for months to get you to take your future seriously.”
“My future with you is what’s most important,” Eddie says, hand reaching out for you. Hurt flashes across his face when you pull away, and it hurts you too. This isn’t what you wanted. You’ve never wanted to be the reason Eddie’s in pain. But you also can’t just sit by and let him do this to himself.
“That’s part of the problem, Eddie. You’re so focused on me and not enough on you.”
“Because I love you,” he says.
“I love you, too, Eddie,” you reply, tears starting to fill your eyes. “That’s why I’m so concerned about you. About your future.”
“I’ll go back to class,” Eddie says, taking a step closer to you. “I-I’ll study with you. Baby, I promise.”
“You’ve said that before.” You squeeze your eyes closed, resolving yourself to what you know you have to do. As much as you don’t want it. As much as it’s going to break your heart. “It’s not enough, Eddie.”
“Then what?” Eddie rests his hands on your upper arms. “Tell me what to do.”
“It’s too late,” you say, shaking your head.
“W-What do you mean it’s too late?” But the dread in his eyes says he knows exactly what you mean.
“You’re not taking your future seriously. I’ve tried so hard to help you, but there’s only so much I can push you. At some point you have to do it for yourself. I’m so tired of waiting for you to do it, though. It hurts me to sit here and watch you not care about you as much as I do.”
“Sweetheart, please—.”
“Eddie, it’s over. We’re over.”
Tears flood his eyes as his jaw hangs open. Eddie’s hands slip from your arms, and he stumbles back a step. You know the pain on his face must be reflected in your own. And maybe it means you’re a coward, but you can’t look at his broken expression anymore. Tucking your thumbs into your backpack straps, you turn around and walk down the empty hallway, away from Eddie.
Eddie feels numb. He’s walking around school in a haze. Friends try to talk to him in the hallway, but they sound like they’re underwater and Eddie can’t understand them. Gareth waves his hand in front of Eddie’s face, but he doesn’t even blink. Jeff grabs his shoulder, but Eddie doesn’t even feel it, he just keeps walking. It’s not until Dustin grabs Eddie by the zipper of his leather jacket and pushes him up against the lockers that the twenty-year-old snaps back to reality.
“What?” Eddie asks, big brown eyes blinking as he tries to focus on the shorter man in front of him.
“Are you okay? What the hell is going on?” Dustin asks. Eddie’s eyes find the floor and he shakes off Dustin’s hands.
“She left me,” he mumbles.
“What?” Gareth asks, leaning in to hear him better.
“She fucking broke up with me, okay?” His friends flinch as Eddie pushes himself off the lockers and runs his hands over his hair. They back away, giving him room to pace the small area around him.
“Why?” Jeff asks, sounding half afraid to ask the question to his hot-tempered friend.
“She said I’m not taking my future seriously,” Eddie answers. “That I don’t seem to care that I’m failing classes. Again.” Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie can see his three friends share a look. He stops pacing and stares at them. “What?”
“I mean,” Jeff starts quietly, “she has a point.”
When Eddie just continues to stare, Dustin decides to speak up as well.
“She’s been trying real hard to help you, man. You haven’t seemed to care, though.”
“I…I care,” Eddie says.
“When’s the last time she tried to get you to study?” Dustin asks.
“The other night.” Eddie remembers, thinking about how he failed your quiz.
“And what did you do?” Dustin asks.
Eddie sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead. “Tried to have sex with her.”
“This is probably a good thing,” Gareth says, shrinking in on himself when Eddie glares at him. “For you. So you can focus on school.”
Eddie scoffs. “She really think I’m gonna be able to focus on school after she shatters my heart like this? Fuck, I love her so much.”
“I’m sorry, man,” Jeff says.
“Fuck this shit.” Eddie slams his fist against the lockers and strides down the hall, towards the exit.
When Eddie gets home, Wayne hasn’t left for work yet. He’s sitting on the couch, remote control in his hand as he points it at the small television and clicks through the channels. Eddie wrenches open the front door, dirty black boots stomping into the trailer before banging the door closed behind him. Wayne pauses his channel surfing to raise an eyebrow at his nephew.
“What’s the matter with you, boy?”
Ignoring the older man, Eddie strides down the hallway to his bedroom, footsteps so heavy they rattle the mugs hanging on the living room walls. Wayne was no stranger to Eddie temper tantrums—having raised him through puberty—but this is a level he hasn’t seen since the last time a letter from his father arrived. He gives it a few moments before deciding to see what’s going on with the brooding boy. Wayne hoists himself off the couch, groaning as his bones click and muscles tighten.
The bedroom door isn’t fully closed, so Wayne swings it open to see Eddie lying flat on his back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. He hadn’t even bothered to shed himself of the leather jacket or boots before plopping down.
“I know I may not have taught you much in life, boy, but I know I taught you manners,” Wayne says.
Eddie stays silent, which is never the case. That worries Wayne more than anything.
“Eddie?”
“She dumped me.”
Wayne takes a moment to process what his nephew says. He places his hands on his hips and blows out a breath.
“What happened?”
Eddie rubs his hands over his face before responding. When he does speak, his tone is bitter. “She said that I don’t care about my future. That she’s tired of sitting around while I’m out here being a dumbass.”
“She wouldn’t say that,” Wayne says with a shake of his head.
“Maybe not with those exact words.” Eddie forces himself to sit up, shoulders slumped. “But the same messaging.”
Sighing, Wayne sits down next to him and pats his shoulder.
“I’m sorry to hear that. She’s a good kid.”
“I always told her that you like her more than you like me,” Eddie grumbles.
“Only sometimes,” Wayne jokes with a small smile. “Now, you’re allowed to wallow for one day—two at the most. Then you get your ass in gear and get your act together.”
With a low groan, Eddie flops back down on the bed. “Don’t wanna.”
“Well,” Wayne says, pushing himself off the bed. “The girl is either gonna be right about you or wrong. It’s up to you which one it is.”
Wayne makes his way out of the bedroom and Eddie rolls over so he’s face down on his bed. He squeezes his eyes shut as the first of the tears begin to burn his eyes. The way his throat begins to tighten has Eddie gripping his blanket in his fists. Wayne’s words repeat in his head. Would you end up being right? Is everything you said about him true? Of course it is, he thinks to himself. He’s about to fail senior year for the third time—and he didn’t even care. Until now, he decides. Pushing himself off the bed, Eddie yanks his leather jacket off. He tosses it in the general direction of his closet, not caring where it lands as he bends down to pick his biology textbook from the floor.
“Should be able to read this whole damn thing before finals.”
Eddie’s friends hardly recognize him at lunch the next day. Instead of arguing over Lucas missing another Hellfire meeting for a basketball game and munching on pretzels, he has his nose buried in a book.
“Now I’ve seen everything,” Gareth says, dropping his tray on the tabletop. His brows pinch together when Eddie doesn’t even lift his head.
“Is that Eddie Munson reading a book?” Jeff asks.
“And not just a book,” Dustin says as he slides into the seat next to his Dungeon Master. He picks the corner up to take a look at the cover to confirm his suspicions, but Eddie’s quick to slap his hand away so he can keep reading. “Eddie is reading Romeo and Juliet.”
“Look at this cultured man,” Gareth says. Still, Eddie doesn’t lift his head.
“How far do you think this will go?” Mike asks. “Think we could shit talk Metallica?”
“I’m reading, I’m not deaf,” Eddie says.
“Is this about—” Lucas starts but Dustin elbows him in the ribs.
Finally, Eddie raises his eyes from the book and sends a death glare to all of his friends. He slams the book closed and snatches it up before striding out of the cafeteria. Weren’t these the same assholes who had told him that you were right about him not taking his future seriously? But the moment they see him trying to improve himself, they decide to make snide jokes. Eddie grumbles as he makes his way to the library, banging the door open and ignoring the sneer from the librarian as he drops down at a table. With a sigh, he opens the book again and continues where he left off before he was rudely interrupted.
Two periods later, Eddie’s pretty sure Mrs. O’Donnell is going to have a heart attack after he raises his hand and answers a question correctly. The crone takes a moment before continuing her lecture and Eddie smirks in self-satisfaction.
Once Eddie gets used to his eyes being tired from reading so much, and his headaches from the information overloads start to abate, he manages to bring his grades up. It takes a couple of weeks for him to finally see the difference, but when he does, he feels something that he’s not sure if he’s ever felt before: pride. Being proud of himself is odd at first, and he smokes a bit more than usual to dull the sensation, but he soon comes to enjoy it and the pleasant buzz he feels has nothing to do with the weed.
A few weeks out from graduation, Eddie’s lounging on the wall in front of the school, stretched out as the late spring sun warms the afternoon, reading the assigned chapter in The Outsiders. A shadow falls across the pages of his book and Eddie squints as he looks up, finding you standing next to him, thumb hooked in the strap of your backpack, a strained smile on your face.
“Hey, stranger,” you say.
Eddie pushes himself into a sitting position, letting his long legs dangle over the side of the wall. He closes his book, keeping a ring clad finger between the pages that he’s currently on.
“Hey,” Eddie says. This is the first time you’ve talked to one another since that day in the hallway. Neither of you had even contacted one another to give back stuff that was at the others’ houses. Eddie knows there’s a handful of his t-shirts at your place and he’s not sure if it comforts him or causes him pain to wonder if you still wear them to sleep. And he knows exactly where the David Bowie tapes that you left in his room are—one is in his stereo right now. He’s managed to either hide or push down the pain from the breakup, but he still spends most nights falling asleep to Space Oddity or Ziggy Stardust. It even got to the point where Wayne had come into his room and said, “As glad as I am that I don’t have to listen to your screaming music, you’ve gotta stop wallowing in pity. Or at least listen to Elvis or somethin’ while ya do.”
“I saw you in the library last week. And I’ve heard that you’ve been working really hard,” you tell him. “I’m glad, Eddie. That’s amazing.”
“Uh, thanks,” he says, nodding his head. Under the guise of avoiding the bright sun, he ducks his head down and looks at his white sneakers. But really, he’s not sure if he can look you in the eye for more than a second at a time. The sadness had given way to anger, which gave away to an empty, aching pain in the pit of his stomach. “I, um, started because I didn’t want you to be right. Apparently, you weren’t the only one who thought I needed to get my shit together. But, uh, now I’m doing it for me. Trying to put me first.”
“Good,” you say. Eddie looks up to see you giving him a genuine smile. The one not many other people got to see. You’re not attempting to give him a pep talk or play some kind of game with him. Eddie can tell that you’re being authentic and really are pleased to see him succeeding. “You deserve it, Eddie. I’m proud of you.”
The words affect him more than he would’ve thought. His throat feels tighter and suddenly the spring day feels like it’s a blisteringly hot August afternoon. “Thanks,” he manages to get out.
“And I—um, I’m sorry. I really hope you know that I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.” And he does. Now. He’d had moments of thinking you had done it as a way of calling him stupid or pathetic. But once the haziness of the initial heartbreak wore off, he realized you would never think that, let alone be cruel enough to insinuate it.
“I guess I’ll see you around, Eddie,” you say, offering him a small wave. He nods his head in acknowledgment and tries to get back to his book. But too much of you fills his head for him to be able to focus on what Ponyboy is talking about.
Finals come and they go. Eddie waits with bated breath for the results, feeling more on edge, even with kicking up the pot smoking again. When Eddie sees that he’s passed every single exam, the high he feels is better than he could’ve imagined. Not quite as good as some drug highs and definitely nowhere as near the high you gave him, but it’s still good. For the first time in his life, Eddie is excited to come home and wave a school paper in Wayne’s face. In the past, it’d been a detention slip, a letter of reprimand from the principal, or a failed report card that he needed to have signed and returned. But this is something good. Better than good, Wayne tells him.
“Looks like you’ve got to get yourself a cap and gown, boy.”
So, he does. When he puts them on the morning of graduation though, he groans at how the shade of green looks on him. Black was his best color, according to him, so something this bright just wasn’t him.
He strolls over to his stereo near the window and firmly presses the play button. Heroes by David Bowie fills the small bedroom as Eddie takes another look at himself in the mirror. No one would look good in this color, he thinks. Well, he muses, that’s not true. You would look good in this color because it’s impossible for you to ever look anything less than breathtaking.
I, I will be king
And you, you will be queen
Eddie sighs and turns away from the mirror. Grabbing his keys off of his bedside table, Eddie clicks the pause button on his stereo before heading down the hallway.
“See ya at the ceremony, old man,” Eddie says to his uncle before he’s out the trailer door.
Only the graduates and school faculty get there this early, so the parking lot is relatively empty when Eddie pulls in. He hops out of his van and sees Jeff getting out of his car a few spaces over.
“Glad to see you look as awful as I do in this shit,” Eddie says as he makes his way over to his fellow Hellfire member.
“Black robes would’ve been brutal under this sun though, dude,” Jeff replies.
Eddie shrugs because he knows his friend is right. Together they walk towards the football field, a place Eddie actively tried to avoid all the years he spent here. It looks like most of the students are here already. Not long after Eddie spots Jason Carver straightening his tie, even though it’s under the gown, all the students are herded into the gymnasium to wait for the ceremony to begin. The gym smells even worse than normal with the whole senior class shoved inside. Eddie spies you off towards a corner, laughing about something with Nancy. It wouldn’t surprise him if you’re trying to make her laugh to take her mind off of the valedictorian speech she’s about to give. Eyes taking in how you look in the green cap and gown, Eddie knows he was right before; you are the only one who looks drop dead gorgeous in the graduation garment. He knows his eyes have been on you for too long, but he can’t bring himself to tear them away.
“So, what’s going on there?” Jeff asks, seeing where his friend’s gaze lies. “You did what she wanted, right? Are you going to try and get back together with her?”
Eddie sighs and finally breaks his gaze away from you. Instead, he looks up into the rafters of the gym, squinting as the bright lights shine down.
“I don’t really think this was a ‘if you fix this, we’ll get back together’ type of situation,” Eddie says. “Besides, it’s been months. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s been on dates with a bunch of different guys by now.”
“You still love her, though.” It’s not a question from Jeff, it’s a statement. A fact that was as obvious as the scuff marks on the floor of the gym.
“Yeah,” Eddie says, not adding anything further.
“Shouldn’t you at least try then?” Jeff asks. “You did all that hard work.”
“But I didn’t do it for her,” Eddie answers with a shake of his head. “I did it for me.”
“But you still did it,” Jeff points out. “It won’t be in vain either way, man, because you’re here right now. About to graduate. I’m just saying you should talk to her. See where things stand.”
“Maybe,” Eddie says with a sigh.
Mrs. O’Donnell bustles into the room—well, as fast as she can at her age. Taking stock of the children around the gym, she claps her hands together to get their attention.
“Okay, okay, everyone. Time to line up. We’ll be starting soon.”
Jeff and Eddie let themselves be herded with the rest of their class and listen half-heartedly at instructions shouted at them as they make their way back outside.
Once the ceremony starts, it’s long and boring. Nancy’s speech isn’t as bad as Eddie expected, though. But Principal Higgins has to talk, then just about every other school official that Eddie swears he’s never seen in the front office even after all the time he’s spent in there. Then the never ending list of names begins. Of course all the names are familiar to Eddie, but that doesn’t mean he cares enough to watch each of them walk across the stage, shake hands, and get their diploma. There are only a select few people that Eddie actually pays attention for.
“Nancy Wheeler.”
“Robin Buckley.”
“Jason Carver.” Eddie pretends to gag.
“Chrissy Cunningham.”
“Jeff Donaldson.”
Then it’s your turn. Eddie can’t take his eyes off of you or the big grin on your face as you hop up on the stage and go through the long line of people none of you had ever heard of to shake their hands. Your eyes light up as your diploma is handed to you. Eddie doesn’t even realize he’s smiling along with you until his cheeks begin to ache. That settles it, he thinks. I have to talk to her.
“Eddie Munson.”
Hearing his own name called over the loudspeaker jars him out of his thoughts. He’s distantly aware of people cheering for him as he makes his way to the stage, but it feels too weird to be real. People didn’t even cheer for him at Corroded Coffin shows. Eddie takes the steps up to the stage two at a time and forces a pleasant smile to his lips as he shakes Principal Higgins’ hand. The rest of the faces become a blur as he moves from person to person until he finally gets his diploma. He grins at the simple rolled up paper in his hands. It’s just a blank piece of paper until his real diploma comes in, he knows, but it means so much more. It’s proof that he did it. That he graduated at long last. The now-familiar pride swells up in him as he heads back to his seat among the students in the green sea of their robes.
When the ceremony finally comes to an end, there’s hugging and crying and squealing coming from all around the football field. Eddie makes his way out into the parking lot where families are taking photos with their graduates, all smiles and congratulations. Wayne’s truck is hard to miss in the parking lot; by far the oldest vehicle there. Eddie heads in that direction and is greeted by a beaming uncle.
“M’so proud of you, boy.” Wayne pulls Eddie into a hug, which wasn’t a usual occurrence in the Munson household. “You put your mind to something and ya did it.”
“Thanks,” Eddie says, smiling sheepishly.
“Congratulations.”
The familiar voice coming from behind him has Eddie spinning around so fast he hears his neck crack.
“Uh, thanks,” he says. “You too.”
“C’mon, let me get a picture of the two of you,” Wayne says, pulling a camera that looks older than Eddie out of his pocket.
Eddie is about to protest, not wanting to make you uncomfortable or feel obligated, but you’re looping your arm through his before he can even open his mouth. You tilt your head, close to Eddie’s shoulder but not quite touching, and smile prettily for the camera. Eddie musters his best look for the picture as well, but on the inside, he’s cringing as he imagines what that picture must look like.
“Perfect,” Wayne says. He unlocks his truck and tosses the camera inside. “I’ll see you later, Eddie?”
“Okay,” Eddie says.
Wayne pulls Eddie in for another hug before enveloping you in one as well.
“I’m real proud of both of you,” he says.
“Thanks, Wayne,” you reply.
Wayne climbs into his truck and gives the two of you one last wave before heading out of the parking lot.
“So, uh,” Eddie starts at the same time you say, “So, listen.”
Eddie chuckles and nods his head at you. “You first.”
“Oh, I, um, was just going to ask if you were going to the party tonight. At Cat’s place.”
“I hadn’t really planned on it,” Eddie says as he unzips the graduation robe. “Why?”
“Well, uh, I—I was wondering if maybe you’d want to? I mean, I-I’ll be there. But if you don’t wanna, I totally understand.”
“You want me to?” Eddie asks, raising his eyebrows at you as he slips his hands into the pockets of his black jeans.
“I do,” you say, a shy look that Eddie is unaccustomed to on your face. “Like I said, I get it if you don’t want to. But I had to at least ask.”
“I guess it wouldn’t kill me to go for a little while. Might be able to sell.”
“You don’t want to celebrate?” you ask. “Dance and drink?”
“Of all people, you should know better than anyone that I don’t dance,” Eddie says with a small smile.
“But you drink,” you point out.
“Why do you want to spend time with me?” Eddie asks, tilting his head to the side, like a puppy wondering what it’s human just said. Better to ask bluntly and get a clear answer then try to piece one together in his mind.
“I need a reason?”
“Kind of. After you dumped me? Yeah, you do.”
“I miss you,” you admit, so quietly that Eddie almost misses it. “I’ve missed you from the moment I left you standing there in that hallway. So many times I almost caved and begged you to take me back. But then I’d see you studying, and it would remind me that you need to focus on you. And you did. Look what you accomplished. I’m really, really proud of you, Eddie.”
“Not bad for the school freak, huh?” Eddie asks, the beginnings of a smirk curling his pink lips.
“I think you need a new nickname,” you muse. “We’re not in school anymore.”
“Maybe we can come up with one at the party tonight,” Eddie says, causing your face to light up in excitement.
“Really? You’ll go with me?” you ask, eyes widening in hope.
“I’d be pretty dumb not to.”
“You’ve always been far from dumb, sweetheart,” you tell him. Hesitantly, you reach out and lace your fingers with his. “I think I came up with a new nickname for you, too.”
“Do tell,” Eddie says.
“No more Eddie the Freak or Eddie the Banished,” you say, imitating Eddie’s Dungeon Master voice. “You are now Eddie the graduate.”
#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson fan fiction#eddie munson fic#eddie munson fanfic#request
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
burning body waiting. (ellie williams x fem!reader)
read chapters one, two, and three here.
warnings: 18+ content, canon-typical violence, gore, angst, graphic smut, scissoring, fingering, use of marijuana. | word count: 11.7k.
chapter 4: match in the dark
❝ the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it. ❞ — richard siken.
. . .
The stories always say that love is something you fall into.
For you, it's always been a bludgeoning, throttling force, bone-shattering and breath-robbing; sudden and violent and jarring.
So why does this feel not like a punch to the gut but a slow and tortuous ailment of your health? An intrusion of sickness and vein-pulsing agony?
Instead of pummeling you with a lethal blow, your feelings for Ellie crept and slunk through your bones, a terminal parasite, malignant and festering inside. Until it was a sure thing. A cancer. Until your veins were blackened with heady need. Until there was a dark, frothing plague teeming from your heart, hammering to a consistent tune.
Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.
Or maybe you don't love her.
Maybe it's some third sinister thing. Living in the cracks of cruelty that stretch between friend and lover.
Last night, after baring witness to Ellie's breakdown, the sound of her wailing, heaving sobs followed you into a tenuous sleep.
You dreamt of a young girl, a smattering of freckles garnishing her sun-kissed face and arms, familiar, mossy blue eyes brimming with unshed tears. She clutched a watch in her fist, it's face splintered, cracks like lightening fracturing across the broken surface. She lurched it into the rapid waters of the river she stood before, her eyebrows pinched in earnest, chest heaving.
"Why are you so sad?" You had asked the girl, your voice a whisper in the wind, not fully belonging to you.
The girl only released a long, heavy breath and pivoted away, marching down an unmanicured path of ferns and overgrowth. She grew taller and leaner as she strode away, until the figure that dissipated through the line of trees was one you have slept beside.
And now you are woken up in that damn 7/11 to that same girl firmly shaking you.
Except now she's older— and a new scar marred her lip. A new slit cleaved her brow. And a new, harsh edge of ferocity contoured her face— still so young, in a world that would never allow her to be.
She had to shake you a few times before you came to, snapping awake in a bleated panic, lurching up. She was huddled over you, a finger to her lips, a solemn alarm flaring in her pale eyes. The overhead vines careening from the high rafters billowed gently with the breeze; the serenity of it deceiving to what prowled the weeds.
"To the left," she mouths meticulously, and you nod, carefully slipping out of your sleeping bag, heart drumming ceaselessly.
She unsheathes her switchblade and slinks away, her eyes trained on the glassless wall as she stations behind a counter, distractedly gesturing for you to follow.
You slowly retrieve your shotgun from the littered floor and pocket a shiv you crafted the night prior, shooting brisk glances over your shoulder as you inch to Ellie's side. A faint whistle rises from the swaying grass.
Fuck. More Seraphites.
They must be tracking you, if they're spreading this far into Seattle. They tend to lurk on the outskirts, basing along the edges of the city so they can terminate anyone who attempts to get inside.
You never heard of them abandoning posts before. Killing over a dozen of them must have earned you their vengeance.
Ellie must have a similar thought, for when you reach her side, she whispers, "I should have gone to their base and killed every last one of them." Her face was grim and hard with fury, jaw barred, as she glared over the counter in the general direction of the whistle.
You follow her gaze and your muscles tense. The piercing afternoon sun glints off the metal tip of an arrow— aimed directly at you.
"Get down!" You shout jitterly, just as the potent snap of the bows tension unleashing splits through the silence of the day. You shove Ellie down and duck over her right as it spears loudly through the chipping wall behind you, where her head had been precarious seconds before.
She looks up at you with wide eyes, her knuckles gleaming white against the shine of her blade. Her momentary shock morphs into a scowl that manifests on her face.
She shrugs her shotgun off her shoulder and aims it for the weeds— blasting through the first outline of a human that she sees without a second thought. Thickets of seared, chunky blood burst through the air, followed by a series of sharp, undulating whistles. Your ears ring boisterously from the gunshot.
You sense movement to your right and crawl past Ellie— who clips another Seraphite, her body rocking with the force of the shot— to investigate. Fortunately, your backs are covered by two withstanding, cavernless walls, leaving only the hole to the right and the sizeable gap overhead.
Ellie seems to have the other wall covered.
You use a rusting shelf as a barricade, crouching, shiv in hand, the blade biting through the cloth you wound around the bottom. You turn it over in your hands, tongue prodding your lip, casting furtive looks above you every couple seconds to ensure nobody inflicted an unexpected aerial attack.
Arrows rain down, piercing the walls, clattering off the concrete. Gunshots boom thunderously, reverberating through the vacant city, paired with the guttural screams of those they met. You chance a peek at Ellie to find her completely unscathed, propped on one knee, squinting through the thick scope of her rifle. She must've swiftly exchanged weapons while you were looking away; always efficient.
You swivel back around and feel the tiny hairs on the nape of your neck raise at the shaved head poking through the whirling canary, only about ten feet away. You hold your breath and flush your back with the shelf, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
He slithers into the room, bow drawn, frame veiled by a cloak seeped with rain water. Brutal, discomfiting burn scars eclipse half of his face, as if he were lowered, sideways, into a pit of roaring flames.
Back at the Front, everyone always refers to the Seraphite's as Scars. It's starting to make sense why; you had never seen one this close before.
He puckers his lips to whistle, and you deign that as your opportunity, before he summons another Scar. You spring out from behind the shelf and drill your blade through the side of his neck, tearing through tendons. "Gotcha!" you breathe sardonically.
His large body crumples in your arms. You lower him to the floor with a dull, sappy thud, blood instantly pooling across the concrete, lapping at the tips of your boots.
An insistent whistle echoes closely from the weeds he emerged from, and you mutter a curse, hoisting up your gun and loading it with bloodied fingers. You're about to shoot the nearing figure when a brutish man descends from the crater in the ceiling— landing on top of you.
"Fuck!" Your scream of raw surprise rips through your throat as you plummet under his weight, your arm twisted unnaturally and agonizingly beneath his body.
He yanks you back by your hair, peeling your body off the ground with ease, and you wrestle with his unyielding grip, grunting as you squirm and peer at him over your shoulder. His eyes are crazed, a deep, rigid scar splitting his cheek, fatal determination overtaking his face.
You think fast, hastily fumbling for the blade in his companions sputtering throat, writhing under his formidable hold, your breathing sparse as he crushes you. "Feel Her love," the man growls in an accented drawl, his pick-axe reered back, poised to strike.
You successfully dislodge your blade just in time.
You arch your arm back as forcefully as you can from the obstructive angle, nicking him in the chest— just enough for him to stagger back and graze his digits over the superficial wound— and for you to crawl out from underneath him.
You only make it up to your knees before the handle of his pick-axe is caging your throat, crushing your windpipes, a hoarse whine wheezing from your lips. He hauls you back, and you flail for the bar compressing your neck, feet aimlessly lashing and kicking the floor. "El—"
Dots swim and flood your vision. Your flickering pulse rattles droningly in your skull. You can't breathe. You're dying. You're going to die. You're going to—
"Don't you fucking touch her!" Ellie bellows.
Suddenly, the pick-axe falls from your throat, clattering with a resounding echo to the floor, and you drop right along with it. Through the haze of your disjointed vision you see the previous keeper of your fate— Ellie's switchblade protruding from his head, before he slams lifelessly to the floor.
You rake in breaths hungrily, the sudden, painful burst of oxygen blazing like fire through your lungs. You claw listlessly at your throat, as if that will stop the blistering burn, or vanquish the coppery tang of blood rendering your tongue.
Ellie then shoots his already deceased body twice— his immobile carcass lurching, jolting with the swift bullets— and doesn't spare the dead Scar a second glance before shooting the one approaching in the weeds with masterful precision.
He thumps to the ground with a muffled groan of anguish, and his departure is followed by a wave of dense, apprehensive silence.
Ellie lingers in that taut, defensive stance for a moment, her shoulders tense, face lined with concentration as she sweeps her gaze over the sprawling field. Eyes skittering over the towering buildings in a speedy examination.
And then her eyes fall to you, alarm leeching the color from her sharp face. She quickly lowers her gun and bunches her stiff shoulders. "Are you alright?" She demands brusquely.
You nod skittishly, chest heaving with your rapid, hungry breaths. "Fine," you croak out, voice hoarse and gravelly, scraping out of your raw throat.
She nods absently, slinging her gun over her shoulder and bending down to fist the knife puncturing the man's head. She gives it a forceful, ruthless tug, his upper body heaving off the blood-blemished ground. A harrowing crimson cascades down his skull, glistening over her fingers. She yanks it out of him with a second, ardent jerk, and he slumps onto the floor, his own gore splattering repellently through the air. She surveys the blood and bits of cartilage on her blade before calmly wiping it off on her pants.
You scarcely register the disturbing scene of the Seraphite's you downed together.
Ellie's callousness must be wearing off on you. The dark pond of sudsy blood gathering around your feet ignites only a faint ripple of disgust in you; and a hint of knee-buckling relief, that you had someone so unapologetically cutthroat at your defense.
She offers you a steady hand and you take it. She hauls you to your feet, and you waver, your grip unabashed and bruise inciting. "Are you okay?" You ask attentively, a tremor underlying your tinny voice as you eye her top to bottom.
On the exterior, she's untouched by harm, and the relief that floods you is instantaneous.
"I am if you are," she says with a dim smile, surveying you for injury in turn. "We should get the fuck out of here, though. You sure you're good?"
"I'm fine," you offer a meek, hopefully reassuring smile back, unhanding her. You clear your throat and discard your broken, useless shiv on the floor, your breathing evening out. "Lead the way, my noble Knight," you tease with a shaky grin.
She rolls her eyes with affection and mimics a flourishing bow. "Yes, my Queen," she snorts, before pivoting away, heedlessly overstepping the dead body of your attacker and trudging for the opening she'd been guarding, her backpack already slung over her shoulder.
Your scratchy, cackling laugh scorches your throat, but you stifle the dizzying pain, her responding laugh, breathy and chittering, making the hurt worth it.
It was the sweetest thing you have ever heard. So light and natural and opposing to the violence she had wielded mere minutes ago to protect you.
As you trail after her, trusting her direction without question, you think you'd let her be as mean to you as she needed to be if you could hear her laugh like that again.
Which may be the scariest thing of all.
• • •
ELLIE
Her resolve was dissipating through her fingers. Now particles, everything she fought for was reduced to inconceivable dust, streaking through the wind, escaping her clutches.
She had destroyed versions of herself, tapered off past selves, trimmed and manufactured herself into this precarious thing that she was now.
A shell, filled by a need to take back all that had been stolen; a vessel for her grief and anger. She felt like she lived and breathed the horror that clung to her insides, fermented and congealed, taloned rage clawing it's way out of her with every step she took closer and closer to reclaiming the vengeance she was owed; the debt that was due.
But now the calamity in her mind has quieted. Her pain felt distant and hushed; it watched and whispered. She was never truly liberated from it. Only when she's with you does she feel that boulder lift, that bone-crushing mass of misery eased off her soul. But it's hearty weight lingers phantomly, etching itself into her bones.
She glances at you through the waning firelight, your thoughtful expression dim in the flickering amber glow. Your eyebrows are skewered, lips pursed, eyes indulgently roving over the pages of the tattered book splayed across your lap.
She had no idea how you found the room to store useless objects. From your brothers stuffed childhood bear, a chunky, faded hot-pink cassette player, to a couple weathered, worm-eaten books, you seemed to carry only your indulgences.
When she was fourteen, her backpack was similar. It overflowed with graphic novels and worthless trinkets. Joel had everything they needed, carrying double his weight in supplies. Despite everything she'd seen, despite everything he did, he gave her a simple life. One she could not envision herself pursuing ever again, without him there to urge her on.
She wonders if your brother was that guiding light for you, too, a match in the dark, as Joel had been for her.
She looks at you, and she wonders if you have ever truly been alone.
You perform with a buoyancy and easiness she cannot replicate. Either you have never known suffering at all, a portrait of innocence under a brush of death; or you knew it too well, with an intimacy that left you unblinking and acclimated to its sharp edges. When it tried to cut through you, it's relentless knifing was fruitless, it's slashes meeting metal, sliding off the shine of your armor.
Do you even know it's there? That even though you are not brutal and unforgiving— as she herself had become— remaining steady and balanced under the ruthless beat of the worlds bitter drum was a shield in itself?
She both admires and envies your ability to let it all roll off your back as it's hurled at you.
"What?" You drawl at her notably indiscreet examination, amusement seeping into your tone like liquid gold, eyes unstraying from the pages— though she can see, even from the distance that separates you, that your eyes are bright and swimming with it.
For months now, she has locked her feelings down, imprisoned them behind walls of adamant, impenetrable steel. Had deliberately tailored a mask that would keep them from slipping through.
And then there's you. Feeling unabashedly and unapologetically and, unknowingly letting her know she can do it, too. That you see the wounds that gauge her soul and do not flinch at the sight of blood. That you see the hurt that shines in her eyes and do not pity the tortured girl, but embrace the wrath of the killer that torture had birthed.
Being understood was once something she ached for. But now that someone is starting to understand her, to see through the defenses she constructed, she is afraid. She is terrified of being seen, of being known.
Almost as much as she fears being alone.
She is facing that fear day by day, and it is just as fucking scary as she anticipated.
She was cripplingly alone, and she felt the aftershocks of it belting through her. She's a lost, untethered soul, searching for its other end, though the thread had severed and all that remained was remnants of fragmented, disjointed memories, and rippling regrets that would never be ironed out.
She has nothing to return to; no home, no person. Instead, she keeps coming back to that hollowness inside, where the grief is stored, and fed to the flames of rage that blaze there. It is the only consistency she knows now. Even you are not a promised thing. Not when you had a brother somewhere out there waiting for you.
And not when she had a list of lives to end.
You are not enough to mend the gaping hole inside of her; you will never match the shape of that gauge. No one will. No one can replace the things he taught her, gave her.
But at least now... when she lays her head to rest, there's a beaming voice, illuminating the shadow-shrouded void of her mind. Beckoning her toward the light.
And it's yours.
She fights the darkness. Wrestles out of its restraints— the guilt and sorrow that anchors her down— and runs to that voice, desperate for the sun.
But the darkness always seems to win in the end.
"Ellie?"
Your soft, tentative voice lulls her out of her clouded thoughts, and she averts her gaze from the fire to look at you. She blinks the dark specks away and discerns your earnest face. Your attention is honed in on her now, the book dog-eared and closed in your lap, head tilted inquisitively. "Where'd you go?" You ask quietly, your voice a whisper under the crackling embers.
She feels her head shaking before she even forms a response. "Nothing. Nowhere," she insists, blinking rapidly, stroking a spectral scar on her forehead. "I'm just tired. How's your book?" She urges casually, craning her head back and resting it on the tree stump of the sprawling oak behind her, studying you.
A big, unadulterated grin contorts your face. Your cheeks dimple, smiling teeth luminous in the firelight. Her heart skips a beat at the mirth glimmering in your eyes. "So good. It's my favorite. I've read it six times," you chuckle at the look of disbelief that slips through the cracks of her facade and continue, "My mom used to read it to my brother and I a lot when we were kids."
She nods, plucking the grime out of her fingernails, swiping her tongue over her teeth. She glances down at her hand to conceal the warmth rising to her cheeks at the sight of your infectious smile. There is no other way to describe it; it is debilitating, impossible not to mirror.
"What's it about?" She murmurs, ducking her head, her emerging smile evident in her tone. She hopes the shadows eclipse her face from your view.
"Oh, it's just a collection of fables," you sigh contently, wistfully, reclining back, clutching the fraying book endearingly to your chest. You sway your knees back and forth, feet planted to the ground, peering up at the star-speckled sky before tilting your head to face her. "Do you like to read at all?"
Ellie yawns gingerly, extending her legs out in front of her, staring down at her muddy, threadbare Converse. "I used to read comics. There was this series I collected... Savage Starlight?" She winces as she pronounces the humiliating name.
Your responding gasp is so sudden, an animal audibly skitters through the weeds. You lurch up in astonishment, wisps of staticky hair fanning around your shocked face. "Wait, really? My brother loved those!"
Ellie laughs, and you visibly loosen at the sound. She pretends not to notice. Just as she pretends not to feel the warmth budding and blooming in her chest, a sprout of something gentle taking root in her heart.
"Yes," she huffs out, rewarding you a vague smile. You were the only thing that made her feel like she could smile anymore. "I read them all. Probably more than 6 times, actually. So. I got you beat."
"Pfft," you bat a hand of dismissal, rolling your eyes playfully, laying back down— resting your head on a smooth, upturned rock, leisurely prying your book back open. "Does looking at pictures even count as reading?"
"Comics have words!" Ellie protests defensively, straightening.
Your boisterous laugh echoes through the dense forestry, booming out of you, as you drop the book and cradle your stomach, rolling over with the force of your guttural laughter. "You are so easy to rile up!" You cackle tearily, wiping your eyes.
Ellie snickers. "You're an ass," she chides, laughter bubbling in her chest, threatening to escape her sealed lips. She threads her fingers through her unruly hair, sweeping the russet strands out of her face. You jeeringly stick your tongue out at her, and she flips you off, earning her another one of your exuberant laughs.
"Read your book," she scolds with a raspy chuckle of her own, pointing at the now discarded fables. She rummages through her backpack, the sound of your stifled giggling following her as she fishes out her journal.
She waits a couple minutes, until you're helplessly engrossed with your novel, your brows once again pinched in concentration, before thumbing through her journal, flipping to that tarnished, browning page. Her eyes flicker over the names she memorized distastefully, that familiar anger burning bright.
Abby
Nora
Owen
Mel
Jordan
Manny
Whitney
She absently ghosts her fingers over that taunting, four-lettered name. Abby. Her throat swells with grief, searing-hot anger boiling in her stomach. The condemning red marks slashing through the names of those she already killed grant her only momentary satisfaction. It's not enough to quell the hatred the unmarked name at the top sparks within.
Nora she killed weeks ago. She let the spores smother her lungs, debilitate her of breath, ring her dry of any vitality and will to resist her tragic fate. Then she took a pipe to her head. Over and over. Just as Abby had done to Joel. Just as she would do to her.
Then she killed Nick, and Jordan, after the Wolves tailed and captured her. They beat and chained her to a counter, as if a pair of copper-rusted handcuffs would restrain her— would save them from her blinding wrath. The scar she brandished him with was rigid and pink and poorly stitched, dismantling his otherwise smooth cheek. She told him that stopping her from extracting her revenge would be futile.
Then she broke free and stabbed him persistently, with ferocious, vehement arches of her arm, until his blood had coated her face in fine beadlets and puddled in heaps that sapped her feet to the floor.
And, most recently, she killed Whitney. At the hospital, where she took you to bed and tasted every glorious inch of you, high with adrenaline, pulsating with want.
She told you she took out a few infected.
But it was only Whitney there, alone, guarding the sewage system, swaying to the boisterous music that reverberated through the concrete-walled boiler room. She slit her throat and kicked her into the murky, sludgy water. Then shot her twice just to insure that she did not inexplicably survive.
After the night you shared, a part of her was horrified of you unveiling the deplorable, merciless acts she committed. She did not know if she could face you. She slaughtered a person in cold blood and touched you with the stained hands that did it.
She left, just in case you found that bleeding body floating in the basement, and turned terrified, accusatory eyes on her. She did not know if she could bear your disdain. Or worse— you being disgusted by the harrowing life she has dedicated herself to.
Because she could not change.
She has a purpose, now.
To take everything from those fuckers. Leave them with nothing as they did her.
She's going to take and take and take. The life of Abby's friends, crushed and squandered beneath her foot. The solid foundation of security they built, ripped apart at the seams, until walls topple and plans expire— until all the Wolves are scurrying through the wastelands, tails tucked, howling for mercy.
She abandoned the safe, armed walls of Jackson for this mission. Nothing could jeopardize it; not even her captivation with you.
Fortunately, you never found Whitney's body.
She should've been relieved. But when she stumbled upon you again, in that blossoming valley, there was spite there, and for a completely different reason. One she never considered; that you were truly scathed by her abandonment. She thought you would be better off without her; better rid of the sucking parasite leeching the good out of you with each moment she spent in your presence.
"Hey, Ellie?"
She snaps the journal closed briskly, sucking in a sharp breath. She thought you had fallen asleep; you had not shifted or spoken for an impressive duration of time. Especially for you.
"Yeah," she responds groggily, scratching her head, slipping the journal back into her bag, the list temporarily forgotten. She glances up to find you gone.
She staggers straight to her feet, calling your name, her tone dripping with apprehension. "Where are you?"
"Shh," you instruct quaintly from the shadows, whispering meticulously, "Over here."
She peers through the darkness encompassing the camp you'd assembled together, trailing your voice, conveyed through the cloying, nectary wind. The warming spring breeze fetters her hair.
She deciphers your figure in the tall, swaying canary, your stature hunched and diligent. "Come here," you whisper urgently, loudly, beckoning her over fervently. She reaches for her gun but freezes when you make a noise of disapproval.
Instead, she follows your voice, curiosity and concern weighing the scale in equal measure. "What is it?" She rasps quietly, cresting your side. Your eyes are trained intently on a small, shapeless shadow, lithely prowling the weeds.
"Come here, kitty," you drawl sweetly, clucking your tongue, drumming your thigh. The small creature pauses its strides, slowly lowering itself to the ground, giving an impassive lick of its paws.
"It's a cat," you mutter to Ellie, as if she had not already gathered that.
She refrains from rolling her eyes. "I can see that. Why were you even over here to begin with?"
You pointedly disregard her, taking a heedful step forward, crouching to be level with your new feline friend. "Come here, sweet thing. Come on. It's okay," you lull in a reassuring tone, patting the ground insistently. The cat only stares at you.
You sigh, arms draped defeatedly over your knees, frowning. "Okay. Never mind. Go back, please, I think you're scaring it."
"What?" Ellie snaps, and the cat startles, bracing it's paws in the dirt, back arched. "No way. Animals love me."
"Kay, well, it was coming to me before you came over here, stepping on every single branch you could find." You argue flippantly, shooting her a glare.
"It's your fault, you're the one who called me over here, dick!" Ellie defends airily, waving her hands.
You clap a hand over your mouth to conceal your automatic chuckle. Your rumbling shoulders and escaping snorts give you away. "Okay, okay, fine," you chortle breathily, shaking your head. "God, that look on your face never gets old."
She groans out a husky laugh, falling back a few paces, propping a mocking, insulted hand over her heart. "You are evil."
You flash her a sinister, lippy smile, mischief twinkling in your eyes, before averting your focus back to the cat, who had inched closer while you argued.
"Yes, that's it. Come here, baby," you click your tongue in a series of encouraging noises, and the cat— ears perked, nose sniveling— prances over to you, as if you waved a heaping bag of treats.
You tenderly, dubiously scoop the cat into your arms. Though acutely tense, it allows you to hold it, claws hesitantly retracting from your sleeve, piercing green eyes slitted and alert. "She's hurt," you inform, scratching it's matted, furry back. You slowly ascend to your feet and nod back toward the camp, following Ellie as she begins to trudge back. "I saw her limp by and followed her over here. Do you have some more gauze?"
"For the cat?" Ellie drawls incredulously, shooting you a look over her shoulder, stepping over a cluster of unearthed roots.
"Uh, yes? She's small, it won't take much." You assert, hiking the cat up as it starts to thrash and mewl anxiously. "Please?"
She wanted to tell you no, but she found that it was impossible to form the word— especially when you were gazing at her with sheer hope, head tilted pleadingly. "Fine."
"Woohoo!" You exclaim triumphantly to the cat, softly stroking between its luminous eyes with your thumb, easing its trepidation. It whimpers, pink nose prodding your jaw, pawing at the latticed hem of your tank top. "She said thanks, El-Bell!"
"How do you know it's a she?" Ellie asks as you enter the fire-illuminated clearing, the light casting ominous, flickering shadows over the deep, towering pine trees.
You shrug, hoisting the cat by its underarms, promptly spinning it around and baring its tattered, grimy belly to Ellie. "Yeah. You were right. Girl." She concedes with a grimace.
Ellie resumes her original position as you perch cross-legged across from her, planting the knotted cat in your lap. She's coated in a sweep of sleek, midnight black fur, so sumptuous it reflects the moon's sapphire glow. Her green eyes are unnaturally bright against her dark coat, penetrating through Ellie as she unpacks her gauze.
"I'm getting it," she mumbles to it warily, and it pivots away from her with unnecessary drama, curling it's tail.
"Don't be rude," you reprimand the cat, who ignores your scolding and persistently licks her splintered paw.
"Here you go," Ellie says, tossing you the gauze and medical tape. "You better hope your little friend doesn't get hurt again. I don't have enough supplies to fix her boo-boos."
She swears the cat fucking glares at her, before curiously, reluctantly sniffing at the gauze.
You must have seen it, too, for you giggle smugly. "What was that about animals loving you?"
"Shut up," Ellie grumbles, leaning back, hiking her knees to her chest. Exhaustion weighs heavy on her eyelids. She surveys you, bleary-eyed, as you scoop the cat into your arms and gingerly pry the wound, a pained shriek tearing from it's tiny body.
"Shh, it's okay," you comfort genially, petting her back as you fumble with the gauze, lightly encasing her wounded paw. "See? Almost done, already."
The cat relaxes in your gentle grasp, allowing you to seal the bandage around her paw. Ellie herself is nearly lulled to sleep by the pacification in your tone— the soft, honeyed melody of consolation rolling off your tongue.
"All done," you state quietly, pressing a forbearing kiss to her nicked ear, delicately peeling her out of your lap and placing her on the ground. "Be free, little one."
The cat lingers, staring at you nearly contemplatively. She blinks slowly, languidly, before swiveling away and skittering through the craning grass, disappearing through the trees.
You watch her go with a bleak, placid smile, the wind whipping your hair. Then you turn to Ellie. "You sleep, I'll keep watch."
She opens her mouth to refute, but you slice her a cutting, silencing look. "You're actively falling asleep as we speak. I'm good. You rest. I want to read some more, anyway," you insist blithely, dusting off your pants and walking back to your previous spot.
Ellie merely mumbles a response, her head already drooping. She falls into a brisk, fitful slumber, so tenuous that the snap of a twig could send her lurching. For once, she does not dream. Visions of terror did not cleave her conscious or beat her breathless. She saw only the flicker of light through her eyelids, and the quiet fragility of her own mind.
Until a faint meow has her bursting out of her slouch, eyes darting frantically around the clearing.
The black cat has her uninjured paw primly resting on Ellie's thigh, peering up at her expectantly with eery, incandescent eyes. Upon her attention, she nimbly removes her paw and demandingly rubs her head against her leg instead, another tinny meow ringing out of her.
"She's back. And I think she wants to lay with you," you explain humorously over the pages of your book— now nearly finished.
"Oh?" She replies in bewilderment, as the cat spins and pads her feet a couple of times before nestling into her side, resting her head on her dark paws.
"Can I come lay with you?" You murmur sleepily, casting fleeting, cautious looks at her as you stow your book away. As if already bracing for the sting of her rejection.
Ellie's heart throbs perniciously in her throat; she swallows in trepidation, sweat gathering on her palms. "Yeah. Yeah, of course," she forces out, wiping them on her jeans, straightening. Even after viewing your body after dark and eating your pussy, you make her nervous as fuck.
Even more so now that she knows how good you taste. And how perfect you are. Now she's burdened the knowledge that she cradles something precious in her hands, and she could unintentionally destroy it.
"I added some wood to the fire," you announce wearily, words punctuated by tiny, bursting yawns, as you adjust your oversized corduroy jacket around your shoulders and clamber over to her, a sheepish smile transforming your fatigue-dulled face.
"Come here," Ellie finds herself muttering, mimicking your exhaustion, spreading her legs and gesturing to the grass-cushioned ground beneath her. The cat still pressed into her, undeterred by her shifting.
You crawl delicately into the space between her legs, smiling through the yawn splitting your face, drawing a yawn out of Ellie, too. "Want me to keep watch again? You need to sleep some more," you say, reclining back against her chest and comfortably situating yourself, humming richly in unsuppressed delight.
Ellie wraps her arms around your shoulders, steering you back into her embrace, resting her chin on your mussed head. The affection should not come so naturally; she should not instinctively reach for you. It's not good.
Not fucking good at all.
"No," she whispers navally into your ear, eyeing the blazing fire through the tendrils of your unbound hair, that gleam with the dwindling light. "You sleep. You didn't sleep at all last night."
You tense fragmentarily in her grasp, muscles tightening under her arms. You hesitate, before craning your head back to face her, eyes searching. "You didn't either..." you whisper heedfully, lifting a hand and resting it on her forearm, stroking soothingly.
She had suspected you heard her cries last night. Instead of the confirmation making her feel ashamed, she felt... free. You saw the depths of her despair turn inside out and you did not cower at the hideous, wretched pain she unleashed.
"I never do," she replies baldly, swaying you gently, mouth hovering near the crest of your ear. Your thumbs tenderly caress the scars garnishing her arm, your eyes fluttering blissfully, your body sinking into her warmth. "Just sleep."
The lack of resistance proves just how desperately you needed it. You are whisked into a precipitated, fragile sleep, your breathing light and measured, your frame tucked up and slumped into her chest.
Her mind wanders only briefly to the violence lurking in its dark crevices, as she watches dense tendrils of smoke arise from the tamed fire, whirling and cascading toward the abrasive, glistening night sky, polluting her view of the stars.
She fantasizes of a smoldering house; a massive fire roaring from its pits, erupting in rippling flames that smolder the caving ceiling and dissolve the weak floorboards. She imagines the sear of blistering skin and the melting screams of anguish, of those who had incinerated her heart. She envisions all the relics and archives of her past being licked up by the fire and consumed by the glaring, ravenous heat.
Then she glances down at you, your blank, unconscious face illuminated by the flickering, dim orange glow. Something inside her softens, and she knows, grievously, that she has become malleable and pliant under your molding hands.
She stares at the slumbering, unbothered cat before returning her gaze back to you.
All of her hatred seems an afterthought to what she had right in front of her.
• • •
YOU
Blood pools on the fractured pavement. Firefly laps at it ravenously, her whiskers tinged crimson. "That's disgusting," you scowl disapprovingly, snatching her off the ground. She hisses in protest, clawing aimlessly at your sleeve, eyes crazed with hunger. You tap her bloodied nose reproachfully. "Bad."
She nips at your finger and you relent with a hearty sigh, placing her back on the ground. She skitters behind the rotting carcass of a clicker, it's head blown off in odious, blossoming cordyceps, pulsating dimly in a puddle of venomous blood. It's the first of hundreds.
You lift your head and examine the carnage that laid, revoltingly and obscenely, before your squinting eyes. Dozens upon dozens of butchered infected— cleaved into indistinguishable bits, sputtering blood, gushing decayed organs and crumpled flesh— piled in the lush street.
"What the fuck happened here?" Ellie drawls with a surprising amount of disgust, eyebrows furrowed as she ascended from her crouch, kneading a clump of clotted blood between her fingers.
You gulp down the thick lump of trepidation bulging in your throat, fretfully shaking the tremor out of your hands. "Don't know. It's gnarly, though," you respond, fighting the wobble out of your tone.
Truthfully, you recognize this distinctive gore.
After your parents tore each other to bits, Zander adopted a newfound disdain for infected. Before, he humanized the restless, ungovernable creatures— sympathized with their fucked up fate, to be killed and morphed into a monster.
But after the accident, he hated them. He found impressively disturbing ways to terminate them. Eventually he founded a signature method; to slice them into pieces as your parents had done, unbidden and under the influence of the infections debilitating madness.
This was him. You know, in the deepest caverns of your soul where your joint grief was stored, that this was his doing.
Not to mention the ragged Z carved into the blistered, yellowing flesh of one of the dead runners. You kick it's gnarled, unseemly body over to hide the exhibiting brand from Ellie, curling your lip with rehearsed repulsion. "Gross," you whisper, though internally, relief swarms your nerves, cacooning your apprehension in a warm blanket.
He is alive.
And the mark signifies that he is leaving signs for you to find.
"I'm just mad they beat me to it," Ellie complains under her breath, glowering at the expanse of cadavers cloaking the broken road. She tips your chin up, extracting your lingering gaze from the reeking bodies. "You good?"
You brush her off with a forced, invigorated smile. "Yep!" you chirp, nodding robustly, side-stepping a clicker. "At least we don't have to deal with all of them. Whoever did it, we should thank. Saved us some ammo," you craft your words meticulously as not to unearth your burrowed truth.
Ellie studies you a moment before dropping her hand. "True," she eventually yields, eyes wandering to Firefly, who was attacking a cord of muscle that protruded from the gaping stomach of a dead clicker, gnawing at the tough tissue. "Get your batshit cat. We're losing daylight."
"She's a perfectly normal cat," you retort, though your rebuttal is contradicted by the face you make. You grimace as she swats at a springing cordycep, growling ferociously. "Firefly! Stop that!" You shout, snapping your fingers.
Her ears twitch, head lurching up, green eyes wide. She is deathly still. You snap again, and she darts after Ellie skittishly, following her lead.
You chance another look at the wreckage, toying with the gold wedding band dangling from your throat. It was your mother's. Zander wore your fathers matching one around his neck. You usually kept yours stowed in the pits of your backpack, but you needed that touch of home.
Ellie had lifted your hair and gently latched it around you without questions asked, a hint of understanding in her eyes. You were grateful for her silence in that moment. Usually it unnerved you when she didn't speak. But in that moment it felt like a gift as opposed to a punishment.
"Where are we heading?" You question plainly, tucking the wedding band under your shirt, the memories a wild, unleashed zoo animal, tranquilized and thrown back into its enclosure. The ring is damp with your incessant, sweaty fidgeting.
"There's a place up ahead I like to go. Thought we could rest there for the night," she replies vaguely, glancing furtively at you, then the cat, her lip curling. "I still can't believe you named that thing Firefly."
"It's a cute name," you grumble back, sweeping your sweat-glistening hair off your neck and fanning the hot skin. "You could've come up with something too, you know."
This morning, you had awoken in Ellie's arms, jovial and recharged. For the first time in months, you had an uninterrupted, rejuvenating sleep, one that added a spring to your step and an effortlessness to your trekking. The cat was curled snugly in your lap, her affectionate purrs vibrating against your legs.
Ellie was stiff-necked and ill-tempered for the better half of the day, massaging the tension out of her shoulders and grumbling her responses.
"What should we name her?" You had asked, sprawled on your back, hefting the cat into the air as if she were a wailing baby in desperate need of motion and entertainment.
"Dramatic?" Ellie had quipped dully, and you rolled your eyes skyward.
"What about... oh!" You jerked upright in excitement, still cradling the cat in your arms. "Firefly."
An indecipherable emotion passed over her, tension lining the contours of her face. A hint of contempt glimmered in her eyes, and it felt like she was glaring down her nose at you, judging you like God weigh's pupils of sin, even as she sat at your eye-level. "Don't tell me you believe in that Firefly bullshit, too?"
Her reaction both intrigued and befuddled you. You possessed minimal knowledge on the Fireflies beyond the basics— that they were a reformed militia group that was majorly massacred by a man, who resulted in the death of Abby's father— and that she recruited a few friends to go after said man.
And someone was hunting them down for his murder. You had lost Nora and Jordan to the spiteful hands of his avenger; which is the only bright side to being excluded and shunned from Abby's circle— you were not involved in the man's murder, meaning you will not be involved in whatever vengeance they earned themselves.
Every now and then, back at the base, they get a few former Fireflie's filing in to join the Wolve's. Isaac— the focal overseer and governor of the WLF— was wary of stragglers that claimed past allegiances to the Fireflies, but welcomed them anyway, if they guaranteed to defend the base and protect his established citizens, as you and Zander pledged to do.
"No. Not at all. All of those stupid groups are bullshit," you agreed ardently, shaking your head in aversion, stroking Firefly's tummy. "I meant the actual insect, fireflie's. I just think they are so pretty at night. And I swear I could see the moon reflecting off her. Just seemed fitting."
Ellie had paused the sharpening of her blade. She analyzed you in the dewy, clouded sunlight, combating the interest off her face. But it flashed too late for her to conceal; her eyes lit up. "What other groups do you know about?" She asked carefully.
You shrugged, feigning indifference. "Like the Seraphites," you hummed, finger-combing Firefly's shiny black coat. "And I've seen another group around here. But I think they were just travelers."
Ellie said nothing, resuming her survey of her switchblade. She polished it with a tattered cloth and studied it, and that was that, the subject abandoned.
Now, Ellie snorts, peeling back a looming, overgrown branch to allow you passage. "Nah. That's your cat." She says as you saunter by, even as the cat pads after her, nose tipped to the air, breathing in the sent of damp soil, heady rot and the faint, sweet traces of a budding spring.
You trudge along the rocky, uneven path, bricks and shattered molasses-brown beer bottles specking the dirt, holding hope tight to your chest.
After stumbling upon Zander's mess, all the worry you harbored for your brother had ebbed away. He's alive. You hope the others are, too.
Even if you are not amicable with a large number of his group, a couple of them treated you fairly. Whitney was the closest thing to a friend you had there; she always tracked you down in the mess hall and shared her lunch. She even alternated her watch-shifts with Manny to join you on yours when she could, and shared her access card to the armory to practice shooting with you.
When you had first arrived, you scarcely knew how to use anything beyond a hand-gun. She trained you on a variety of firearms when your free time corresponded; you owe the new capabilities that kept you alive on this expedition to Whitney. She was the only one who never made you feel bad about it. She simply demonstrated for you without comment or judgement.
You hope whoever was sent to retrieve you— if anyone at all— was safe. Though, considering that Isaac didn't even send out a search party for Owen when he went missing, you doubt that he would gamble the life of his prized soldiers just to find a meaningless girl who was bullied and deluded out of his faction.
Clearly it did not stop Zander from looking for you, if the mutilated bodies of those infected were any indication. It could not be a coincidence. You know it was him. You just know it.
A strange part of you just hopes he doesn't find you yet. You have an intuitive, twisting suspicion churning in your gut, that this tenuous thing between you and Ellie will snap if anyone, or anything disrupts it.
You have a feeling that in finding him, you'll lose her. And you don't know what that means. You don't know where you're supposed to go from here; but you know that you can't just let her go.
With that, you saunter up to Ellie and flash her a winning, mindless smile, slithering your hand snugly into her back pocket. She tugs you flush into her side with a finger curled in your belt loop, and you stumble into her with a stunned laugh, Firelfy at your heels. You wish things could stay this easy.
You look at her and find strength beyond what had been forced upon you— a strength to fight for a better future.
• • •
Tangled, warm white Christmas lights dimly illuminate the abandoned teen-girls bedroom. Peeling posters are plastered to the walls, fraying with age and weathered by earth's course battering. A threadbare beanbag chair collected dust in the corner, the once vibrant purple now grimy and muted with time. Cobwebs edge the corners of the room in a luminous sprawl, their thick tendrils sparkling under the light.
You could see why Ellie found comfort in this place.
A black rack of CD's lined the desk, where the residue of ripped and prodded band stickers marred the refined oak. A thick coating of dust blanketed the surface. Your eyes flicker from the impressive album collection to the hot-pink poster board taped haphazardly to the closet with leopard print duct tape. Emboldened words scrawled in bright marker and glitter gel pens jut out in bubbled letters— MAISIE'S SUMMER BUCKET LIST 2003!
You avert your attention back to the desk, and the stack of mussed, tattered sketchbooks. The black covers are stained with charcoal and splotches of solidified paint, pages scattered. You rummage through one idly, thumbing through the doodles that range from gleaming sunrises to descriptive depictions of infected in a variety of stages, flowers blooming from their skulls instead of cordyceps.
You hum, grazing your pinkie over the elaborate drawings. "Have you seen these? They're..." you trail off in bewilderment when you glance up at what had captured Ellie's attention.
The dead body of a fallen solider.
Ripped camo dangled in tattered strips from the skeletal frame slumped against the unhinged door. It's jaw was missing, baring decaying teeth. Flies rattled in its hollow skull and buzzed busily about its frame. Ellie crouches and examines the chain enveloping it's neck. "They were a firefly," she informs you bleakly from over her shoulder, smoothing a thumb over the raised design etched into the pendant.
She rips it off it's neck sharply, and an involuntary screech bursts out of you when the head rolls off the body with a sickening crunch, thudding to the floor, sending up a cloud of dust. Ellie watched it fall with disinterest, holding the necklace up to you. "We should put it on your cat," she says, glaring pointedly at Firefly, who nestled herself into the bean bag and chewed on something dead she scoured, tail waving lethargically.
"Go ahead. I'd wait until she's done eating, though, or else she might maul you."
She releases a long-suffering sigh but ascends from her crouch, jingling the pendant tauntingly in your face, eyebrows raised. You laugh as she pursues Firefly with rightful caution. Her deliberate movements do not stop the cat from freezing and glowering at her, dark fur elevating.
"It's okay," Ellie drawls with no conviction. "Relax, dude."
Firefly makes to dart away, but Ellie swiftly wrestles her into her arms, holding her firm, as she hisses and screams in protest, squirming. "Come here, little devil," she grunts out harshly, sloppily clipping the pendant around her neck. Firefly swats violently, nicking her with a razor-sharp claw.
Ellie relinquishes her grip and Firefly wastes no time scrambling away, scurrying under the half-dilapidated bed. Her brilliant green eyes flare with menace from the shadows, narrowed at her.
"The shit I do for you," Ellie clicks her tongue and brandishes the furious scratch that superficially sliced her arm.
You ignore the jest. "Should we get rid of... of..." you stutter, gesturing at the body apprehensively, shifting from foot to foot. "That?"
Ellie nods, and you follow her to where it's rotting. She carelessly scoops up the skull and chucks it out of the gaping hole in the wall, before bracing her hands on the remnants of its body, leveling you with a look. You scramble to aid her, mustering a confirming nod back.
With joint effort, you shove it over the edge of the building. You peer over the jutted lip of the bedroom; numerous stories stretched between you and the pavement. Mist gathers in a dense, ominous cloud, shielding your view of the ground below. The bones clatter and deconstruct until they're engulfed by the haze. You were so far up, you couldn't hear them break against the earth.
You glance at Ellie to find her already observing you.
"What?"
She simply shrugs and rises, dusting the loitering essence of death off her hands, changing the topic with a fluidity that came with her consistent avoidance. "We can either try to fix that bed or sleep on the floor. Take your pick."
"I don't think Firefly would appreciate it if we took away her hiding spot," you quip, and it was settled.
The day was not yet done, but you set up camp regardless. Both of you maneuver in a pleasant silence as you unbundle your sleeping bags and roll them over the stained, carpeted floor. Ellie positions hers a whopping ten feet away from yours, the distance nearly offensive. "What are you doing?" You ask in disbelief, pausing your bed-making to gawk at her, open-mouthed.
"What?" She snaps in alarm, glancing around, looking for tangible evidence of her misdeed.
You point at her bed roll incredulously. "Why are you so far from me?"
She tenses and flicks her gaze away, her bag sliding off her shoulder and to the floor with a hefty thud. "I didn't want to assume you'd want to sleep by me."
You blink fervently. "Ellie."
She watches uncertainly as you punctuate her name and drag her sleeping bag next to yours, until they're close to overlapping. "You literally had your tongue inside of me. Stop being weird all of a sudden."
She visibly reddens, a vicious blush blotching her cheeks. You open your mouth to continue, adrenaline coursing through your veins, when she charges at you and cups a silencing hand over your mouth, a pained smirk tugging at her lips. "Just stop!" She hisses, her lips a wobbling line as she resists a grin of her own.
You chuckle and stumble back, licking her palm. She blanches and releases you, wiping her spit-damp hand on her jeans, her sudden movement sending you plummeting to the floor. You drag her down with you, your breathy laughs mingling as you collapse in a tangle of limbs onto the sea of slippery blankets.
You both burst into another fit of laughter when Firefly growls at all the commotion. She pads out into the foyer, swaying her tail with sass.
"Do you ever shut up?" Ellie mutters lowly, laughter clinging onto every lulled syllable, as she props herself on an elbow and gazes down at you, running a finger over your bottom lip.
You smile, and she traces the shape of it.
"Do you want me to?" You whisper humorously, and her thumb joins her finger in its exploration of the curves of your face, stroking your cheek with an unlikely tenderness that had the power to undo you.
"Never," she mumbles back, applying a chaste, shapeless kiss to the corner of your mouth. It's not enough. She deigns to pull away but you sling an arm over the back of her neck and hold her in place, lips seeking hers with repressed fervor.
She groans into your mouth, the decadent sound rumbling through you, alighting a glimmering need within. You increase the speed and intensity of the kiss— her noises an invitation for more— and propel yourself up with a hand plastered unsteadily to the floor, combing your fingers through her hair with the other.
Her hand rests on your throat, the pressure existent but not imposing, as she guides you into a languorous dance with your tongues. You buck your hips up to sate the craving for pressure and she slips a hand down to your waist, guiding you up and into her.
"I want you for real this time," she blurts breathlessly, words blasting into your tingling, swollen lips. Her eyes are teeming with earnest, pupils so dilated with lechery, they reflect you, doe-eyed and wanting. "No interruptions. I don't fucking care what it is... I'm not going to stop." She utters the words with quivering determination, fumbling with the button of your jeans.
You desperately nod your assent, arching up to assist her in removing your jeans. She brushes fluttery kisses to your exposed midriff where your tank top had ridden up, hurriedly tugging your jeans down, until they pooled at your ankles. She shucks them over your cowboy boots and hurls them to the side.
Your heart hammers with anticipation, core throbbing at the sight of her absolutely unraveled with yearning. Ever since that night in the hospital, you've wanted more. Needed more. You were just as fucked up by your need for her. It consumed you, ate you from the inside out, until all that was left was a thirst that could not be quenched without her hands on you.
"Fuck me, Ellie," you demand hoarsely, winding your hands up her thighs and shakily unbuttoning her jeans as she looms over you. She arches back and unabashedly shreds off her shirt as you hike down her jeans, unveiling small, supple breasts and hard, tantalizing nipples.
You kiss up her pelvis, across her toned, bruised abdomen and to her sternum, licking a slow stripe over one of her nipples and swirling it on your way up, eyes trained on hers lasciviously. You nip and suckle at a spot on her neck and she cranes her head back, hiccuping a sharp cry. She pants and lulls her head as you kiss and nibble the bared column of her throat, her hands roaming up the front of your body, palming your tits through your shirt.
She lifts herself off of you momentarily to kick off her jeans over her Converse, discarding them quickly, before she's back on top of you.
She's framed by the dying daylight penetrating the gaping hole behind her, her eyes flickering over you hungrily. She glides her hands under the hem of your tank top and yanks it over your head, tousling your hair, rejected with all the other articles of scattered clothing.
She pries your legs apart forcefully, and you squeak, as she pulls you closer to her. "How do you want it?" She croons gravelly, voice rich with heady desire, eyes honed in on your face with predatory focus. As if she could take every hint of pleasure you show and have it for herself. She straddles your pelvis and slowly, faintly swipes her pussy over yours, your clit throbbing at the contact. "Like this?"
She cradles your leg in her arm and drags her pussy across yours again, this time with more force. You bite your lip to suppress a whimper at the delicious sensation. "Or do you want me to really fuck you?" She thrusts against you hard for emphasis and you choke back a stunned moan, jerking.
"Yes," you breathe carnally, hair fanning around your head, mouth agape— all subtly gone with the wind that billowed through the room and cooled your slick skin.
"Yes, what? Use your words," she demands, hand encasing your throat, rocking into you with that same jarring force, another moan escaping you.
"Fuck me," you pant, nearly drooling, the husk of her words a fuel to the kindling that was her pussy moving against yours, "Please just fuck me. I need you, Ellie."
She smirks haughtily, wicked satisfaction gleaming in her blue eyes. "That's my girl," she praises knowingly, leaning down until her mouth brushes your panties. She sinks her teeth into them and tears them straight off your body, her hand never abandoning its anchoring hold on your throat. The movement was so effortless you could feel yourself dripping, the duality of this woman stupefying you.
How she could go from awkward at your flirting, to claiming your body as if it were a land she possessed and ruled in the matter of minutes.
You whimper unintelligible nonsense, unable to form coherent words to convey your debilitating need. Wanting her feels as natural and essential as breathing. Explaining it is nowhere near as simple.
She removes herself from you just to slide her own panties off, repositioning herself between your legs, holding your leg to her chest. She offers no warning before she grinds her bare, wet pussy into yours, the skin on skin making tingles of pleasure erupt through your core.
It was nearly too much.
You emit a shuddering moan and arch your back as she returns her calloused hand to your throat and slams into you, rolling her hips, your clits rubbing and chafing. "That's it. Fuck," she hisses out, her tattooed arm stark against your thigh as she hoists it to her, using it to drive into you with fierce precision, your pussy's slapping together stickily.
"Oh my fucking god," you mewl dumbly, tits bouncing, as she angles her hips and relentlessly drives her pelvis into yours, her breaths clipped and high-pitched. You undulate your hips and grind up into her, meeting the ferocity of her thrusts, your juices coinciding and glistening on your thighs. "Ellie."
"Fuck, yeah," she pants blissfully, peering down at you. "You feel so good."
She leans over you, slapping a hand next to your head, folding your leg up to your chest, the position allowing for better movement. She grinds into you from the new angle, your clits gliding and throbbing, and you feel yourself ascending higher and higher, toward that peak you nearly met the other night, at the hospital.
She fucks you nearly senseless, your frame wracking with her thrusts. She burrows her face into the crook of your neck, hot breath ghosting your skin, tiny grunts departing her lips. She grazes her teeth over the flesh and you shudder, her hand that was planted to the floor snaking up and finding yours, interlocking your fingers.
"I'm gonna cum," you whimper into her mussed hair, writhing beneath her, choppily grinding up, your muscles tight. You use the hand that's not intertwined with hers to fist her hair and reer her head back, until your faces are level, gazes locked. Both of you are heavy-lidded and pupil-blown, her eyes brimming with that same pleasure that was mounting in you.
"Cum with me," she orders breathily, your noses compressing, and on demand your body convulses and a blinding white light shreds through your vision, an uncontrolled moan belting out of you as she continues to fuck you through your orgasm.
"Fuck," she groans without restraint as your pussy's squelch, a cry leaving her as she reaches her own peak, her eyebrows furrowed, a dimple surfacing between her brow. She breathes into your open mouth, and you claim it as your own, granting her fleeting kisses through the aftermath.
Not a single thought filters through your head. Nothing beyond her drenched pussy, resting dormant upon your slick thigh, and her lips eloping with yours. You don't even know where to begin when it comes to processing the unprecedented feeling that roared throughout your body, or the swelling off your heart.
Neither of you say a word, your harsh, heavy breathing mingled and protruding the silence. Ellie peels herself off of you, her legs shaking as she thuds to the sleeping bag adjacent to you, her damp forehead pressed into your bare shoulder. She peppers a few kisses over it before falling back, expelling a deep, contented sigh.
You angle your head to face her, a dazed grin splitting your face. "What. The. Fuck. You've been holding out on me," you muse dreamily, playfully swatting at her.
She snickers huskily, scratching her head, propping it on an elbow. Her bare chest glistens and heaves with her labored breaths, as she reaches under the broken bed and slips out a shoebox. She dumps the contents out on her abdomen— a packet of finely minced weed, rolling sheets, a mini box of matches and one pre-rolled joint. "You smoke?"
"I have. Don't do it much though," you admit with a sheepish chuckle, watching her. She licks the length of the joint to insure its sealed before slipping it between her lips and lighting a match, bringing it to the tip. She waves out the tiny flame once smoke billows from the end, taking a measured, steady drawl.
She closes her eyes briefly at the sensation before passing it to you. Her lips quirk as you survey it dubiously before holding it hesitantly to your mouth, sucking in. Her smirk morphs into a resounding laugh when you sputter out a choppy haze of smoke, a profound burn blistering your lungs.
"That shits gross," you cough gutturally, passing it back, batting the swirling smoke out of the air. "You keep that stuff here?"
"No," she responds, smirking, inhaling another graceful heap of smoke. Exhaling slowly. You watch her watch the tendrils churn through the otherwise still air. "It was here when I found this place. Whoever lived here before was stashing it," she glances to the summer bucket list, "Maisie was a stone-er." She chides, flicking the ashes off and taking another hit.
She is noticeably put at ease. Her muscles are relaxed, and her smiles form innately and without dictation. As if all her worries have been laid to rest, now that she got to feel you.
It had the opposite affect on you.
The dark, possessive thoughts that have been circulating your mind like vultures preying on rotting roadkill did not flea at the taste of her.
All it did was amplify your morbid longing.
You snuggle into her embrace and rest your head against her drumming sternum, entangling your sweat-glowing legs together, fusing your bodies. She holds the joint to your lips and you take a drag, careful not to invoke another coughing fit, and she takes one after you, blowing precise, opaque O's with the smoke. She gently runs her fingertips up and down the length of your arm, clutching you to her.
"Can we do it again?" You blurt, angling your head up to face her, and she pauses her stroking. She says nothing as her hand winds down your arm, coasts over your hip, and creeps between your legs.
You suck in a breath when two fingers collect the wetness pooling at your entrance and drag your slick to your clit, rubbing delicately, the feather-light application of pressure evoking a whimper out of you. You squirm and rock into her hand, and she chuckles on a weed-laced breath, "Mm. You want me to fuck you again?"
You nod frantically as she works your pussy with her fingers. She sits up suddenly, taking you with her, until your spread in her lap. She holds the joint between her lips as she uses one hand to palm your breast and the other to expertly thumb your clit, smoke coiling from her nostrils. "Needy fucking girl," her approving groan is muffled by the joint, as she inches her fingers down your wet folds, teasing your entrance. "You want my fingers again?"
"Please," you whine, as reeking smoke tickles your earlobe and wafts into your face, the hand that wasn't easing fingers into your cunt slithering down to keep one of your legs spread, curling around your thigh, kneading and caressing, the joint between her massaging fingers.
You reach back to feather your fingers through her hair, riding her hand, breathy gasps escaping your lips. "Mhm. Good girl," she praises gravelly into your ear, curling her digits inside of you, stroking that sweet spot.
You tug helplessly on her hair and crash your head back onto her shoulder, arching desperately as she makes you cum for the second time, this time drenching her rough fingers.
She doesn't stop there. She maneuvers you out of her lap and sprawls you onto the bed roll, your legs spread, pussy gleaming and sated before her devouring eyes. She braces your thighs in her arms, takes a hit, and exhales onto your clenching pussy, the faint gust stimulating your throbbing clit. You moan and attempt to inch away, but she pins you down and eats you stupid, until her chin is dribbling with your juices, her sardonic smile highlighted by the cum glistening on her lips.
After she was done, she unburried herself from your legs and licked the juices off her lips, eyeing you sensually. She acted as if she were about to go right back down, when Firefly began scratching at the door insistently, meowing manically. Both of you redressed, hefting your tops and underwear back on.
You let the cat in and enveloped yourself in the near-translucent, cotton sheets, observing her as she tiptoes in, sniffing the air. She follows the scent to the crumpled joint on the floor, nosing it curiously. Ellie clicks her tongue in reprimand and tosses it over the side of the building before she tries to eat it. The last thing you needed was a high cat.
After discarding the joint, Ellie plops down on the hazardous edge, swinging her legs. She looks at you from over her bruised shoulder. "Come on," she urges, patting the space next to her.
You oblige, the sheet trailing you as you wander over to her. She takes your hand as you gingerly lower yourself beside her, effortfully prying your gaze from the dizzying height.
The mist had cleared with the days dissipating humidity, revealing the enchanting sweep of ocean that spread before you, dark waves emphasizing the curve of the earth. The sun gleams amber like a glass of whiskey caught in the light, painting the clouds a mass of colors, descending toward the seam of sky and sea.
You avert your attention back to Ellie. Her eyes are sealed, brown lashes fluttering with the breeze, tawny hair cascading with the salt-tinged wind. Her freckles are emphasized by the golden, showering glow, gilding her features. You sit on your hands to keep yourself from tracing them.
Firefly inches over, perching next to you, her green eyes mirroring the setting sun. You close your eyes and drop your head onto Ellie's shoulder, wrapping the sheet around her.
There's a prolonged beat.
And then she tilts her head and rests it on yours, hand gripping your thigh proprietarily. You don't even hesitate. You slide your hand over hers and stroke the bruises blossoming on her knuckles, smiling to yourself.
taglist: @elliesexual @jottedinklings @a-little-bit-of-everybody … let me know if you want to be tagged for updates
#burningbodywaiting#ellie williams#the last of us#ellie tlou#joel miller#playstation#ps4#the last of us 2#tlou#tlou2#ellie the last of us#ellie williams fanfic#ellie williams x reader#ellie x you#ellie x y/n#ellie x fem reader#ellie x reader#ellie smut#wlw#tlou fanfiction
202 notes
·
View notes
Text
Love Conquers All
Benedict Bridgerton x Reader (Fem)
~ Part 2 ~ ~ Part 3 ~ ~ Part 4 ~ ~ Part 5 ~
~ Part 6 ~ ~ The End ~
~ Part 1 ~
Y/N strode into the ballroom, her Pa, Richard, on her arm acting as her chaperone for the evening. A surreal notion for Y/N as her Mama would always be the one to do so before now.
“Are you nervous?” Richard asked, a concerned scowl on his face. Like Y/N, this was a new, surreal feeling for him. His dear wife would always be the one to take on this role.
“Partly, but do not worry Pa. I will disguise the nerves with grace and hold my head high.” Y/N spoke with such confidence that even she was convinced by her words.
Richard smiled, a genuine one before ushering the two of them further into the room.
This was their first encounter with Mayfair and all its grandeur. Having moved away from the country recently they decided this was the best fresh start for them both.
A few eyes were cast their way as they made their debut. Lots of hushed whispers and words behind hands were shared between members of the Ton.
“I fear they mock me Pa.” Y/N mumbled, using her free hand to smooth down the front of her dress.
“If they mock it is only out of jealously my love. You are the most beautiful here.”
Y/N smiled shyly at her father’s kind words.
“You have to say that, you are my Pa.” Y/N sighed.
“I speak only in truths Y/N. You are eight and twenty years old. You should know this of me by now.” Richard chuckled, scooting the two of them over the marbled floor to stand away from the entrance.
Just as he did so, a lady came bounding over with such confidence. Y/N was impressed by how she seemed to carry herself, a cane by her side as she made strong strides.
“Good evening to you both.” The lady curtsied, to which Y/N and her father followed suit.
“Good evening.”
“Forgive me for being so blunt but I fear do not know either of you? I am Lady Danbury.” The stranger smirked slightly.
“No do forgive us. I am Lord Richard Pembrooke and this is my dear daughter Miss Y/N Pembrooke. We recently moved to Mayfair.” Y/N and her father both curtsied once more.
“Pleasure to meet you Lady Danbury.” Y/N cooed.
“Well… the pleasure is all mine. Mayfair has become somewhat ‘normal’ as of late. Some fresh blood may shake up this town. And if the fresh blood is as charming of face as you my dear, well… it will be very shaken up indeed.” Lady Danbury smirked once more, before spinning to stand next to the new members of the ton.
The three of them watched as couples waltzed around the dance floor, charmed smiles and nods shared between other members strewn around the room.
Through the doors across the room entered a large party. A beautiful, older lady strode in with a handsome man on her arm. Another equally handsome man behind, a younger lady on his left and an even younger lady on his right.
It’s like the room had to stop to take notice of them, everyone exchanging pleasantries with the new partygoers.
“Pardon me Lady Danbury but who might they be?” Y/N asked quizzically. The man with the two ladies on his arm catching her eye.
Danbury watched as Y/N’s eyes followed the man across the room. That familiar, cunning smirk on her face still.
“They Miss Pembrooke… would be the Bridgertons. A well endowed family, whom I am quite well acquainted with. Their mother Violet Bridgerton, Anthony on her arm, Benedict behind with Eloise and Hyacinth. Hyacinth being the youngest lady of the family.”
Y/N nodded and hummed, continuing to watch as the Bridgertons made their way around the room. She noticed that Violet took Hyacinth by the arm and paraded her around. Anthony accompanied them. Benedict sunk into the shadows with Eloise, the two of them laughing as they picked at the food.
“Quite the duo those two it seems.” Richard chuckled.
“They do make quite the double act. This is Eloise’s third year on the marriage mart. Although she would much rather be anywhere else. Likewise with Benedict.” Danbury stated.
“I do hope we may have hope for you Y/N? Hmmm?” Danbury continued, glancing over at Y/N.
“Oh.. I… uhhmm… my apologises but I am not interested in all of that. I am just happy at home with Pa and my books.”
Danbury glances between Y/N and her father with a disapproving stare.
“Hmm. Despite what society may lead us to believe, age may just be a number Miss Y/N. Do not count yourself out yet.” Danbury hummed, before exchanging her goodbyes to speak to other people.
Y/N glanced at her father.
“Well… she was quite the woman.” Richard coughed with a slight chuckle.
“She is… brilliant. If I am to be an old spinster I would like to be just like her.” Y/N announced proudly.
Despite the need to keep his daughter close and keep her in the nest, he knew Danbury was right. Y/N was an incredibly bright, beautiful woman and deserved to find love. Just as he had done with her mother.
“Lady Danbury has a point Y/N. As much as I would love to keep you at home for as long as I shall live…” Richard paused, realising the power of those last few words.
Y/N frowned slightly.
“Life is incredibly short my dear and you deserve to be happy. You also deserve to find love.”
Y/N huffed in annoyance before replying.
“I’ve told you Pa. I am not interested in love. Love is all well and good but it doesn’t last. Something always comes to destroy it. Take yourself and Mama. I do not want to experience that kind of heartbreak.” Y/N let go of her father’s arm and began to walk away in a huff.
Her feet carried her away from him and further into the grandness of the ballroom.
She was so distracted by what had just happened that she had not seen the handsome Bridgerton, known as Benedict, standing close by.
Her shoulder collided with his arm, causing them both to stumble but Benedict had managed to reach out his hands to steady Y/N in time.
“Steady. Are you alright?” Benedict cooed, staring directly at Y/N. His hands holding onto her arm.
“I… I… am… alright. Apologies.” Y/N mumbled out, curtsying rather clumsily.
Benedict smirked before releasing his grip and straightening up.
“Oh that is quite alright Miss…”
Y/N was just staring at him. She’d missed her queue to tell him her name.
“Y/N. Y/N Pembrooke!” She bowed once more.
“Y/N Pembrooke.” Benedict repeated in a soft whisper. The way he said her name and the hushed tones he used caused goosebumps to rise on Y/N’s skin.
Benedict now turned to his sister who had seen this whole event go down.
“Eloise do you know of the Pembrooke’s?” Benedict asked.
“I do not know. Are you someone new?!” The tone in Eloise’s voice had indicated that she was excited by the prospect of someone new in town.
“That would be correct. Myself and Pa just moved here from the country.” Y/N had also now straightened up.
“The country? We always visit when the season is over. How have we never crossed paths?” Eloise continued to quiz Y/N.
“I do not know.” Y/N chuckled at how giddy Eloise seemed to be. From first meetings it seemed Eloise would be a great confidant to have. Someone to rely on and possibly become friends with.
“Brother would we not have remembered such a face as Y/N?” Eloise pushed for Benedict to join back into the conversation. He had just been eating a handful of grapes as he stared at Y/N as she conversed with his sister.
He paused chewing and glanced between the two women now. A confused look on his face.
“What was that sister?”
Eloise grinned.
“We would have remembered someone like Y/N had we met before. Would we not?”
Benedict glanced between them once more. He most certainly would have remembered a face like Y/N. Her features were soft but her eyes seemed to tell a different story. He could see the hard, tough persona she seemed to have built. It was clear she was clever and carried herself well, a trait that Benedict couldn’t help but adore.
“I certainly would have.”
#Bridgerton#benedict bridgerton#Benedict x reader#fem#reader fem#reader#regency#shondaland#Netflix#regency era#bridgerton aesthetic#Benedict Bridgerton fanfic#fanfic
90 notes
·
View notes
Note
Jaytim prompt: Dick catches them on a date or kissing.
Okayyy nothing fully explicit, but yknow. I'm a horny degenerate, so warning sex talk.
They'd been dating quietly for a while. Not overly hiding it, but more so wanting to enjoy each other before the rest of the batclan decided to meddle.
Jason had almost full access to the Nest, though he wasn't explicitly told with words anytime Jason reached for the big computer Tim threw something at his head and yelled in one of fifteen languages at him. So Jason stopped touching that computer. But he was given free reign to tune up the bikes and the Redbird! He counted that as a win.
Tonight was what he dubbed, together and separate night. Tim was either pissing off Ras or some other massive something or other on his computer, and Jay was under the bikes. He stopped, though, when he heard Tim push away from the computer.
"I'm hungry," he said to the open air.
"Is that so princess?" Jay bit back a grin as he set down the tools but made no move to get up.
"Feed me Jason."
"Well I have something to keep your mouth occupied," he started.
"You're hot covered in grease stains and wearing a wife beater and ripped jeans Jay but I'm not laying on the floor to suck you off."
"But that's not a no for later?"
"Feed me and we'll see."
"Hard bargain princess, the stock market makde you cold," he chuckled and pushed out from under the bike. "Cmon then. Let's feed the caffeine prince."
Tim smiled crookedly at him and followed him up to the kitchen. Where Tim promptly sat on the counter to 'help', aka be in the way demand kisses and taste test.
"I want pasta," he proclaimed.
Jason clicked his tongue, "Not Italian, but what about some Mongolian with noodles? We have better ingredients for that, and I want to use the chili oil."
Tim nodded, and Jay got to work roaming around the kitchen with ease neither of them noticed Dickie come in when Tim demanded his first kiss of the process.
Jason loved kissing Tim. It was an experience like no other. They both tried to devour each other until the first broke and made a noise. Or sometimes it was nothing more than teasing brushes of lips until one finally gave in.
Jason had just fed Tim some of the marinated pineapple and leaned in for a kiss when they heard.
"Oh shit."
Jason froze, a low warning sound building in his chest as Tim peaked around him.
"You're supposed to call Richard."
"I was lightly stabbed thank you!"
Jason turned his head a little to see Dickie out of the corner of his eye. Sure enough small gash on his leg.
"Go patch him up babybird," Jason said as he moved back to the food prep. "Then we can get to food and you enjoying me covered in grease."
Tim hopped down and went over to Dickwing, dragging him to go get stitched and cleaned and Tim probably grilled. Jason took out some more just incase there was a third at dinner tonight.
Dammit Richard, he wanted to get head tonight.
43 notes
·
View notes
Text
Little fic idea I have zero time to write so that's all you'll get sorry – unless anyone wants to write it, I'll be super happy to read it! Inspired by a fanart I saw on Pinterest where Nightwing can't sit properly on a couch and Bruce scolds him (I don't know the artist I'm sorry!)
Imagine a 25yo Bruce having to drag along a 10yo Dick to a work meeting because Alfred is out of town or something and Dick can't stay alone at the manor because well, he's 10 and he's Dick Grayson, former circus performer, so the best scenario Bruce can picture is a broken chandelier in the living room and half the manor on fire. So they're in the waiting room and Bruce is losing his mind because Dick just can't sit on the couch like any normal person and can't stay still for more than half a minute, and he's panicking because he doesn't know anything about parenting, like how do you make kids listen to you? Is there a button to turn them off or–
So he's like "Please chum, I'll buy you ice cream and let you stay up late tonight or whatever you want, but this meeting is important so behave, please" while Dick keeps laughing and doing his acrobatic things around. He just prays his ward won't break anything and that the meeting room is soundproof.
He is in the middle of trying to stop Dick from doing the third cartwheel on the floor (near a very fragile glass vase) when the door of the meeting room finally opens and everyone sees Bruce in the throes of a parental breakdown.
He'll never take Dick to any business meeting again.
(The next day Bruce, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, opens the newspaper as he does every morning, and a headline catches his eye: "Bruce Wayne seen in company of his protégé Richard Grayson at a business meeting: how is the richest man in Gotham doing in his parenthood?" underneath there's a picture of Dick and him getting out of a black car parked in front of a tall building and some anonymous statements: "It's always nice to see it, you know, when a parent shows he cares and takes his son to work, I admire him for that." "Bruce Wayne as a parent? From what I saw I think he's doing a good job. That kid is wild." "He's a caring father, but lacks some authority. It makes you wonder if he has the iron fist needed to run Gotham’s largest company."
Bruce throws the paper away.)
#I just love when Bruce (and the Batkids) are under the spotlight as the richest family in Gotham so anything they do is gossip material#batman headcanon#dick grayson#robin dick grayson#batfamily#dc comics#batman#fic ideas
83 notes
·
View notes
Text
Three years earlier the Beatles had been second on the bill to Little Richard at the New Brighton Tower Ballroom, just outside Liverpool. [...] They loved Little Richard, despite the fact that he could be a bit weird and a bit of a prima donna.
I was there that night when I saw “a look” pass between him and Brian, a kind of recognition. Nothing was said, everything was cool. Don [Arden] frowned, but he didn’t work it out because he didn’t understand the subtleties of gayness. He thought something secret was going on, that Brian was trying to lure Little Richard away to sign with him.
Don didn’t understand someone like Brian at all. Brian would never dream of luring anyone away from their agency, unless sorely tried. But that’s the way Don always thought. He once broke Robert Stigwood’s desk with a single blow with a giant ashtray, and then hung him out of the third floor window of his office when he thought Stiggy was trying to steal the Small Faces. [...]
In New Brighton that night, Don started an argument with Brian over Little Richard. In fact he went crazy. Brian didn’t respond. He just stood, quietly gazing into space and when Don had run out of steam, Brian said quite mildly, “I will be calling your employers on Monday and demand that they terminate your employment.” This was Brian’s sophisticated version of today’s, “Your ass is grass.”
Still, it stopped Don dead in his tracks. He said he’d been all over the world and nobody had ever talked to him like that. Politely. He was even more incensed, when Brian actually did book Little Richard a couple of weeks later at the Liverpool Empire.
Tony Bramwell - Magical Mystery Tours
100 notes
·
View notes
Text
RE1 is getting remade for the 30th Anniversary and here's why I support it and what I'd love to see in the RE1RR.
Updated with the next gen graphics in the RE Engine
The plan is obviously to remake RE5, but we need to do Wesker's OTHER big appearances first. I believe we should get the following released in the specific order. 1, 0, then Code Veronica and finally RE5. Cause if you tease RE5 and have Wesker, you should have the three games that featured Wesker before his death in RE5.
The atmosphere and tension of the Spencer Mansion in the new age and basically RE1 meets Village. The visual aesthetic of Village’s Castle Dimitrescu for Spencer Mansion.
Better characterization. Flesh out all the characters. Improve the plot/story.
Chris and Jill’s campaigns to be separate and different, so by the time they meet at the end they’ve both had their own adventure, and you need to play through both to see both sides. Perhaps give Chris the mines and Jill the guard house. Expand the mansion, and when they separate at the start they pick up different keys and access different areas. That way they story would be canon regardless of what happens, and there would be some variety. Also have Rebecca and Richard as playable paths, similar to Sherry and Ada in RE2R.
A playable Wesker mode with him having to move about the mansion and into the lab under a certain amount of time.
Also would like them to keep the REmake music (especially the save room theme), though they could always release a Deluxe Edition like 2R with the OG music too?
Additions. I would be happy with an entire new floor in the Spencer Mansion. Or making the Residence 3x as long. Adding a forest section, either during the opening and/or later in the game. Extended playable sequences for Rebecca and Barry – different locations for each, like how the Orphanage was entirely new for Sherry in 2R. An abandoned greenhouse near the guardhouse with Plant-42 and similar experimentation , an extended cemetery with more tombs, a third floor in Spencer Mansion, more floors in guardhouse, etc.
Making S.T.A.R.S. matter. The game begins at the R.P.D. After picking between Chris and Jill, you make your way from the garage and up into the department proper, crossing paths with various characters referencing the recent cannibal killings and the fact that Alpha and Bravo have been assigned. The walk through the RPD could be intercut with news reports and police banter about what’s been happening. You can interact with the various characters as much or as little as you want en route to the briefing room. Chris and Forrest can talk some trash and reference their apparent contest for top shot. Enrico can be seen helping Rebecca organize her equipment and her nerve. Joseph can be given more personality than being puppy kibble. Marvin can be caught informing Rebecca that she won’t be the rookie in a couple more months. Chief Irons can greet the player with the mask of a competent professional because his mind was still intact. Hell, perhaps we can even catch a glimpse of whatever act Wesker put on for the two years that made these people trust him. Wesker and Enrico would then host the briefing that will send them into mountains, still treating this like they think the suspects are hill people or whatever, culminating in Bravo Team taking point while Alpha Team remains behind. There could be some more small talk or some kinda time lapse before Richard makes contact in a panic before communications break down. Alpha Team immediately preps and heads out, complete with changing clothes in the locker room and gearing up. The player will actually play the search through the woods, discover the crashed helicopter, and play through the mad chase to the mansion where the game as we know it begins.
Throw the players off by changing the keys and rooms
Zombies, Crimson Heads and every other BOW in the first game
Defense weapons and head stomping
Lisa Trevor(she could work like as a stalker enemy)
Same notes, but add in some new ones
All the puzzles, but mix it up
Just give us “One more second and you were ALMOST A JILL SANWICH” let Barry be the cheesy bastard that we know him to be
Stick with the REVIll face model for Chris, but younger and less steroids. Like how many faces can he wear?????
Stick with the RE3R face model for Jill, but don’t let it look like she just got out of being dipped in the sewer
Include Zero as DLC. My pitch of a RE0R. But the main requirement for RE1 is for Rebecca to NOT be cowering in the corner. Rebecca CANNOT be in the corner cowering from a Hunter when she is more than capable. A simple scream of surprise, but when we reach Rebecca, we see that she's perfectly fine
Bonus costumes For Chris:Made In Heaven outfit, BSAA outfit, CVX STARS outfit For Jill:RE3 original and Remake, BSAA, RE:Resistance, and RE5 Battle Suit.
And finally getting what we never got in the original or the 2002 remake. The ending that has Chris, Jill, Rebecca and Barry in the chopper. So my big idea to make this happen is this. If we play as Jill, Chris makes it to the mansion with us. Jill and Barry go and investigate, while Chris and Wesker are outside. They vanish. Richard will mention that Rebecca Chambers left the mansion after hearing Brad’s radio and went to get help. We will later see Rebecca in the cell with Chris in Jill’s story. For Chris’ story, Barry makes it to the Mansion. Chris investigates the gunshot while Wesker will say they will split up and investigate the Mansion and everyone vanishes. Later in the game before we get to the lab, there would be a dropped Barry’s photograph. Later when we get to the cell, Barry will be in the cell with Jill. Barry apologizes to Chris for what he’s done and Chris understands why he did what he did and he can help make things right. Ultimately in both playthroughs, all 4 S.T.A.R.S. members work together to fight the Tyrant until ultimately Chris or Jill destroys the Tyrant with the rocket launcher. It ends with all 4 members escaping in the chopper as the Mansion explodes.
#Resident Evil#Resident Evil 1#Resident Evil Remake#Chris Redfield#Jill Valentine#Valenfield#Albert Wesker#Barry Burton#Rebecca Chambers#S.T.A.R.S.#STARS#Richard Aiken#Enrico Marini#Brad Vickers#Lisa Trevor#Edward Dewey#Joseph Frost#Forest Speyer#Kenneth J Sullivan
74 notes
·
View notes