#aim so glad she’s returned to me

[yoursecretgaylover]

As someone who only casually reads fanfics, I am not proud of the significant amount of despair I have felt when Ao3 was down, just simply knowing that I couldn’t if I wanted to. Like the absence of a casual mistress that I had, unknowingly, fallen for as the moon falls for the sun, giving way for daylight, now too far gone, leaving me grasping at empty air and the thought of what could have been. Something so dear to my heart, so undervalued, gone under the currents of wind that slip through my fingers. Like the whispered breath of unspoken words, escaping in moments of thoughtlessness. Unspoken words that carried, for all we know, the meaning of life itself. Nor am I proud of the shameless way in which I have done nothing but eat, sleep, and breathe fanfics for the past several hours, maybe even days. Drinking in her presence like a man left stranded in the desert, with nothing but the hot hot sun to keep his company. Time seems to slip by when she’s in my presence, under my fingertips, tangible, lovable, her presence haunts me in every breath, every movement, every slip of the tongue and every lecherous thought. She’s returned to me, battered and broken, but here, and healing, my love, my light, my reason for living, and dare I say, the one I call home. My love grows ever stronger, and I shall never take her for granted again, even in our cloudiest days and darkest nights, in which we may have spoken but a few whispered nothings for some time, I shall remain forever and truly, hers.

[undertheorangetree]

Tantrum

Summary- Art’s girlfriend sucks at tennis. He helps her feel better.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Stanford era Art. Exhibitionism. Body worship. Cunnilingus. Wee bit of fingering. P in V sex. Riding. The fluffiest giggliest sex you've ever seen. Me not knowing a damn thing about tennis.

Author's Note- Hi idk if you noticed but i have Challengers brain rot rn specifically for Art Donaldson :// As a theatre kid I simply had no choice it was always gonna be him. Read the full fic on AO3.

When Art had looked up at her with big pleading eyes, all but begging her to allow him to teach her the basics of tennis, she was in no position to refuse. It had been sweet, how badly he wanted to share his passion with her, the kisses he had peppered across her neck and chest in order to entice her into it, and she couldn’t so much as imagine denying him. Forget the fact that she had never held a racket in her life, that her strengths had always been rooted in academia rather than athletics.  If allowing him to teach her would make him happy, she would do it.

Though not without complaint.

She lets out a frustrated grunt as the ball hits the net- again- before turning her head up to glare at Art when he barely manages to stifle his laugh. He smothers it immediately when he catches sight of her glower, hand coming up to rub at his mouth as if he can physically wipe away his smile and she feels her teeth grind together.

“You can’t laugh. You’re the one who wanted me to do this so you’re not allowed to make fun of me,” she complains, her voice half petulance half hurt and immediately his face morphs into something more apologetic.

“I’m sorry baby.” He makes his way closer but she simply rolls her eyes, turning her nose up when he reaches out to her. He takes it in stride. “I’m not laughing at you, you’re doing very well. It’s just funny to see you so frustrated.”

It’s her turn to laugh, though it is little more than a humourless bark. “I am not doing very well. I suck.”

He makes a sympathetic noise as he attempts to reach for her again. She allows it begrudgingly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes as his hands close around her elbows, face dropping into her neck to press a kiss there. She thinks that he’s about to praise her further, try to coax her back into committing herself to the game, but he stays silent, continuing to lavish her with silent kisses.

She’s happy for the odd hour they decided to come here, the tennis court completely devoid of any other life. It’s a colder night than it should be for mid spring, the floodlights and moon the only two things to provide them with any light, and she’s grateful finals have chased everyone else away. She’s glad to have this time alone with him, despite her frustration. To feel like they are the only two people in the world.

“You’re just hitting the ball too hard,” he explains, face still half buried in her throat. “And you aren’t even attempting to aim. Putting everything you have behind the hit doesn’t make it a good one if you don’t know where you’re sending it. There’s more to tennis than just force, you have to be smart about it.”

She scoffs, reaching up to press her palm against his forehead and shove him away, ignoring the shit eating grin that’s made itself known on his face. “Just go over there and hit the damn ball. Before I leave you here by yourself.”

The grin doesn’t fade, his amusement more than clear, but he does as she asks, returning to his side of the court. She lets out another aggravated sigh as she returns to the position he had told her to wait in, knees bent as she waits for him to serve, realizing more and more that she prefers to watch him play tennis rather than do it with him. She finds far more joy watching him from the stands as he chases after the ball, sweat dripping from his curls and grunts echoing in her ears. Here, where she is the one chasing the ball like a damn dog and failing to send it sailing over the net when she does manage to catch it, there is no time to admire Art in his element.

She almost feels bad for her poor attitude, wishing she was less competitive so that she could simply enjoy this quality time with him, but every failure does nothing but enrage her further, sending her spiralling further into frustration.

Read the rest here :)

[1mlei]

Dead on Main Soulmate AU [Part 2]

In this AU everyone is born with a tiny red heart tattooed on the inside of their wrist. If you're close to your soulmate the heart will beat, and when you meet them the heart turns to gold. If your soulmate dies, the heart will fade to black.

First part | Next part | Masterpost

CW: Brief mention of suicidal thoughts, take care everyone!

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Danny is 15 years old when he's informed that he is the crown prince of the Infinite Realms. He would have loved it if someone had had the decency to explain that the title of Ghost King would be passed down through right of conquest sometime before he fought Pariah Dark. If not that, couldn't someone at least have said something a bit sooner?

Now Danny had been faced with the information that he was ghost royalty out of nowhere, and that's just not something he was prepared to deal with on a random Tuesday afternoon.

As Danny paces the length of his bedroom he chooses to ignore Tucker's pointed reminder of "It's a Wednesday."

Instead of responding, he shoots a tiny ecto-blast at where his friend is lounging in the beanbag, which is easily dodged. Not that it would have hit, whenever Danny was aiming at one of his human friends me made sure to channel his dad and aim almost a full foot away from them, just to be safe.

He may be annoyed with Tucker's lack of sympathy about his situation, but he would never purposefully hurt him. Still, a warning shot when Tucker got extra cheeky wouldn't hurt anyone.

The other boy let out an affronted squawk as he dodged the blast, but wisely stayed silent after that.

Danny continued his pacing for another moment, but before he could start his frustrated rambling again Sam spoke up from Danny's bed, she hadn't even looked up from her phone for the whole time Danny had been ranting.

"It's not that big of a deal Danny, the council have been dealing with things just fine up until now, I'm sure they'll handle things until you're ready."

It was true, he knew that the council would continue to run the realms, and allow Danny to ease into the role.

The thing was, he was hoping that "ready" would mean he was at least of legal age. But no, ghosts saw time and age differently of course, they were satisfied as long as he was at least sixteen. Which he would turn in a few months.

In a desperate attempt to postpone the coronation (because Danny was not ready to become king of an infinite dimension yet, holy shit, he had convinced the council that it would be in their best interest to wait until the summer after Danny turned sixteen.

Danny still had to go to school after all, and the thought of having one measly weekend to be crowned before having to return to the halls of Casper High was not one that excited him.

The council had agreed to wait until summer. Danny wasn't overly happy that he'd still only have two months to adjust, but he'd take what he could get at this point.

He was not looking forward to starting his junior year, to say the least.

As if his looming coronation wasn't enough, now that Danny was aware of his title as crown prince, he suddenly had a bunch of new responsibilities. Supposedly, it was to prepare him for being king. Danny found it tedious at best, but he hadn't found a way to get out of it so far.

Luckily, as long as no ghost caused too much trouble Danny didn't have much to worry about.

----------

A ghost was causing too much trouble, enough that Danny got called in to deal with it.

At first he'd been salty that he had to ditch Sam and Tucker last minute for some stupid job that surely someone else could do. But once he heard what the job was, he was for once glad that he was dealing with it himself.

The situation was delicate, and Danny wouldn't trust a lot of ghost to handle it carefully enough.

An annoying ghost whose name Danny hadn't bothered to fully remember (Wi.. Fin.. Vin..ca.. something or other, not important) had decided to head to the human realm to take revenge for their death.

Now, if Danny tried to stop every ghost that ever tried to avenge their own death he'd never get to rest. A ghost's death was such a personal matter too, Danny didn't feel like he had any right to step in and say what's right or wrong for them to do.

So, in nearly all cases he stayed out of it. A lot of ghosts were happy to avenge their deaths in non-violent ways. Some time spent haunting their murderer, scaring them shitless, and most ghosts were satisfied. Not enough to move on, revenge was rarely enough for that, but enough to exist peacefully in the Realms.

That was all fine in Danny's book, but this particular ghost (Danny mentally dubbed them "Vi" when he failed to remember their full name) had decided that violence was the only answer.

The thing was, they blamed the wrong people. Vi had been a citizen of Gotham when they were alive, and they got caught up in some bad business. That had eventually led to their death.

It wasn't any one person's fault, but Vi blamed the Gotham vigilantes. From what Danny knew, Vi had been running away from said vigilantes, not wanting to be arrested, and had died because they were too focused on avoiding the vigilantes to pay attention to their surroundings.

The details of their death beyond that was not something Danny knew, he had listened to the necessary details from Clockwork before he left, but he didn't like learning exactly how other ghosts died unless they tell him themselves, it felt too personal.

All he needed to know was, the actions of the Gotham vigilantes had indirectly caused Vi's death, so they were on their way to Gotham to take revenge. That was bad, on so many levels.

The absolute last thing Danny needed was The Batman getting interested in ghosts. Danny had done a great job of managing without his or anyone else's help so far, and he really didn't want them poking their noses into his business now.

That was why Danny was speeding towards Gotham City, hoping to get there before Vi managed to track down a vigilante, as he was sure they didn't have any ways to defend themselves against ghosts.

After flying at nearly top speed for half an hour, Danny finally arrived. Not that long if you think about it, but plenty of time for a vengeful ghost to track down their targets.

With no better method, Danny started flying laps around the city, hoping his ghost sense would go off eventually.

His ghost sense remained quiet, but he found something better.

Batman himself, was right there fighting off a group of thugs. It was a small group of people for a skilled fighter like Batman to take on, he didn't really need backup. Which probably meant, the bird was somewhere nearby..

And yup! Standing on a rooftop close by keeping lookout was Robin.

This was neat, two vigilantes in the same location, now Danny could just stay here and keep guard until Vi showed themselves.

Danny hovered over Batman's fight invisibly, realizing how lucky he was that the man was unaware of his existence, and had no access to ecto-powered weapons. Danny shivered just at the thought.

Now that he was thinking about it, Batman was surrounded by a lot of people. A lot of them were probably innocent people, pulled into this business by a lack of better opportunities. Just like Vi.

And if Vi was here only for revenge, surely they wouldn't risk other people suffering the same fate as them. If they attacked Batman now, any one of the thugs could get caught in the crossfire.

Would Vi just wait it out until Batman was alone? It didn't make a lot of sense. Surely they would act soon, but Batman was surrounded, and Robin was.. Robin was alone!

Danny turned around in a panic as a cold shiver ran through his body.

Shit

He shot off towards Robin at high speed. Now that he had sensed them he could tell where they were (two seconds) Vi was heading right for Robin, their claws out and ready to strike (one second), they were just about to make contact, barely an inch away from Robin, when Danny crashed into them, phasing them both harmlessly through the vigilante and flying them far, far away in the blink of an eye. His heart was drumming so hard in his chest, (he could feel it all the way through his arms, wow) he didn't realize his heart could beat that hard in ghost form, he assumed his core would take over.

Maybe it was just testament to how stressed out Danny was.

That had been too close.

He had barely a moment to rest, as Vi broke out of his hold angrily.

"Foolish boy, do not get in the way of my revenge again."

Vi tried to fly away to try again, but Danny formed an ecto-barrier around them to keep them put.

"Not gonna happen, you're targeting two innocent people."

Vi hissed at him with frustration,

"You know not what you speak of, fool. Those killers parading around as heroes caused my unfair demise, and I shall have reve-"

At that point Danny decided he'd heard enough, it was a school night and he had to get going, so he grabbed the thermos from his belt and sucked Vi into it mid-spiel. He'd heard that same speech enough times to know how it goes.

Robin still alive, Batman unaware of ghosts existing, Crisis averted, and Danny would still make it home with enough time to get a half-decent nights sleep. Things were looking up.

---------

Jason is 14 years old. It's been a year since his soulmate died.

He's gotten good at pretending it doesn't affect him anymore. After that first night where Jason let himself properly cry in Alfred's arms, neither of them had spoken about the matter again. Alfred made it a point to treat Jason exactly the same as before, knowing that if he were to act extra careful as to not upset the boy it would have the opposite effect.

Alfred was great like that, always noticing and remembering things but knowing when not to bring them up.

He pretended not to notice that Jason never wore short sleeved shirts anymore.

When he found Jason huddled away in the library he pretended not to notice how many more romance novels the boy was reading compared to before.

During the darkest nights, when Jason silently wishes he could go join his soulmate wherever they had ended up, Alfred was there without fail. He didn't speak of the things he knew Jason was thinking about, whether it was as to not make Jason uncomfortable or because Alfred himself didn't dare say it out loud, he didn't know.

But he was there, every time.

And when Jason realized it had been a full year since his soulmate died, Alfred was there as a silent support, just a moment away should Jason need him yet never intruding.

If Bruce notices that anything has happened to Jason, he hasn't bothered to ask about it yet. Jason isn't sure if he prefers it that way or not.

On one hand, he doesn't like the idea of Bruce butting into his personal business, the man had never been great with emotions.

But the realization that his father-figure didn't even know what he was going through had Jason wanting to burst into Bruce's study and tell him everything, if even just to get a reaction out of him.

It had been a year, but so far he hadn't said anything.

--------

When Jason is out on the streets of Gotham, the mask of Robin is always a nice barrier to hide behind. He'll lock his emotions up tight in the back of his mind and cover them up with the veil of an unbothered vigilante who had far better things to worry about.

This night he's standing on a rooftop, keeping a lookout as Bruce deals with a group of thugs. The group was small enough that Bruce would have no trouble at all dealing with them, and Jason's time would be better spent keeping an eye out for anyone trying to slink away unnoticed by the bat.

It had been an uneventful few minutes, watching Bruce dispose of the thugs as all of them kept rushing him, not a single one having the bright idea that whatever payout they were promised wasn't worth sticking around anymore.

Then, Jason felt a shiver run up his spine. He felt like he was being watched. It was a foreboding feeling, like something was going to jump at him any moment.

He spun around, quickly assessing his surroundings, but he found nothing out of place.

The feeling did not go away though, only growing more insistent.

And then in the blink of an eye, a gust of wind picks up around Jason as the feeling of danger flares, and Jason is sure he is about to die right there.

In the next second, the wind turns cold, and Jason could swear he saw his breath fog in front of him for a moment. Yet he doesn't feel even the slightest bit frozen.

The cold passes through him impossibly fast, and with it the feeling of danger vanishes, and so between one blink and another Jason is left standing there dumbfounded at what just happened.

He hadn't imagined it, that feeling of danger was nothing concrete but it had been clear as day in Jason's mind.

The wind was definitely real too, he'd felt it rustle his hair as it passed by.

And the biggest piece of evidence he wasn't going crazy, was the small piece of frost on the ground around Jason's feet. He took a step away from it experimentally, and it quickly faded. But it had been there.

The biggest mystery of the night though, the part of this whole thing that shook Jason to his core, was his wrist.

He raised his wrist and pulled back his glove to check, because there was no way he was actually feeling what he thought he was.

But right there, the tiny black heart that was stuck to his wrist as a permanent reminder of what he could have had, was carefully beating in an excruciatingly slow rhythm. Slow, faint, but real.

Jason lost track of time as he stood there, just watching the heart on his wrist beating slower and slower, until it stopped and refused to move again.

For the first time in a year, Jason feels a dangerous sliver of hope sneak it's way into his heart.

It can't be.

But there was no other explanation.

Jason had been in danger, but some unknown force, one that brought an overwhelming feeling of safe with it had saved him.

And his tattoo was telling him his soulmate had been there.

Jason couldn't think of a better explanation than that the one who saved him was a spirit, or ghost of some kind. It sounded ridiculous.

He looks back at his wrist, gently stroking his fingers over the tattoo as the considers it.

It seemed like a ghost saved him.

His soulmate had been there.

His soulmate who was dead.

Jason felt silly for entertaining the thought, but he couldn't help but want to believe it. That tonight he had been about to die, and the spirit of his soulmate had protected him.

He took that realization and stored it away with the rest of his emotions. He didn't know how to feel about it.

He knew, that for the past year his grief had made him consider some terrible things. But how could he possibly want to go join his soulmate now, when they'd done the impossible and appeared next to him for even just a moment, to save his life.

Jason decided then, that no matter what happened, he was going to live. The sadness may never fully go away, by he would live the life he had been given, and his soulmate would simply have to wait until Jason was ready to join them.

With a lighter conscience than he's had in a year, Jason grapples away from the roof and heads back home, a tiny hint of a smile on his face.

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First part | Next part | Masterpost

Tags: @craftyexpertchild

Thank you for reading <3

[endless-ineffabilities]

The Bolter (part nine) (18+)

Steve Rogers x f!reader / Bucky Barnes x f!reader

synopsis : Steve carries out his decision to return to Peggy, aiming to live out the rest of his days with her. But this means he's leaving everything behind - he's leaving you. Did he make the right choice? Will there be anything left with you to come back to?

in this chapter : Sam, Bucky, and you head to Madripoor with an unlikely ally. Steve says goodbye to Peggy, then travels in time to where he truly belongs.

themes/warnings : language, even more pining, even more smut!, Zemo being Zemo, Sharon cutting through our bullshit

word count : 5.8k

main masterlist ▪︎ series masterlist

━━━━━━☆━━━━━━

The 1950s, seven months after Steve’s arrival

Steve sits by the window, watching the fading sunlight pour into the room. For the first time in months, he feels calm—an eerie, unnatural calm, like the eye of a storm. He has come to accept the truth, bitter as might be: this was never his home, and soon, it won’t exist at all.

Mobius had warned him. When he goes back to his timeline, it will be as if none of this ever happened. This branch, this brief stolen life with Peggy, will be pruned. She will never know what they had here. Steve will fade from this time, and she will move on, be with the man she was always meant to be with, and have the children she was destined to have. She will live the life she was always supposed to.

But he will remember everything. He will carry the ache of knowing that none of this was ever really his to keep. 

And deep down, Steve knows it’s the right choice. His normal, whatever semblance of it he can grasp, is always going to be with you. It has always been you with whom he belonged. With his friends. With Bucky. 

His very being is meant for the picket line and not a picket fence.

“Are you ready?” Peggy’s voice breaks the silence, and Steve turns to find her standing in the doorway, looking at him with those sharp, knowing eyes. She has accepted it, just as he has. There’s no anger, no confusion. They’ve had too many talks in the past week about this—about how something always felt off for both of them, like an invisible weight pressing against their happiness. 

“I am,” Steve answers. 

“It didn’t feel right, did it?” she says quietly. 

“No… it didn’t.” He hesitates, the truth weighing heavy. “But I think I know why.”

She steps closer, her hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You don’t belong here, Steve,” she says gently, her voice unwavering. “You belong with them. You belong with the one who truly holds your heart.”

When he lifts his eyes, there’s something new in them. Certainty. “Yeah. I do. But I’m glad we had this. Even if it was never meant to last.”

Peggy’s smile is bittersweet as he presses her hand to his lips. “Me too.” 

Steve nods, his throat tight as he steps away. Hunter pads over, his loyal companion waiting patiently by the door. Mobius and Loki wait in the other room, the quiet harbingers of the life he’s meant to return to.

“Goodbye, Peggy,” he says, for one final time. 

“Goodbye, Steve,” Peggy says, her voice filled with quiet grace. “Go get your girl.”

A shiver runs down his spine. You had said the exact same words when he left you. But it didn’t stick, because he was too stupid to realise that you had always been his girl. He can picture it so well, picture you, and the thought of seeing you again soon inspires an overwhelming happiness in him.

“Ready?” Mobius asks, his usual lighthearted demeanour replaced by something more solemn.

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly. “I’m ready.”

Loki taps the device, and with a flash, Steve’s world shifts.

And just like that, he’s on his way home.

2024, seven months after Steve’s departure

Your first encounter with the Flag Smashers did not go as expected. Or maybe it did. Fighting a bunch of serum-powered radicals – kids, practically – on top of cargo trucks moving at high speed was perhaps the likeliest outcome of this whole thing. After everything you’ve been through, in your decade and a half as the Huntress and all your run-ins with the Big 3, this is just another afternoon, just another mission.

Except the appearance of John Walker threw you in for a loop. Captain America, he calls himself, but there is no chance of you ever addressing him by that name, and you know the same goes for Bucky. John isn’t even carrying the right shield, the only shield, the one Steve brought with him. All he dons is a replica, much like he himself is one. 

Seeing that red, white, and blue paraded around almost made you forget about the kiss you shared with Bucky before the fight. Almost.

But you feel its undercurrent in every moment, you catch glimpses of it when you close your eyes, you feel him… and you know he does too.

The three of you made your way back to New York, recuperating in your apartment, and planning the next move, but what Bucky proposes seems the farthest from sensible.

“Zemo?” Sam stops mid-step. “Tell me you’re joking.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “He knows about the serum. More than anyone alive.”

“Yeah, and he’s also the guy who tried to tear the Avengers apart,” Sam counters. His voice is rising, filled with disbelief. “You want to break out a criminal mastermind? For what, a history lesson?”

“I’m not saying I like it,” Bucky says. “But if these Flag Smashers have the serum, then he’s our best chance at understanding what we’re up against.”

You can see Sam’s shoulders stiffen, his eyes wide with incredulity. You, though—your gut reaction is different. Zemo is dangerous, but your concern isn't for yourself or Sam. It’s for Bucky.

You meet his gaze. “Bucky… do you really think you can handle him? Zemo’s not exactly a small problem.”

He looks at you, something quiet and intense behind his eyes. “I can handle it,” he replies. “I have to.”

There’s a finality to his words, but they don’t ease the knot forming in your chest. Sam throws up his hands. “This is madness! I’m just supposed to be okay with busting a guy out of maximum security prison? You people are crazy.”

A moment of silence passes before you let out a resigned breath. “We don’t have much of a choice, Sam. If Bucky thinks this is the way forward, I trust him.”

Sam glares at both of you, then mutters under his breath, “You two have been spending way too much time together.”

The Berlin Correctional Facility is colder than you expected—both literally and figuratively. 

Sam checks his watch, then gives Bucky a sideways glance. “You know, this is the part where I remind you again that this is a bad idea.”

Bucky shrugs, his expression unreadable. “Noted.”

Sam sighs. “I just want it on record that I’m the voice of reason here.”

You smirk, leaning against the wall. “Come on, Sam. What’s life without a little danger?”

“You don’t get to say that when we’re about to break a supervillain out of prison,” Sam deadpans.

The plan, despite its insanity, goes off without a hitch. The guards are neutralized with minimal force, and the security systems go offline like clockwork. You hack into the mainframe to open Zemo’s cell, and when the door finally slides open, you see him—Helmut Zemo, calm and collected, standing there as though he’s been waiting for you all along.

He steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, like a cat stalking prey. “I must say, I didn’t expect visitors.”

You glare at him, your hackles rising instantly. “Let’s get one thing clear. This is a means to an end. One wrong move, and you go back in.”

Zemo’s lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of causing any trouble.”

You don’t believe him for a second.

Zemo’s private jet is the epitome of luxury—plush seats, dim lighting, the hum of the engines barely audible. Chump change compared to what Tony used to travel in, but still. It’s surreal, sitting in this polished environment, knowing you’re en route to one of the most dangerous cities in the world with one of the most dangerous men in the world.

You’re seated across the aisle from Bucky. His body is tense, his fingers twitching in his lap as if he’s holding himself back from something. You wish there was something you could say to ease the weight he’s carrying, but you know better than to push him. Not now. Not with Zemo sitting across from you, watching everything with sharp, calculating eyes.

Zemo leans back in his seat, looking far too relaxed for your liking. “I must say, I’ve always had a fondness for Madripoor. It’s a city of endless possibility, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sam glances up from across the aisle, his expression unimpressed. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s paradise for a guy like you.”

Zemo smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “It’s a place where the lines between good and evil blur. A place where one can truly be free.”

Your grip tightens on the armrest, and you glance at Bucky. His face is turned toward the window, his jaw tight, eyes dark. You lean closer, keeping your voice low. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, but you can hear the lie in his voice.

You open your mouth to press further, but Zemo speaks up again, cutting through the tension. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? The way history repeats itself.”

You glare at him, your protective instinct flaring. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zemo’s eyes flicker between you and Bucky, his gaze too knowing for comfort. “It’s just... curious. The way you watch him. The way you stand between us.”

You feel a surge of anger rise in your chest, but you hold it back, keeping your tone steady. “You’re not part of this conversation.”

Zemo chuckles, leaning back. “No need to be defensive. I’m merely an observer. But I must say, the loyalty you show to him... it’s quite touching.”

Bucky shifts beside you, his hand balling into a fist. You place your hand on his arm, silently communicating that Zemo isn’t worth it. 

You warn lowly, “Don’t push it, Zemo.”

Madripoor is a city of lights and shadows, the streets buzzing with a kind of energy that makes your skin crawl. Zemo leads the way, his steps confident as he navigates the underworld with ease. He fits right in, and so do you. You’re not unfamiliar with the city yourself, with many of your contacts residing here. Sam picks at his flashy fur coat, having to wear the guise of the Smiling Tiger, and you have to bite back a laugh.

What you hate is Bucky’s role in this. Zemo insisted that Bucky act the part of the Winter Soldier again, and seeing him slip into that persona makes your stomach turn. You’ve fought so hard to help him leave that part of himself behind, and now he’s being forced to wear it like a mask.

You stick close to Bucky, your eyes constantly scanning the crowd for threats. Your hand brushes his occasionally, a silent reassurance. He doesn’t speak, but you can see the conflict in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches every time someone looks at him like he’s a weapon.

Zemo’s voice cuts through the noise. “Ah, here we are. The Brass Monkey Saloon. You’ll need to put on a show, Soldier.”

Your heart twists at the cold way Zemo refers to him. Soldier. Like Bucky’s nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. You step forward, putting yourself between them.

“Watch yourself,” you snap, your voice low and dangerous. 

Zemo raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by your protectiveness. “Of course. I merely meant that appearances must be kept."

The atmosphere inside the Brass Monkey Saloon is thick with tension. Zemo’s plan, of course, involves a show of force. Bucky takes on the role, fists flying, and you stand helplessly on the sidelines, watching as he dismantles anyone who stands in your way. You can see the fear in the faces of the crowd, the whispers of “Winter Soldier” passing between them.

When the chaos finally subsides, Zemo steps forward, calm and collected. “Very convincing, James,” he says, clapping Bucky on the shoulder.

You can’t help yourself. “Don’t touch him.”

Zemo leads the way to Selby’s hideout, the plan already set. You, Bucky, and Sam follow close behind, nerves taut. You can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you, recognizing not just the Winter Soldier, but the Huntress.

Inside Selby’s lair, things unravel faster than you can react. The exchange was supposed to be smooth—get the information on the serum, figure out who’s behind the Flag Smashers. But Selby, sly and dangerous, catches on too quickly. The words turn heated, tension thick in the air. When the situation escalates, a gunshot rings out, and Selby collapses to the floor.

Everything goes to hell. 

Selby’s guards surge forward, the entire operation blown to pieces. You don’t even have time to think before the room erupts into chaos, bullets tearing through the air. 

Bucky grabs your arm, pulling you toward the exit. “We need to move!”

The narrow alleyways of Madripoor are a maze, and no matter how fast you run, the sound of pursuit is never far behind. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline surging as you push forward, leading the way through the twisting streets.

“I can’t run in these heels!” Sam yells, his voice tight with effort as he ducks behind cover.

The sound of gunfire grows louder, and just when it seems like you’re cornered, Sharon Carter appears from the shadows, her expression all business. 

“You guys really know how to make an entrance.”

The tension in Sharon Carter’s loft is thick enough to choke on. You can’t deny the relief that floods through you at her arrival—she’s saved you from the brink more than once—but the comfort quickly dissolves the second she opens her mouth. Sharon’s never been one to coddle, and it’s clear she’s ready to let you know exactly what she thinks about this whole situation.

Her apartment reflects her new life in Madripoor: sleek, stylish, and modern, with a hint of danger lurking beneath the surface. The large windows offer a panoramic view of the chaotic city below, bathed in the neon glow of a world where morality has always been in short supply. You’re reminded of who Sharon has become—the Power Broker, controlling Madripoor’s criminal underworld from behind the scenes. And yet, she’s still the woman you fought beside, the woman you trusted implicitly. Your friend. 

“You’ve made a mess of Madripoor,” Sharon says, leaning casually against the bar, one eyebrow raised as she surveys the room. Her eyes flick between you, Bucky, Sam, and Zemo, her smirk cutting. She takes a slow sip from her glass, her posture relaxed. “You’re lucky I showed up when I did.”

“Yeah, we didn’t exactly have time to send out a save-the-date,” Sam mutters, his voice dripping with sarcasm, though you can tell he’s thankful. Sharon’s saved you all from a sticky situation—again.

Her gaze shifts to you, and that smirk widens, a playful but knowing glint in her eyes. “Still running around with these boys, huh? After everything?”

There’s an edge to her words, something that cuts deeper than you expected. Sharon’s always had a way of seeing through you, right to the heart of things. But this time, her words carry an extra weight. You know what’s coming before she even says it, but it still feels like a punch to the gut when she does.

Her eyes dart to Bucky, who’s standing tense and silent beside you, his shoulders tight. Then, they come back to you, her lips curling slightly. “You and Steve were… close. And now, here you are, keeping Bucky in check.” She pauses just long enough to make it sting. “Seems like you’ve got a type.”

Your stomach twists, and you catch the slight flicker of movement from Bucky, the way his fists clench at his sides. His face remains stoic, but you know him well enough to see the storm brewing underneath. Sharon’s words have struck a nerve. 

“What?” you say, keeping your voice even, though there’s a sharpness to it. Your heart races, and you try to keep the emotion out of your voice.

"Wow," Bucky mutters dryly, "she's kind of awful now."

Sharon shrugs, feigning casualness, but her eyes gleam with amusement at you. “It’s just… interesting. You and Cap. And now Cap’s best friend. Two men who can’t escape their own shadows. You seem to have a thing for complicated.”

You bite back your immediate retort, but before you can respond, Zemo—because of course he has to chime in—speaks up, lounging against the wall with that smug, knowing look that makes you want to punch him. “Ah, the familiar,” he says, voice silky. “It’s natural to seek comfort in something... predictable. But I wonder, how much of this is about James, and how much is simply because he reminds you of your precious Captain Rogers?”

You feel the room go cold, and the weight of Zemo’s words settles like a stone in your chest. The air around Bucky shifts, his calm demeanour fracturing just enough for you to see the tension rippling beneath. His posture stiffens even more, his jaw tight, but he doesn’t speak. The silence is worse than anything he could say.

“Leave him out of this,” you snap, your voice barely above a whisper, but the threat is clear. Zemo’s eyes gleam, dark and dangerous, but he raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Of course,” Zemo says, his smile widening. “But… leave who out of it? Which one?”

Sharon watches you closely, her smirk fading slightly as she steps closer. For the first time since she spoke, her gaze softens. She knows you—really knows you. The unspoken history between you feels heavy in the air. She tilts her head, studying you with a sharpness that you’ve come to expect from her.

“Can I have a word?” Sharon asks, her voice quieter now, almost gentle.

You nod, barely noticing the others as Sharon gestures for you to follow her into a more private corner of the apartment, away from the tense stares of Bucky and Zemo. Once you’re out of earshot, Sharon leans against the wall, crossing her arms. The playful glint is still in her eyes, but there’s a seriousness there too.

“You know I don’t mean to be harsh,” she says, her voice quieter, more personal. “But you and I... we’ve always been able to call it like it is.”

You exhale, your shoulders sagging slightly. “Yeah, well, some things are harder to call than others.”

Sharon watches you for a long moment, her gaze searching your face. “It’s been a long time since Steve left. I get it. I do. But you and Bucky...” She trails off, her eyes flicking back toward him. “You’re not fooling anyone. Least of all me.”

You swallow, unsure how to respond. You’ve spent so long trying to navigate your own emotions, keeping them at bay. But here, it feels impossible to ignore any longer.

Sharon takes a step closer, her expression softening. “He’s not Steve. And I know you know that. But Bucky—he’s been through hell too. And I see the way you look at him. The way he looks at you.”

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, you can’t speak. Sharon does have a way of cutting through the bullshit, of seeing things for what they really are. 

“I’m not—” you start, but Sharon cuts you off with a small, knowing smile.

“I’m not saying it’s the same as what you had with Steve,” she says. “But maybe that’s a good thing. Bucky’s different. And maybe that’s what you need.”

You glance back toward Bucky, who’s still standing with his back to you, his shoulders tense, his hands curled into fists at his sides. You can feel the weight of his emotions, the way Zemo’s and Sharon’s comments have hit him harder than he’s letting on. You want to go to him, to tell him it’s okay. That he doesn’t have to be Steve. That you don’t want him to be.

But there’s a part of you that’s still tangled up in the past—in Steve’s shadow.

Sharon places a hand on your arm, pulling your attention back to her. “Listen,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “Whatever this is with Bucky... don’t let it slip away because you’re still holding onto something that’s gone. Steve’s not coming back. But you’ve still got a chance—with him.”

You take a deep breath, nodding slightly, but the knot in your chest doesn’t loosen. Sharon squeezes your arm, offering a small smile before she steps back, her smirk returning as she glances toward the others.

“All right,” she says, her voice louder now, more playful. “Enough emotional introspection for one night. Let’s figure out how to get you out of Madripoor before you make an even bigger mess.”

Zemo, lounging against the wall with a glass in his hand, raises an eyebrow as you sit down beside Bucky. He doesn’t say anything, but his smirk is enough to get under your skin. It’s like he can feel the emotional turbulence swirling around you.

Sharon saunters back into the room, her heels clicking against the polished floor, a confident ease in her step. “Well, now that we’ve aired out some of that dirty laundry, maybe we can focus on the job at hand?”

Sam, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet through all of this, gives Sharon a look. “Yeah, and maybe we can talk about why you didn’t feel the need to mention how deep you are in Madripoor’s criminal scene, huh?”

Sharon doesn’t miss a beat, throwing him a cocky grin. “I’m an opportunist, Sam. Madripoor offers a lot of opportunities.”

Sam mutters something under his breath, clearly not satisfied with that answer, but it’s clear Sharon has no intention of explaining herself further. And you don’t push her on it either, even though you’re the only one here who knows exactly what her role is in this city. You’ve never questioned her decisions before—everyone has to survive somehow—but seeing her now, it’s hard not to wonder if she’s lost herself in the shadows.

“I trust you’ll all stay out of trouble until I arrange our next move?” Sharon says, her eyes flicking back to you, a knowing glint in her gaze. It’s subtle, but you can tell she’s still watching you closely, assessing everything—especially your unspoken bond with Bucky.

Before anyone can respond, she turns and walks out of the room.

After escaping the chaos and making it back to Zemo’s safe house in Riga, the adrenaline finally starts to fade. It’s well past midnight when you make your way into your designated bedroom. You drop onto the bed, your heart still racing, trying to calm the storm of emotions churning inside you.

Sleep never comes easy to you—a side effect of your chosen life. One of high stakes and adrenaline. A lot more losses than wins, if any of your successful missions can even be considered wins at all.

After an hour of staring up at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the curves of the rosettes, Bucky enters your room, as noiseless as a cat. You raise your head sharply on instinct, but relax as soon as you see his figure. His shoulders are slumped as if the weight of the world rests upon them. He glances at you, and you can see the struggle etched across his face.

“Can’t sleep?” you ask, sitting up and patting the space beside you on the bed.

He purses his lips, not saying anything for a moment. After a while, and with a resounding sigh, he settles at the foot of the bed, his back to you.

“What you saw back there…” he starts, his voice low. “That wasn’t me. I’m not the Winter Soldier anymore.”

“I know,” you say softly, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder soothingly. “I’ve always known. You’re just Bucky.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to ever lose control,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“You won’t,” you say firmly, shuffling closer to him. “You have me.”

Bucky turns halfway, meeting your gaze. “I want to prove to you that I’m not him,” he says, his voice thick with conviction. 

Your throat suddenly feels dry. You don’t know anymore if he’s referring to the Winter Soldier or Steve. You can tell that Sharon’s comments rattled him. You’re familiar with her humour, so you know that she didn’t mean anything negative by what she said, but Bucky might have easily taken them to heart.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” you whisper. 

His gaze softens, and then he’s leaning in, capturing your lips with his. There is no goddamn way you’re falling asleep now, with the fire he’s igniting within you. You pull him closer, your hands threading through his hair as he deepens the kiss. 

“Are you sure?” you whisper against his lips, breathless. A roll in the hay at the height of a high-risk mission is not beneath you, especially with someone like Bucky. With these things, a heated release of pent-up tension might be just what you need. But you want to be sure that he needs it too. That he needs you. 

He nods, eyes searching yours. “I want this. I want you.”

In one fluid motion, he takes your lips again, this kiss softer, more deliberate. He relishes in you, taking his sweet time, his tongue raking the outline of your lips. You melt against him, feeling the warmth of his body pressing against yours, as well as the cool of his left arm wrapping around your torso. 

“Bucky,” you breathe, breaking the kiss momentarily.

“Just Bucky,” he replies, his voice thick with emotion.

He tugs you against him, the two of you moving in a slow, sensual dance. You feel the weight of everything—the mission, the past, the chaos—slipping away as you lose yourselves in each other. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, as you taste the sweetness of his tongue.

“I want you,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice thick with desire. “I want to show you how much you mean to me.”

You shiver at his words, the sincerity behind them sending a rush of heat coursing through your veins. “Then show me,” you whisper, your heart pounding in your chest.

The world tilts slightly as he lays you back against the soft sheets. He hovers above you, his expression a mix of desire and reverence, as if he’s afraid to touch something so precious.

“You’re so beautiful, doll,” he breathes, his gaze travelling over you as if memorising every detail, and you suddenly forget how to speak. 

You’ve never considered yourself meek by any means, always able to stand your ground. The last time you’ve actually felt shy, and felt blood rush to your face at the attention of an admirer was with….

You shake Steve out of your thoughts.

“It’s just me,” you say, mirroring his earlier words.

His lips curve into a soft smile, and you can see the flicker of warmth behind the shadows that often cloud his expression. “Just you is everything,” he replies, his voice dropping to a whisper.

His hands slide under your shirt, fingers brushing against your skin, igniting every nerve ending. The sensation is overwhelming, and you gasp against his mouth, the heat pooling low in your belly.

“So perfect,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your neck, kissing a path along your collarbone. Each soft touch leaves a trail of fire, and you can’t help but arch into him, your body instinctively seeking more.

“Bucky,” you gasp, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if you can fuse your bodies into one. “Please.”

His response is immediate. He pushes your shirt up, baring your torso to him, and you feel exposed yet completely alive under his gaze. Then he leans down to press soft kisses along your midriff. The sensation is electric, maddening even, as he drifts ever lower. 

Bucky lifts his head, meeting your gaze with a burning intensity. “Let’s make this moment last,” he murmurs, his eyes darkening with desire as he shifts his weight, settling between your legs. His hands find the hem of your pants, his fingers grazing your skin as he slowly pushes them down your legs, along with your underwear, revealing you completely to him.

“Bucky,” you moan, when he kisses a trail along your inner thigh. “Patience, doll,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine. You watch him as he continues his exploration, his kisses drifting higher until he reaches your core, and the breath hitches in your throat when he sucks at your aching bud.

The heat builds, swirling around you as he loses himself in you, the world outside fading away completely. You can feel the tension tightening in your belly, a delicious coil that threatens to snap.

“I’m getting close,” you breathe after a long while, the words almost lost amidst a long bout of incoherent moaning. You reach down and roughly push his face into your pussy, wantonly craving more as his tongue laps at your juices. 

Bucky responds with a growl, his hands gripping your hips as he pushes you closer to the edge. “Let go,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with desire. “I’ve got you.”

With those words, you explode, pleasure crashing over you in waves as you cry out his name. He holds you tightly, a steady anchor as you ride the waves of ecstasy, feeling more alive than ever.

As the pleasure subsides, you gasp for breath, your heart racing as you come down from the high. “You okay?” Bucky asks, hovering over you and brushing a stray hair from your face.

You nod, your body still buzzing from the aftermath. “Better than okay,” you reply, a smile creeping across your lips.

He chuckles, the sound resonating deep within his chest, a rich, warm sound that makes your heart swell. For all his worries about falling back into the darkness, you find that he is slowly becoming your source of light. 

“I want you to know,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, “that was only the beginning.”

“Oh really?” you tease, raising an eyebrow, letting your fingers trace along the contours of his vibranium arm.

“Yeah, babydoll,” He grins wolfishly, and you’re glad to see this playful side of him resurfacing. 

You roll on your side, pressing a playful kiss to his lips. “Well, I’m all for that.”

He undresses in a haste, his motions careless and frantic that his black shirt gets stuck around his head, earning a giggle from you. His groans are muffled when he protests, “It’s not funny.”

You reach up to help him out of it. “It’s kinda funny.”

When he’s finally free of the confines of cotton, his hair is all mussed. He looks downright adorable that you could just melt at the sight. But then he frees himself of his trousers too, his thick cock bobbing erect from his boxers, the vein running down its side angry and swollen. 

He’s not just adorable; he’s sensual, virile, erotic.

And you want him so fucking badly.

But he beats you to that admission. “You drive me crazy,” he rasps, his hands massaging your sides. “In the best way possible.”

“I could say the same about you.” There’s a teasing glint in your eyes as you lean back slightly, letting your fingers wander down his chest, tracing the solid lines of his body, each muscle taut and inviting. He groans softly at your touch, his head dropping slightly as his control wavers. 

He positions himself just right, teasing at first, his breath ragged as he enters you slowly, inch by inch. The stretch is exquisite, your body tightening around him as a disjointed gasp escapes your lips. His jaw clenches, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as he savours the sensation.

“You feel so good, doll,” he groans, his voice hoarse with restraint. There’s a primal hunger in the way he looks at you—like he’s claiming you, and that realisation ignites something deep within you.

You meet his thrusts, your hands gripping his back, nails biting into his skin as he starts to move. His rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, as though he’s drawing out every moment of pleasure, letting it pool deep inside you. Each thrust pushes deeper, more intense, as he slams his pelvis into you.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice dripping with possessiveness, his lips brushing against your neck before he bites down softly, enough to make you moan his name.

“Fffuck, yes, Bucky—”

“You’re so tight,” he gasps, his voice thick with need as he watches your reactions, the way your body responds to him. “God, you feel incredible.”

Before you can respond, he shifts his angle, driving into you harder, deeper. Your knees are pressed together, pointed to one side as he lifts your hips slightly. Every time he ruts into you, he hits that fleshy, sweet spot in your cunt. 

“Yes, Buck!” you gasp. “Just like that.”

“Look at me,” he demands, his voice barely above a growl. “I want you to remember this every time you think of him.” His words are punctuated with a dangerous tinge that almost makes them sound like a threat. A warning. 

“Want you to fall apart around me, doll. Go on. Cum on me,” he commands. His movements grow frenzied, his body shaking with intense pleasure as he drives his cock mercilessly into your core.

You practically scream out hoarsely, the sound mingling with his as he follows you into bliss, his hot seed filling you completely.

Bucky collapses beside you, panting, and you turn to face him, a blissful smile breaking across your lips.

“That was fucking incredible,” you whisper. 

He catches his breath, his fingers trailing along your cheek, his gaze softening. “You have no idea how much I needed that,” he admits. 

“I can kind of tell,” you tease lightly. 

He smiles, a wicked glint in his eyes as he leans in, brushing his lips against yours again. “You’re amazing.”

You smile back, despite the pang of wistfulness in your heart. Because even as his memory lingers, you can feel yourself falling deeper for Bucky. 

“Thank you,” you say sincerely, “So are you, Buck.” You take a breath, the words caught in your throat, as you desperately attempt to address whatever it is that needs to be addressed, but he sees the turmoil in your eyes, and gently cradles your face with one hand.

“I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t know…” you mumble. 

“Hey,” he says, offering a soft smile, “it’s okay, it’s okay.” You feel hopeless—it should be you consoling him. About whatever this is, and how the memory of Steve continues to complicate everything. Perhaps it always will. But here he is, carrying that burden for the both of you.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, a gesture carrying nothing but tenderness. 

Maybe even love.

“I’m with you, doll,” he promises. “Until the end of the line.”

taglist (let me know in the comments if you wish to be added!) : @vicmc624 @littleliyah16 @babezawa @klammykayla @justsebstan @blue--ingenue @numblytemporary @bradshawass @delicious-xx @mrsevans90 @heartarianagran @tinystarfishgalaxy @mochibochinochi @spngingerbread21 @zbeez-outlet @rena15 @raging-panda @marveldaydreamer @integers @imthebadguyyy @iidear @blackhawkfanatic @smhnxdiii @nommingonfood @loki-laufeyson68 @queenofshinigamis @samkickikc @utterlyhopeful-fics @mthealy @angelbabyyy99 @rabbitrabbit12321 @cloudroomblog @haruvalentine4321 @pommblog @yujyujj @thetorturedbuckydepartment @sanoorie1 @cjand10 @micasaessakusa @croftyspock90 @froobaloob @mavrellover91 @dexter99 @barnes70stark @ordelixx @radiantdanvers @chaotic-wanda @mrsnikstan @otterlycanadian @baw1066 (continued in comments...)

Some notes in the margins:

I'm kinda rushing through the events of tfatws, but I want to reach a certain point in time for Steve to make his entrance!

Writing this made me really, really feel for Bucky. My allegiance sways every week. I don't know what to do 😫🥲

oh, and the header images have been updated to include our Buck! As always, I am keen to know what yous think about this chapter 💙💙💙

[nena-la-fresa]

can i ask u a Josh Washigton x reader request? I would love to read an scenario were its the reader's birthday🥹

Keep It Warm

18+ Account | Minors DNI | Do NOT Follow, Like, or Comment | Pls have your age in your bio, if you do not I will automatically block you because I’ll assume you are a minor.

Pairing: Josh Washington x f! Reader

Warning: Fluff | A tiny bit of Angst | Mental Institution Mentioned | Birthday |

Word Count: 685

A/n: Hopefully this is okay. I feel like I can’t make a Josh fic without some sort of angst. Sorry it's super short. I have a lot of class assignments due this week so my focus is on that rn. Off topic but I'm thinking about making a Mr.Robot fic. Im back in my Rami Malek era.

“You are receiving a call from Ocean View Hospital. Would you like to accept?” 

“Yes.”

The line was then connected. 

“Hey sweetheart. How are you?” You could hear his sly look through the phone. 

You leaned against the wall fiddling with the hem of your shirt. 

“I’m good. How about yourself?” You missed hearing his voice. 

“I’m good now.” 

“Oh are you really?” 

“Yeah. I’m just glad I get to hear you talk. It’s a good distraction from all this.” 

“I’m glad I can distract you for a bit.” 

You had been friends with Josh since you both were little. You had always known something was a bit different with him. But it wasn’t until you both started dating that you had fully known the extent of his condition. Josh would wake up during the night screaming, he’d have a hard time recognizing you at times.

“So my birthday’s coming up.”

“It is, isn't it.” 

“Do you think you’ll finally be out by then?”

“I’m not too sure babe. But if I’m doing better by then you'll be the first to know.” 

You felt slightly disappointed but you knew he was in there to get the help he needed. 

That was 3 weeks ago. 

You hadn’t heard from Josh since that last phone call. He hadn’t been returning your letters or phone calls. You had begun to assume the worst. What if he didn’t want to talk to you anymore? Or what if he regressed? What if his meds stopped working. Even when you asked Hannah and Beth they hadn’t been able to contact him either. 

All you could think about was the day you found him. You could still see it. He was passed out on the floor. He was unresponsive for a good minute before you had to throw cold water on him. He was sobbing, saying how he wasn’t good enough for you. Saying that he didn’t deserve you. But those sobs quickly turned to anger, not at you but to whatever was talking around him. He swatted trying to get the voices away from him. But what really did it for him was when he accidentally hit you. The guilt that he felt, he didn’t mean it. He wasn’t aiming for you. He couldn’t even see you with his delusions tormenting him. That was what really made him commit himself. 

Hannah knew how upset you were but she thought it would be a good idea to take you to the cabin for your birthday. You had always said it was your favorite place to go. 

You and Hannah were already making your way to the cable cart, “Didn’t you say Beth was going to meet us here?” 

Hanna turned slightly to you, “Yeah, she got cold and just texted me that she was going to go ahead to the cabin.”

You nodded. After the walking you could finally see the cabin in sight. It was just as beautiful as you remembered it. Hannah held the door open for you as you walked in first. You felt your body jolt from the yelling. 

“Surprise!” Little poppers and kazoos echoed through the room. 

“Aw you guys.” You felt your eyes tear up a bit. From the excitement but also from the disappointment. Out of all the faces there, the one you wanted the most wasn’t there. 

You let out a surprised scream feeling someone picking you up from behind. As soon as you were set back down you saw who it was. 

Until you felt someone pick you up from behind 

It was him. 

“What did you think I forgot?”

You felt the tears run down your face. You nodded slightly.

"Now why would I forget about you."

You hugged him tightly, feeling his arms wrap around you.

“When did they let you out?”

“About three days ago.”

“Why didn't you tell me”

“I wanted to surprise you. I'm sorry”

“No, I'm just so happy. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I promise I won’t miss another one.”

He wiped your tears, “I missed you so much. I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I promise.” 

[magics-neptunes-things]

Ready, Aim, Shoot (2)

Hi guys !

I hope you are fine. I’m still struggling with writer’s block but I tried some things to get over it, so here is my new creation.

It’s a mix from a request I had here, and for asks from the prompt that you can find here and here.

It’s the second part of Ready, Aim, Shoot but I tried to make it understandable even if you didn’t have read the first part.

So please enjoy ♥

TW : Mention of accident, coma, injuries, blood. But it will get better.

Prompt : 22 (I won't anyone lay an hand on you) & 28 (Why are you bleeding?)

PART 1 | PART 3

____________________________________________________________

You never felt as weird as Alexia takes you home from the airport. Barcelona doesn’t have change in any way, it’s still the same streets, the same traffic jam, the same scents, the same laughs and happiness of people. But you, you have changed. What you have to get through make you change. You’ve learned the death of three of your colleagues. They are dead and you are not. Some of them had kids, lovers and they are dead. Why you, aren’t you dead? Why did you survive the bomb, your injuries when others didn’t?

Alexia puts her hand delicately on your knee and you jump, returning to reality. She looks at you with concern and you try to give her a smile, but you fail.

“It’s going to be alright, mi Amor. You are not alone. I’m here so is your parents, your siblings and your friends.”

“I know” you confirm quietly. “I’m sorry”

“You don’t have to be for anything mi Amor.”

You put your hand on Alexia’s, stroking her fingers with your thumb while looking outside. The sun is shining and you’re pretty sure that all the beaches are crowded with people. You always loved going there but with Alexia’s popularity you have to find more quiet beaches. Which you don’t mind. As long as you’re with her, it’s all that it matters.

At home, you are greeted by your cat who comes to rub himself against your legs while meowing, until you lower yourself to carry him. The movement makes you wince in pain, which Alexia doesn’t miss. But you assure her it’s okay, squeezing Diabolo against you. He let you do it for some minutes, before leaving your arms to go back to sleep.

“Glad to see that some things will never change” you roll your eyes.

Alexia laughs slightly, coming back from the bathroom where she putted your suitcase that she didn’t let you carry. She takes your hand in hers, taking you gently against her.

“If you hug me, you’ll see that I will never let you go”

“Take that Diabolo.”

You smile, getting as close as your injuries let you do it. The painkiller seems to start to stop working and you surely have to take one soon. But first you need to take a good shower, you’re not allowed to take a bath because of your scars.

“I’m going to take a shower” you inform your girlfriend.

She nods, kisses your cheek and follows you to the bathroom. You started to get off of your clothes, before stopping. You usually don’t mind Alexia’s presence in the bathroom when you take your shower, it’s a moment where you talk a lot about things. Sometimes she showers with you, other times she does different facial or hair treatments or she just sit on the toilet lid.

But today, you have way more scares than before and you’re not sure that you want Alexia to see it. The blonde sees you looking at her through the mirror and bites her lip. She immediately understands your torment.

“I’ll leave if you want. But I want you to know that it won’t change the way I look at you or the way I love you. No matter how your body is, you’re still you. And I will always love you.”

You nod, but you’re still nervous. Like if she doesn’t want to scare you, Alexia come to you slowly, surrounding you with her arms.

“Let me help you?”

She’s looking at your eyes in the mirror and you nod one more time. You let her take off your shirt and pants. She had done that a thousand times, but always with teasing hands or eagerly. Today, however, her hands are sweet and caring, as if she wanted to heal you with them. She also removes the protection on your knee and shoulder, with a thousand precautions.

She frowns when she sees your injuries. Your nose doesn’t look broken anymore, but you still have bruises and cuts. You swallow but then you see that she’s looking at one of your scare on your stomach.

“Why are you bleeding?”

You follow her eyes and shrug lightly.

“This one seems to have difficulty to heal” you mumble.

“I’ll take you to the Barca’s medic tomorrow. But now, you have to take your shower and get some rest.”

********

Alexia takes you to her favorite medical team and they work their magic. You still have pain sometimes, especially on your shoulder, but you are getting better. You filed your resignation some days after your arrival at Barcelona and it’s not a surprise for anyone. Some media tried to talk to you about what happened, but you shut them down every time. It’s too soon.

You’re pretty great during the day, you keep yourself busy with things. Alexia is almost always there with you and when she isn’t, you have friends or family visiting. Alexia takes you to walk in early morning for Nala’s stroking, every day. She’s an angel of patience, always kind, caring and loving. You cook for her every night, following her diet with attention. This allows you to occupy your mind and hands.

Your girlfriend and family insist that you go to see a specialist, to talk about what you’ve been through. You hate this. It’s always hard for you to talk about all this. You beg almost every time Alexia to not make you go, but she’s determined, confident that it will help you get better quickly. The worst thing is that she’s right.

At nights, however, it’s more difficult. You have trouble to fall asleep even if you avoid naps during the day to help you falling asleep. But it doesn’t work well. You stay still in your bed for hours; you don’t want to wake Alexia up. She takes so good care of you, she deserves her beauty sleep.

And when you fall asleep, you have a lot of nightmares. It’s normal and a process to get better if you listen to your psychoanalyst. But it’s still terrifying. For you and your girlfriend.

Once again tonight, Alexia is awakened by your scream of terrors. You’re still asleep in your nightmare when she sits on the bed. You’re turning around, the sheet wrapped around you, fighting against your nightmare. It’s always difficult for her to wake you up, she scared that you hurt yourself when you’re jiggling like that, but she’s scared too that she might hurt you.

So, she takes your face between her hands, calling you several times before you finally open your eyes.

“Alexia” you call her, terrified.

“I’m here mi Amor. It’s ok. You’re ok.”

You sit down too, looking around you. You become aware of the bedroom you share with Alexia and her presence at your side. She’s stroking your arm lightly, looking at you patiently.

“Ale” you mumble this time.

“I’m here. You’re safe. I won't anyone lay a hand on you.”

She takes you on her arms, making you sit on her lap. Letting yourself go against her. She strokes your back this time, rocking you softly. You let your breath slow down, very aware of your quick heartbeat.

“I’m sorry”

Alexia takes the time to kiss your jaw, your cheek several times and your forehead before answering.

“You don’t have to be.”

“Yes, I do, Ale. I’m a mess. I can’t sleep and I can’t do a lot of things alone because of my injuries. I keep waking you up almost every night because I can’t get better. I should have listened to you and stay at Barcelona. I’m so so…”

But Alexia doesn’t let you finish, putting a finger on your lips to stop your rambling. Tears are in your eyes again but for now you managed to keep them inside your eyes.

“You’re getting better, Y/N. You don’t zone out like you did when you came back. You smile more, your injuries are getting better, and I see you smile way more than before. No one expects to you to heal in two days, especially not me. You took so good care of me when I was injured, now it’s my turn.”

She puts a hand on your cheek, making you look at her. Her hazel eyes are looking at you with so much care and love that it took your breath away.

“What if the nightmares never end Ale?”

“We will find a way to heal you, mi Amor. I swear.”

You believe her. She seems so sure of herself that you believe her. She kisses your cheek again and when you turn your face, she kisses the corner of your mouth first and then your lips. One time, two time and the third you press your lips a little longer against her.

********

Alexia was right. You get better, even if it takes time. You still have nightmare sometimes, but you manage to not wake Alexia up every time. She’s not happy when you don’t though, wanting to be there for you as much as she can.

When your shoulder is better, she lets you come back to look at her games, as long as you are with her sister or her mother. She’s way too scared that someone push you and hurt you again to let you go there by yourself. You feel bad for Alba or Eli, given the imperious tone with which Alexia orders them to watch over you. But the two women don’t seem to mind, looking at you like you are the most precious thing in the world. When you joke about it with Eli one time, she answers you that you are the most precious thing in Alexia’s word. You didn’t know what answer to that.

Alexia always takes a thousand precautions with you, whether you are at home or outside. She doesn’t hesitate to scold someone who approaches you too much or to carry you from one room to another to avoid working your knee after your physiotherapy sessions. Which she wants to take you every time, by the way.

And the best thing about all of this, she does all of this without being intrusive. On the contrary. Her presence reassures you and is a strength for you. Your recovery without her would have been very much longer.

Tonight, she’s not taking you at home immediately after the game like she did the other times. Instead, she takes you with her in the lobby where the families are going after the games. There you met her friends, that you also appreciate very much too.

“Take it easy, Lucy, you’re going to hurt her.”

Alexia practically teleported to your side when she saw Lucy take you in her arms to greet you.

“I’m careful Capi, don’t worry.”

You smile at Lucy after she told you she was happy to see you again. You’re seeing many of Alexia’s teammates you haven’t seen since you returned to Barcelona. But your girlfriend never walks away from you, except to get you something to drink. And when you start to get tired, she sees it immediately.

“Do you want to go home?” she whispers in your ear.

You smile softly, letting yourself go against her. She passes delicately her arms around your waist and put her chin on your shoulder.

“You’re having fun, we can stay a little bit longer if you want.”

“How is your knee?”

“I’m fine, Cariño.”

She hums and keep you against her for a few more moments, kissing softly your cheek.

“Five more minutes and we go.”

“Alright Capitana” you smirk.

She snorts, pinching your rib lightly, surely not to hurt you. You can’t wait for your bruises to completely disappear, so that Alexia can start touching you again like she used to. Her love language being touching, you sometimes feel like she has to restrained herself.

That’s what you’re thinking about in her car when she takes you home. You’re thinking about it when you prepare yourself to go to bed too and when you’re in her arms in your bed you start to overthink it maybe a little too much. What if she never touches you like before, because all she’s going to see from you is this wounded woman? What if she finds someone else wit who she wants to share this kind of moment with? Alexia saw that you were a little lost in your thoughts when you came home, but she didn’t push you to talk about it.

You just have to look up to know what she’s peacefully asleep. Her face is completely relaxed, and her chest rises peacefully to the rhythm of her breathing. Yours is quite complicated, so you choose to escape her arms to take refuge in your balcony, hopping the fresh air will help you.

Sitting in a chair, you put your head in your hands, trying to collect your thoughts. Alexia promised to never let you down, but how can she be certain that her feelings will never change?

You don’t know how many times you are staying here, but Alexia’s voice almost makes you fall from your seat. You’re so surprised that you don’t understand what she says to you. You just blink at her as she’s looking at you with a worried look.

“You will freeze to death, come inside please.”

You take the hand she hands you to help you get up. And she wraps you in her arms in a protective way as soon as she closes the door. The warm of her skin makes you realize that you are, in fact, very cold.

“Were you trying to get pneumonia or something?” she asks, frowning.

“I couldn’t sleep” you mumble.

She sighs and she doesn’t have to say what she’s thinking. You already know that she’s not happy that you didn’t wake her. She doesn’t bother to tell it to you anyway.

“Do you need a hot shower, or can we go to bed?”

“We can go to bed” you sigh.

She seems upset and you hesitate to lye against her, but she takes you back in her arms.

“Did you have a nightmare?” she asks, some minutes after.

“No” you simply answer.

“Why couldn't you sleep so?”

“I don’t know.”

Alexia knows that you’re lying, and she hates it. But she doesn’t say anything, knowing that you will talk about it when you are ready. Some minutes passes before you talk again.

“I’m just scared” you whisper in the darkness of your room.

“About what?”

Her voice learns you that she’s not sleepy at all. Maybe she decided to stay awake as long as you’re not sleeping. She raises herself a little bit, to have a better look at you.

“Losing you”

Your voice is a whisper, but Alexia reacts like if you were screaming, almost jumping from her place in the bed.

“Why would you lose me?”

You shrug, but Alexia doesn’t have it. She looks at you, waiting for you to give her a proper answer. You take your time to choose your words, scared of starting a fight. You try to escape the real discussion once again.

“I don’t know, it’s just my insecurities I guess.”

“Talk to me, mi Amor. Please”

You look at her and sit down, feeling like you have to look properly at her for this kind of things. Alexia sits too, her beautiful eyes looking deeply at you.

“I’m scared to never be enough for you again. I’m not saying that I was at one time, but right now… What if you never se me again like someone… I don’t know how to say it without being cringe.”

You roll your eyes, tired of yourself. Alexia shows you once again how much she can be patient though, taking your hand in hers to interlink your fingers together.

“I don’t want to be your poor injured girlfriend for the end of our life. I want you to see me as someone who can take one of our long walk again, someone who you can do everything you want with. Someone you can touch the way you like without being scared of hurting.”

Alexia is looking at you closely, listening every one of you word with deep care.

“When I hurt my knee, were you seeing me like someone reduced?”

“Of course not” you frown.

“Well it’s just the same thing for me. I don’t see you as my injured girlfriend, I see you as the love of my life that I almost lost some weeks before.”

“But my body isn’t the same anymore, Ale”

“Your scars will only remind me everyday how lucky I am to have you and how much I love you. And I will kiss them everyday to remind me of that.”

Raising slowly her hand on your cheek, she starts to stroke it softly, but her eyes are full of love when she looks at you. Deep, sincere love. Then she kisses you before taking you slowly in her arms again, making you lye on her.

“You can sleep tight mi Amor. I’ll always be here.”

[pinkrelish]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶When Eddie gets a call at work telling him Adrie is sick, he rushes to pick her up from school, accidentally leaving his black notebook behind. Being you, you find the means to return it to him. But while at his trailer, you ask him the question he's been avoiding for months.

"Let's get down to those rumors, hm?"✶

NSFW — strong tw for a dark conversation surrounding eddie's past (accusations of murder, rape), heavy angst, comfort, drug/alcohol mention/use, slow burn, fluff, flirting, 18+ overall for eventual smut

chapter: 8/20 [wc: 14.1k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 8: The Munson Name

Leave it to Eddie to make your day special not two minutes into work.

Upon entering the garage, the back door was ajar as usual, but instead of phantom wisps of smoke swimming in the sunshaft, a shadow moved, and Eddie’s arm curled around to knock on the aluminum siding for your attention. His chain bracelet clinked from the motion, and his rings caught the light as he gestured for you to come over.

You peeked through the opening and saw him standing against the wall, but his morning smile wasn’t aimed at you, it was elsewhere, off to the side. You wrapped your fingers around the doorknob, and followed where he was looking.

A bright red cardinal sat perched on the round side mirror of Eddie’s car, chirping and hopping while fluttering its wings, spinning around in search of something, and after several twittering singsongs, it flew away.

“That was precious,” you whispered, breath fogging in awe.

“I’m glad you got to see him before he took off.” Eddie grabbed the door from you and pushed you both inside, shaking his arms in an intense shiver, and shrugging his jacket up around his neck while he hugged his hands around himself in his pockets. “Uhm..”

The goofy smile he wore was mutual, as was the dear silence. The energy between you had changed; it was charged with a new development in your relationship. One that did not need to be articulated in words. It was there, in his well-rested eyes owning a playful gleam when you looked at him, and his need to rock from foot to foot in a measured sway, like a subconscious impulse to recreate that beautiful night.

Then, he cleared his throat. You averted your gaze to the floor.

“You, uh, you said it was one gift,” he recalled with an audible wince squeezing the oxygen from his sentence.

Unsure on how best to approach you buying his daughter a generous amount of presents, and hearing the impassive edge to his voice, you shut one eye and opted for a joke, “It was one gift.. bag.”

“It was too much.”

Your demeanor sagged. “Oh.”

“No, no! Not in the bad way–No.”

You perked up. “Oh?”

A soft laugh poured from the snuggly place he had his chin tucked behind the tan canvas. He dropped his shoulders, and drove his weight forward into jaunty little steps towards you, closing the gap between your bodies. There were affectionate nuances to his fond expression when he corrected himself, “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound that way. The gifts were great. Like, real home runs. Uhm, she loved them, and they were really thoughtful. Just.. really sweet of you.” Immersing himself in the steady eye contact you were both proud to uphold, he licked his lips, and raised his eyebrows. “You’re so sweet, in fact, it’s piling onto that thank you I owe you at a ridiculous rate.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I just like doing things for you and Adrie. Besides, I live rent free in a tiny town with an abysmal lack of nighttime entertainment for me to waste my money on, so I figured why not spoil my favorite four-year-old.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know I don’t owe you, but” –he moved his hand around in his pocket– “I’m gonna figure out a way to repay you. Do something nice for you. Something big. Until then, your favorite almost-five-year-old made you this.”

He presented his palm to you. Cradled in it was a bracelet made of plastic beads in an assortment of colors, some shaped as stars, some with glitter, and at the middle was a name arranged in white blocks with black lettering. M-O-U-S-E.

“I had to help her spell it,” he said, tugging up his sleeve, “but it matches mine.” D-A-D-D-Y.

There was no masking the effect the bracelet had on you; breath hitched on a raw noise, chest falling on the exhale, muscles tensed on the cusp of a bigger reaction–but you tamped down the wealth of feeling wanted, and spoke beyond the heaviness in your heart, through the strain in your throat, and behind the blurriness of tears, “A true Adrie Original. I love it, tell her thank you for me.”

You slid the elastic band over your trembling left hand. He wore his on his right.

Eddie leaned in to get a better look at you, and the amusement in his face was replaced by genuine surprise. “Are you crying?”

You crossed your arms over your chest and gripped your shoulders, laughing, smiling through the embarrassment of being caught. “Maybe! It’s–It’s really sweet.”

“I’m gonna tell her you cried!”

“Don’t!” you yelped, running away from his evil fingers advancing towards your ribs.

“But it’s cute!”

“Stop chasing me!”

Luckily for you, refuge was on the other side of the glass door you managed to lock before he could grab the handle. You guarded your safe space with a glare. He pouted, and said something. You cupped your ear. He grew more passionate, flapping his lips at a rapid rate and putting his hands up in a prayer, but you couldn’t hear what he was saying. You shouted you’d only let him in if he apologized for making fun of you. “I’m sorry.” The sincerity was lost on his smirk, but you gave in so you could make coffee and get to work, and so he could get said coffee and take your pen cup and put it just out of reach on the ledge of your desk while on his way out to the garage.

And unluckily for you, the first thing on your to-do list after the break was checking the flashing buttons on the phone. You picked up the receiver, pressed the playback for messages, and listened with a pen hovered over your new set of index cards.

The first one began with a startled, “U-uhm, right.”

The second one began with a confused laugh.

The third was a long pause before telling someone else in the room they’d try again later.

Dread pooled in your stomach. The recording button. The fucking recording button for an outgoing message taunted you. Faded yellow, and ugly.

With a clenched jaw, you prepared your racing heart, and pressed it. And oh God. You covered your eyes, more and more mortified as it played.

“We’re currently closed for the Holidays, and will open at 8AM, Mon–” Raspberry. “You! Why! That one was perfect. God, you are so–freaking–annoying. I swear. Obnoxious little..”

————

Standing at a respectable distance from where Eddie sat at the breakroom table with his notebook, you held up three calendars for the new year. “I’m replacing the one in the garage. Which do you want? Mythical Creatures drawn by Eric Carle, Coca Cola, or hot chicks posing on sports cars?”

He dropped his head back, and tipped his chair to balance on its rear legs. His bangs fell, showing his wrinkled forehead as he looked at you upside down. “Interesting options,” he commented.

“The mall didn’t have much left.” A lie. The calendar kiosk at the mall was stocked to the brim, you just had a hunch Eddie would go for one in particular.

“Does the mythical creature one have a dragon for a month?”

“Yes,” you said without checking.

“I’ll take that one, then.”

Predictable.

“Cool, I’ll give Mr. Moore the hot chicks, and I’ll take the Coke for me.” Speaking of–the front desk phone was ringing, and it was in your job description to answer it, you supposed.

You left him to get back to his writing, and put the receiver to your ear. The voice on the other end was politely stressed in the customer-friendly way. You left it in the cradle on hold, and called down the hallway, “Hey, Eddie, it’s Adrie’s school calling for you. I’m sure–” Stumbling out of his way, his jacket softened the blow of his shoulder knocking into you. He reached his hand back in an apologetic gesture, but his focus manifested in the flash of panic crossing his pale face. “I’m sure she’s fine,” you finished sympathetically.

He answered the woman on the line, and you waited along the wall, eyeing the scuff marks around the floorboards you should probably buff off at some point, and after his short conversation, he hung up.

“Adrie’s sick,” he said quickly, patting down his jacket. “Wayne’s not answering the phone, so I gotta go pick her up, and uh, I–” He pivoted in a circle, glancing around, fumbling for his keys in his pocket. “I–I’m sorry. She needs me.”

You drew your eyebrows in, and waved him off. “Yeah, it’s okay. You can leave. I’ll clock you out and let Carl know when he’s back from lunch.”

“Thank you,” he said in breathless earnest, leaving so quickly his boots left black streaks on the tile.

~~~

Lunch came and went. Carl came and went. The end of the hour posted under the CLOSED sign came and went. Eddie had yet to call the shop to update you, which was fine and dandy (aside from your anxiety over whether or not Adrie was okay), but in his rush, he left behind something important..

His black notebook with the devil-horned skull laid in the middle of the table like an ominous item from a horror movie.

And much like the horror movies, you as the final girl should leave it alone, right? Just.. walk away, and forget about it, and leave it for him to pick it up tomorrow, or whenever he’s able to come back to work..

But.

You were worried about Adrie, and when you went to the garage to replace the trash can liners, you saw his rings still on the black tray near the tool cabinet. Now, it’s not like he needed those either, however, what if you just.. returned them for him? And the notebook fell open while you were at it?

It was wrong. Everything about what you were doing was all so very, very wrong. Going inside Mr. Moore’s office and flipping the lightswitch, making your way to his desk in an innocent saunter, and–oops!–kneeling down to pick up a stray pen, and if the bottom drawer happened to be opened, and the plastic folder with the employee’s details from when he hired them was inside, who could blame you for taking the quickest, tiniest glance before closing it?

Yours was in there, of course, along with–

“Edward Munson,” you snorted. “Dorky name.” Duh his full name was Edward, but it was still funny to see.

You read over the top of the file where his address and phone number were. Thankfully, from your various car rides with Robin, you recognized the street name, placing it in your memories as the rusted sign next to the Forest Hills Trailer Park entrance.

The phone number you imprinted into your brain as a recreational activity, and put the folder away.

Closing the door behind you with a hefty jingle of heavy rings in your pocket, you approached the notebook, and gave it a pitied sigh. Having committed many sins in the past minute alone, you figured why not. You didn’t even feel shame opening the stupid thing after months of being teased by it. Besides, what’s the worst he could be hiding in it? It couldn’t be that embarrassing, right?

..Right?

“Okay, can honestly say I was not expecting a big tittied bird lady.” The drawing wasn’t overly detailed, but the artistry was above average. Small details etched the feathers covering her avian legs, and a gleam shone on her talons coming to a sharp point, posed to attack with milky white irises. Above her was Eddie’s stylized font: HARPY, with abbreviations and numbers in a column. His rushed handwriting filled the rest of the page. Reading it over, it appeared you opened to the middle of a story.

Thumbing through, you encountered your first dog-eared page.

IF CHEST IS CHOSEN, GO B

IF DOOR - ROLL FROM INDEX CHART POISON

Absolutely lost, you did see a box labeled B further down with a short bullet point list of what would happen, and more options to choose from on the next dog-eared section.

Flipping deeper towards the back, it was pages and pages of his handwriting. Names of characters fighting dragons. Fantasy towns housing creatures you’d never heard of. Countries with too many syllables and apostrophes. Whatever it was, you were more than happy to hop on your bike and ride it over to the trailer park, only second guessing your sense of direction three times, and releasing a grateful, “Thank God,” when you spotted it up ahead.

The place had an eeriness to it despite the slanted beams of afternoon sun gracing it in gold. Homes were tarnished with dents and algae staining the outside. Trailers slumped on their cinderblocks, buckling under the weight. RVs had permanent brush growing under their parking spots. A child’s scream echoed around the tree-less lot, but you couldn’t see them through the orderless blockade of dilapidated residences and abandoned cars. People watched you: glancing out their windows, or gathered around a charcoal barbeque. Curious eyes followed your trail down the main road. Bumping your bike around potholes, avoiding tetanus ridden nails and petrified clothes molded to the ground as if they’d been there for years.

Dogs walked their fences as you passed.

You were beginning to have some regrets when a beacon welcomed you. After a curve, an old van parked out front of a blue and white trailer came into view, but more importantly, dwarfed next to the Chevy behemoth, was a black car you’d recognize the red interior of anywhere.

The heat of parent’s concerned stares burned into the back of your neck as you rode up to the concrete stairs, leaned your bike against the metal handrail, and approached your fate.

Even though you were absolutely sure this was the correct address, you knocked with as much confidence as a dormouse. Any harder and the sound of your knuckles striking the aluminum would’ve been too loud in the creepy-quiet trailer park.

No answer.

You knocked again. Harder. Louder.

There was movement inside. Footsteps. A muffled voice. Your heart leapt. In your throat. Closer. Closer. This was so stupid. This was a mistake. This was a bad idea. The excuse in your mouth was weak, and you were about to embarrass yourself in front of your coworker by surprising him at his house, which you only knew where to find because you were snooping, and there was no amount of explaining that would help you out of your spot in hell–

Eddie swung open the door, and his heavy-browed, distrustful, annoyed, apprehensive, suspicious glare jumped to wide-eyed shock.

Your cheeks went hot.

“Nope!”

You winced at the slam, but nothing–no God’s will, no Devil’s agreement–would convince you to blink at the shuttered window where he once stood. No. No, no, no. No, never. Never would you want the searing glimpse at Eddie’s naked chest out of your sight before it was engraved into every second of every day of every night of every dream for the rest of your years.

In some part of your mind, you knew your gazes connected long enough to see the blood drain from his face, but your attention was soon urged downward, to the overwhelming amount of skin.

His hair was tied back, exposing a poetry of shadows. Hollow of his throat, to his clavicle, to the swell of his shoulders. Biceps twitching under a prominent vein when he caught himself on the trailer’s frame, and gripped the door handle. Muscles straining with fear, then soft with relief, then strong with fear again when he realized it was you who caught him in this shirtless state, discovering the beautiful line between his pecs when he flexed. Witnessing the fine wisps of softly auburn hair on his chest, juxtaposed to the wiry dark curls creating a blessed trail to the top of his sweatpants. Drooling over the eclectic collection of tattoos sporadically placed over his body. Too many to decipher in the brief encounter, aside from the dragon crawling up a sword etched into the subtle planes of his abs and curving around his slight stomach, with the blade ending at his waistband–a full picture of the tattoo you spied at the grocery store when he stretched his arms above his head.

The door creaked open again, and you’d yet to recover. But thinly obscured in the darkness of his home, he was visibly flustered as well.

Eddie hunched over, struggling to get the zipper of his tan jacket up, tugging it harshly, grinding the metal teeth in his anxious fight to cover his chest; and when it was snug to the splotchy kiss of pink on his neck, he squinted at you. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, voice gone hoarse from his dry mouth.

Knees locked, and oh so staring him directly in the eyes, you took the black notebook from under your arm (not remembering when you tucked it there), and showed it to him. “You left this at work.”

He took it from you slowly without a thanks.

“And, uh,” you continued, gathering the clinking jewelry in your jacket. “These too.” You dropped them into his cupped palm, brushing your pinky over a scratchy callus, experiencing the zing of intimacy of skin on skin.

And he felt it too, with how he curled his fingers in to seal the fleeting sensation.

Pocketing his rings, he stood meek in his doorway. The pain of expecting someone different to be knocking at his trailer had dwindled, but the tension was there in between his eyebrows, weighing on the slope of his gentle frown, painting brilliant highlights on the long line of his nose in the blazing dayglow threatening to invade his home.

The dull brown of his eyes glinted aside the honey as his mouth hung slightly open, tip of his tongue curled against the pearly dam of his teeth. The lined pages of the well worn notebook fanned out, flopping in his grip. “Did you read what was in here?”

Shifting your gaze to the sharp edge of the tin roof decorated in elaborate dangly fish hooks, you clasped your hands behind your back in a cute way, and delivered the answer he awaited with an inflection like it was a question, “No..?”

“For an actress, you’re bad at lying.”

“Or I’m being obvious on purpose so you tell me what it is.”

Working his jaw back and forth, he bided his time, each grind a consideration at his options in regards to how vulnerable he should be, and if this would be the final nail in the corroded coffin where you’d realize what a giant loser he was. “It’s..” You leaned towards him in interest, and he looked away. “It’s notes and stuff for Dungeons and Dragons,” he admitted in a mumble.

“Nerd! Nerd!” You jumped up and down, pointing, shouting, “I knew it! You’re a nerd!”

Twisting his mouth in a sarcastic sneer at your childishness, he snatched the side of the door and began shutting you out. “Okay, okay. I get it. See why I didn’t want to tell you?”

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,” you exhaled, switching on a dime from your teasing to a serious tone. You caught the door, and pleaded for him to stop being an idiot, “I knew you were a dweeb when you held me hostage for an entire thirteen minute lecture about your song lyrics. The Dungeons and Dragons shit is the third least surprising thing you’ve ever told me.” You clasped your hand over your heart. “Truly.”

“What’s the second?”

“Your music tastes.”

“And the first?” he asked, despite his better judgment.

“That you’re single.”

He announced his displeasure in a deadpan expression. “And I’m beginning to see why you are, too–” All of him went rigid, withdrawing slightly into the trailer with his head lowered, ear angled towards the right of him, listening as his gaze went unfocused.

After a few seconds, his lungs reawakened with a relieved breath. “Just coughing,” he said to himself. Dragging his attention back to you, he gestured weakly at his jacket to indicate his lack of clothing, still embarrassed at the situation. “Adrie, uh.. She puked on me earlier. That’s why I wasn’t–uhm–dressed.”

Worry edged its way into your question, “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine. Kids get sick from daycare all the time. Basically just sentient germs running around, licking their hands after touching everything.”

Your eyebrows ticked up at the memory of the awful Dayquil hangovers following the weekends you worked as a clown for children’s birthday parties.

You asked, “And what about Wayne?”

“Hm? Oh.” Recognition, and the ease of a casual conversation overtook the near-permanent anticipatory hardness to his features, softening his bristly nature around you; finding you comforting when he was in the place where he was supposed to feel safest, but didn’t.

Home wasn’t home for Eddie Munson, and you felt that icy statement behind your ribs as you watched him pat his pocket as a way to check his rings were there for reassurance, acutely aware there was an hostile world at your back, and you chose to only see each other.

There was a tender innocence to his lip crooking up in a lopsided grin as he remembered you asked him a question. “Typical old man. Wayne was outside and didn’t hear the phone ring, that’s why he didn’t answer. He’s at work now, though.”

“Mm,” you hummed. “Do you have soup?”

“Soup?”

“For Adrie,” you clarified.

He glanced over his shoulder, assumingly at the kitchen, and after some mental deduction, he shrugged in vague nonchalance. “Yeah, there’s probably soup for her.” As if you didn’t know him well enough at this point to read past the nervous habits weaving their way into his fidgety unsureness.

You backed down the stairs as you spoke, “Okay. Well then, guess I’ll get going since you have everything on lock down here. Got your sick kid, got your soup, got your notebook, and your uncle’s at work. Sounds like everything’s in order.” Hopping off the last step, you swung around the handrail and guided your bike to the road, beaming. “See ya!”

“Yeah, see ya,” he replied, settling into his usual side-ways glance around the trailer park, challenging the gawkers who watched a girl willingly walk up to his home and leave it smiling. They did not dare to say anything, of course; returning to their lives with sealed lips, pretending to pay him no mind. Just how it should be.

He held his chin high.

————

And when Eddie next answered the door, it was in the low blue hue of a setted sun, and he did so in his black jeans and a white tank top. His unzipped work jacket swayed prettily around his torso, low bun at his nape loosened to a mess, short curls in a frizz over his ears, and cheeks flushed. “I figured you’d be back,” he forced out evenly, doing his best to disguise his panting breaths.

You hugged the brown paper grocery bags to your chin, and grinned.

He stuck his foot behind him in an awkward curtsy, and swept his arm for you to enter.

Walking into his place for the first time there were many things to comprehend, absorb, fawn over, and ask about until he was tired of explaining their origins–and since you were already crossing an entire notebook’s worth of lines today, you inquired about the most obvious. “You, uh, like collecting hats and mugs?”

“They’re Wayne’s,” he grunted, unplugging the vacuum he left in the middle of the living room by yanking the cord out of the wall, and dragging it on his way to the hallway closet where he kicked and shoved things aside to make room, rattling the thin door that definitely had been punched through at one point, patched and painted over, and was now a canvas for crayon squiggles along the bottom. “Before he worked at the power plant, he was a trucker. Collected them at every rest stop in every state, that sorta thing.”

“Ah.”

In a quick spin, he surveyed the rest of the trailer, and made a similar “ah” sound when he saw the cleaning products and balled up paper towels on the tiny table squeezed against the wall. He lunged for them, stuffing the evidence and other garbage into the overflowing trash can. “I still keep up the tradition by getting him a mug for Christmas.” Jerking his chin at the shelf above him, he specified the one on the end. “This year was Looney Tunes.”

“How cute.” The bags crinkled in your arms as you stood in the entryway, nodding expectantly.

“Shit–Sorry.”

You smiled. He finished clearing a space on the wrap-around kitchen counter for you to set the groceries down, scooting a candle out of the way, flickering the flame he may have burnt himself on while lighting, if the red mark on his thumb was anything to go by. And he was back to pivoting, scanning the area, desperate to latch onto the object which would jog his memory on where he was in his cleaning: dishes dripped in the drying rack, Wayne’s grilled cheese endeavor was out of sight, the bathroom radiated the nose-burning scent of bleach.

He snapped his fingers at the overflowing trash can, and almost slipped in his frenzy to tie up the bag and rush for his boots, saying he’ll be right back on his way out, leaping down the stairs.

“Alrighty..”

The steady rumble of a washing machine rattled every loose bit of metal in the museum of belongings.

You waged war with your tennis shoes, wiggling out of them with the laces still tied, and stepped off the carpet dividing the trailer in half. The bubbling vinyl kitchen floor stuck to your socks, still damp from being mopped, and heaved the groceries onto the pale blue countertop, sliding them across decades worth of scratches scarring the material. Once you were sure you could let them go without a toppling situation, you took the goods out one at a time, but your attention was nosy and undivided.

Acting as foreground to the walls of hats and mugs was the rest of Eddie’s life. Laundry baskets occupied a couch with flattened cushions. A coffee table supported stacks of his daughter’s playthings after picking them out of the vacuum’s path. There was a fold out bed in the corner, and a modest TV situated on top of a VCR. To compensate for the lack of overhead light was an abundance of mismatched lamps on each surface.

It was a hodge podge, and it was cramped, and it was incomprehensible, and it was his house.

Turning, you began to guess at which cabinets he would store a bag of rice when you spotted the artwork hanging on the fridge.

Pinned under a teddy bear magnet was a decoupaged version of your Thanksgiving turkeys, cut out and glued to a single piece of construction paper, complete with the castle in the background. And secured safely under a smiley face magnet was a stick figure drawing of two people–one in a pink dress, one in all black scribble–and dated in neat ink by someone with less messy handwriting: 5/7/92.

Eddie came back to your wide grin, and two cans of baked beans held up in a question.

“They go over here,” he said, nodding at the skinny door next to where he stood at the small green table set for three chairs, organizing today’s mail in his hand.

You opened the pantry next to the recessed oven, and stacked the rest of the cans inside. Towards the back there were two white cereal boxes with plain blue text and nothing else, leaving you to deduce no one in his family stooped to eating unsweetened cornflakes even if that’s all they had. Meanwhile, he arranged overdue bills into a ladder style letter holder hung on the wall beside the phone, periodically taking one out and placing it down a rung, ordering them from most to least important.

“I was supposed to go grocery shopping yesterday, but I had to buy and install a new hot water heater,” he told you suddenly. Whether he was saying this because he was coasting on the fumes of his Christmas bonus until December’s child support arrived, or because he was simply too busy to go shopping, neither of you addressed it more than necessary. He accepted your help, and you didn’t pry.

“Unexpected shit sucks, huh?” you added for his benefit.

“Yeah,” he huffed in a short laugh, playing the same game.

And it was him who rested his forearms on the edge of the pale blue wrap-around counter, watching you commit good deed after good deed, guessing where groceries went in the cabinets, acclimating to his kitchen’s set up, and making room for a bag of grapes and three apples between his six pack of Pabst and block of Government cheese.

“Can I ask you kind of a weird question?”

You brightened at his voice, teetering on the edge of a smile just from that alone. “Always.”

He drew absent-minded circles with his finger as he tried to find the best way to word something he wondered about since the week you met. “When you saw Adrie for the first time, you had this really, uh, surprised look on your face.. Why was that?”

Your tone was dismissive in the wake of something that appeared to haunt him, “Oh, that?” You folded down the empty paper bags, and placed them on top of the fridge after he said Adrie would use them for arts and crafts. “Well, it’s like, Mr. Moore has dozens of pictures of his family on his desk, and Carl told me–approximately–ten different stories about his sons an hour after meeting him, and Kevin carries pictures of his dogs in his wallet. It just seemed like if you had a daughter, you would’ve shown me a picture too, like most dads.” You waved your hands around, and contorted your mouth in a silly manner. “I mean, it was just weird you never mentioned her.”

He took your assessment to heart, and opened the drawer closest to him. Amongst the clutter of junk was his black wallet resting on a coiled chain with clips on either end. Taking out the cheap leather, he cradled the width in his palm, and wiggled out a picture kept sealed behind a plastic window. He said, “Actually, I do carry a picture of her,” and handed it to you.

On instinct, you pored over the image of him first, prizing the crown of his head sporting the same wild haircut. He had his face tipped down to the newborn wrapped in a pink blanket in his arms, crooking her in their safety as he held a bottle to her lips. His knees were on display behind his ripped black jeans. His shirt was sleeveless. She was tiny and precious. He was decidedly emotionless from what you could see, sat on a couch that was not the same as the one across the room from you.

“That was taken at Harrington’s place,” he answered your unstated question, keen to the recognition washing over your face as you placed it as Nancy’s ugly pink floral loveseat.

You gave it back to him.

He looked over the captured moment in time, bleak gaze set on his little girl when she was so fragile, and small, and when he was so weak, and teetering on a long overdue breakdown.

“It took me a long time to carry this around,” he said, tone heavy with disappointment, regret, and shame. “Wayne and I were fighting constantly. And I mean, I don’t blame him. He gave up his life to take care of me when I was twelve, and I put so many gray hairs on his head that he went bald from my bullshit, and then there I was, bringing home a screaming infant I didn’t know the first thing about taking care of. Y’know, just proving I was a fuck-up right when he thought I was smart enough to get my act together.“ Tracing the sharp edge of the photo trimmed to fit his wallet, he placed it in its windowed slot and tossed it back in the drawer, closing the past from his sight. “I don’t have a lot of good memories from that time. Shit fucking sucked.”

“I can imagine,” was all you could say.

“I love her,” he said in the event you doubted him.

“I know you do,” you offered in return.

Steering the conversation in a different direction, you swung your index fingers at the extensive cabinetry, and asked, “Where’s a cutting board?” Right of the sink, he answered. “And a knife?” Top drawer next to your hip, he responded. But it took until you shook out the washed celery stalk, and snapped the ribs off, lining them up on the white plastic cutting board did he become suspicious.

He leaned more of his weight on his forearms, and kept his tone carefully neutral, “What’re you doing?”

Keeping your expression indifferent aside from your arched brows, you cut the celery into manageable sticks and began slicing them lengthways. “I believe I’m in Edward Munson’s trailer making him and his daughter soup.”

The crimson guitar pick at the end of his necklace swung forward, jostled from where it was stuck to the healthy sheen of sweat glistening along the top of his chest. “How do you know my full name?”

“A little birdie told me.”

He shifted his shoulders, head lowered, eyes narrowed, voice deep, “Better question. How do you know where I live?”

“A bigger birdie told me.”

“Someone told you about me?”

Rightfully confused, you pulled a face. “Huh? No. I was kidding. No one talks to me. Anyway, back to the soup.” You harnessed all your charm into impressing him by meeting his stare while you diced the celery, using your knuckles as guidance. “Are there any vegetables she won’t eat? Or stuff she’s allergic to?” Your flagrant insolence irked him: reading his notebook, inviting yourself to his residence, filling the voids in his kitchen with groceries, and now making him soup without ever asking if he wanted you to do those things.

Because of course he wanted you to do those things.

He surrendered to your kindness. “No allergies, and she’ll eat anything as long as it’s diced small–Yeah, like that–and cooked down to mush. It’s the one thing she’s always been good about.”

“And you?”

It took a few sad seconds for him to understand you were asking about his allergies and his preferences, not used to his needs being taken into consideration. “No, no, whatever you make is good. Uhm. Hey, you don’t have to do all of this. Don’t roll your eyes, I’m being serious. Adrie’s sick and I don’t want you to catch what she has.”

“Please,” you implored in thick sarcasm, “I’ve been coughed on by every disease known to man on the Q train. There’s not a cold or flu in existence I haven’t succumbed to. I’m immune at this point.”

You found a stock pot from the cabinet at the junction of the wrap-around counter and the sink, and set it on the cooktop to come to heat while you peeled and chopped an onion. Eddie dwelled in his observations; listening to you recount tales of working in kitchens because they were always hiring, collecting horror stories from being a dishwasher, a waitress, a morning food prepper; moving from title to title; birthday clown, bartender, craft store cashier. Flighty, flighty, flighty. He watched your hands move in quick chops and long sweeps down a carrot with skill he didn’t have the patience nor time to learn. He told you as much, how when he comes home he’s fucking tired, and doesn’t have the energy to make dinner.

“Now what’re you doing, sweetheart?” he asked in what he hoped was an exhausted tone, but he knew it was futile. The timidness was there, sneaking its way into his words when he made the leap to calling you an endearment in his own home. And how could he not when you pulled out a stack of tupperware, divided the piles of chopped vegetables between them, and wedged them into the freezer, still tending to the sweating mirepoix with a wooden spoon.

“It’s so next time you want soup they’re all ready to go. You don’t have to waste time cutting vegetables. Just dump a container in a pot and add broth and noodles, and call it a night.”

He made a fond noise in the back of his throat, looking at you through his lashes. “You’re really doing everything in your power to extort me for this ‘thank you’ I owe you, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one who promised me something good,” you reminded him.

Water splashed, sputtered in the pot, steaming into a cloud of savory humidity, filling the living space with earthy aromatics. You added bouillon cubes, and stirred the stock together while turning the dial on high to bring the soup to a boil.

“Yeah, guess I did,” he said, petering out into a mumble, straying further from the current topic. He wasn’t finished talking about the previous one yet, and he made it known.

Tracing his thumb along his plump bottom lip, he tested a boundary, tiptoeing into a realm he did his best to ignore. “So, uh, you employ the same strategy with jobs as you do dating, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” you grinned. “Having an endless well of stories about shitty customers to pull from is perfect for stand up. Everyone loves the perpetually single girl who works in service or retail, and just can’t seem to find the love of her life, despite going on an insane amount of first dates with New York’s most average. It’s funny, and relatable.”

“And now you’re stuck as a boring receptionist in a nowhere town in a nowhere state.”

You released a sugary, syrupy, sweet giggle. “And now I’m stuck as a boring receptionist in a nowhere town in a nowhere state, and it’s the longest job I’ve ever held.”

His eyelashes fluttered from the nerves–the strong ache in his chest pressing down on him, stealing his breath. “And what about the dates? Gone on any with Hawkins’ finest?”

“Just one.” Though your back was to him while you washed and dried the cutting board, your smile was outlined in your banter. “But it was awful,” you emphasized in a dramatic sigh. “Worst date ever. He drank my Icee, wouldn’t stop talking during the movie, and, get this! He didn’t even tell me I was pretty. Not once.”

“What a jerk,” he agreed fullheartedly, scrunching his nose and twisting a curl of his hair over his stupidly smitten grin. “Sounds like a real asshole.”

“Actually, he was my favorite,” you corrected him, turning down the dial to where the coils lost their fluorescent glow. “Huge, huge nerd. Like, the biggest dork ever, but he was definitely my favorite out of any of my dates.” On your way to the green table, you bent close to his ear, and begged him in a whisper, “But don’t tell him I said that. He’ll get a real big ego about it.”

He made a zipping motion over his mouth.

“Soups gotta simmer until the potatoes are done. Might as well sit.”

He unzipped his mouth. “When did you cut up potatoes?”

“When you were staring at me all dreamy-like,” you supplied, words dipped in coy and flirt.

Undecided on which way to balk at your claim, he did them all: rolled his eyes, clicked his tongue, muttered a small “was not,” and slung himself into his usual chair at the table. He expected you to do the same, to match his silly theatrics with your own impassioned eye roll and smirk, but you didn’t. You sat across from him, poised, hands clasped together with the black notebook beside you.

The mood of the evening dipped visibly in your serious gaze set on him.

You tapped your knuckle on the metal spirals binding the worn pages of his latest campaign together. “No more secrets,” you punctuated. Three short words let go on an exhale. Three little words standing taller than the final barrier he built to keep others out. Not an ask, but a necessity if you were going to continue your relationship–platonic or not.

Your posture and expression were stern, but gentled by patience. “Let’s get to those rumors, hm.”

It was time.

No going back.

Whatever happens, happens.

Eddie took a shaky breath, and invited you over to the vulnerable truth. “Has anyone ever told you anything about me? Not like Harrington’s stories, but actual rumors?”

You shook your head. Between spending most of your time at work, or at Robin’s place, you didn’t have much opportunity to speak to random people, apart from small talk. And chit chatting about the weather was nowhere near as grave as what rooted itself in the solemn slow blink wherein he closed his eyes, and dipped his head.

“I’ll tell you everything, but can I ask you not to say anything while I explain?” he hesitated, knowing how it sounded. “I don’t know how else to word that to make it less rude, but this shit is difficult for me to talk about, and I’ll probably ramble, and go on tangents, and jump around the timeline, but, please, don’t interrupt me or say anything until I’m finished, okay? I don’t want to forget any of the details, and have to discuss this again. Can we do that?”

Digging your thumbnails harder into the flesh of your fingers, you agreed to the terms with a solid nod.

He swallowed. And when his tongue remained too thick in his dry mouth, he swallowed again, and sat up straight, pressing his back into the chair. “Okay.”

Two anxious stomachs twisted at once.

He cast his vacant stare around the room; never allowing it to land on you. This conversation was with himself and the green table and the shelf of mugs and the soup bubbling away on the stove and the washing machine entering its spinning cycle and the containers of Play-Doh on the coffee table; speaking to the non-judgemental objects instead of the person across from him.

“I’ll start with my reputation in school,” he said. “Probably doesn’t take much of an imagination to picture me as I am now with the same hobbies and opinions, just a lot louder about them. Heavy metal was the only music I listened to, and people called me weird for it. And I thought ‘weird?’ Was that supposed to bother me? I loved being weird! I wore the title ‘weird’ with pride. I didn’t want to be like everyone else. And when they saw I played Dungeons and Dragons, they called me a Satanist. Satanist? Like Ozzy, and all the bands I looked up to? Hell yeah! I thought being called a Satanist was so cool I sewed a Leviathan Cross on my jacket.” The corner of his lip jumped at a memory, smiling at something from long ago. Then, it faded. “Goes without saying I didn’t make many friends until I found other outcasts who shared those same views as me. We started a band together, and after some convincing, we made a DND club with me as the Dungeon Master. Of course people called me a cult leader for it, but being a cult leader sounded fucking awesome, so I encouraged it. Antagonized it. Weird, Devil-worshiper, cultist, freak. I wore them all like armor.”

He paused to crack his knuckles, expression falling blank as suppressed scenes unfolded in his head. “I got bullied a lot. Not that surprising. I was so aggressively opinionated about everything and never shut up. But the worst of it stopped when I got held back enough grades that I made “grown-up friends” and started dealing to help pay for my guitars and stuff.” He shrugged a single shoulder in apathy, and the tan jacket slipped down his arm, revealing a faded stick-and-poke viper above his armpit. “Unless it was Steve or someone in that friend circle, I was never invited to parties except to bring drugs. Weed, pills, whatever low scale stuff, nothing that serious, but I wasn’t very popular outside of that context.” The washing machine buzzed at the end of its cycle. “And as much as I told myself I didn’t care, I did. I did care when my friends were out on dates with their girlfriends, and I was alone, stuck in front of a record player learning a song just to give myself something to do, and something to say I did over the weekend when they all talked about the movie they saw together.. Made me feel like I was the outcast even amongst the outcasts.”

Listening, but not responding, you smoothed your thumbs over the divots in your skin your nails left behind.

Swallowing again, he faltered, “Girls didn’t like me. Even if I was the cooler, older guy who was so confident in everything he did, I was still off-putting. Or just weird in the bad way, because I didn’t know how to act, and came on too strong, or too–I don’t know–fucking dorky, doing shit like opening doors and bowing for them, laughing too loud at my own jokes when they didn’t find them funny.” It took everything you had to not to break your promise–to stay silent, and indifferent, and not gather him into a hug and assure him all those goofy mannerisms were exactly why you liked him. “I dated, y’know.. Had girlfriends here and there, but they never lasted more than a month.”

To close one chapter of his life and open another, he rubbed at his eyes, and ran a hand down his face, scrubbing over his chin as he spoke to the ceiling, “Now onto my old man.”

The hand he used to wipe the loneliness from his somber visage came to a rest on the edge of the table, and he ran the side of his palm along it as a way to fidget.

“He was in and out of jail for a number of things my whole life, but when I was twelve, he murdered someone. She was a nice lady. Well known in town, and well liked. Popular. Prom Queen, cheerleader type. Everyone loved her.. And he murdered her.”

Silence, silence, you remained in white-hot, visceral, sweat dripping, jaw-clenching silence.

“According to my criminal record, I was following in his footsteps. I had a penchant for stirring up trouble. It was fun. Stealing dumb shit, hotwiring an old car to drive us to the woods to get drunk when we were teenagers, dealing, begging Steve to throw ragers every weekend so I had an excuse to get shitfaced and run from the cops.. Yeah, it really looked like I was following in his footsteps. Following the Munson name.”

Eddie sat forward. Sleeved forearms sliding across aged coffee rings staining the green collapsible tabletop, and rubbing the backs of his fingers along the other. He was close enough for you to reach, to hold, to comfort when this was over, and the ghosts were put to rest from clouding his softhearted brown eyes.

“There was a New Year’s Eve party I was invited to” –he jumped his fingers in quotations– “on the rich side of town. It wasn’t one of Harrington’s, and I was out of my supply anyway, so I skipped out and spent the night here with my friends playing DND, and setting off fireworks in the trailer park, just having a good time.” The next inhale quivered his bottom lip, “I woke up in my bed to three cop cars blaring their sirens, and someone telling me I was being arrested for-for murder. Ah..”

You steeled yourself from blinking away.

“A girl died at that party. Prom Queen, head cheerleader. The type everyone knew, and everyone liked. And.. A-and, Jesus, I-I just need to get through this, I’m so sorry–but stuff was done to her body.”

The frankness hung in the room.

He screwed his eyes shut, and let the ugly reality spill from his mouth, “A guy from out of state went to that party with way harder shit than I sold, and she wanted to try some. They went to the bathroom together, he gave her too much, drugged her, she overdosed, and h-h-he..” His eyelids twitched with movement, and the tendons in his neck strained. You weren’t sure if he could hear the small, involuntary noise you made, but he chose the same words to avoid what you could infer. What all women could infer. “He did stuff to her body.”

His voice continued to crawl up an octave as his muscles braced in a reflexive cringe. “H-He left her there, and when her body was discovered, and the police were called, it didn’t take long before someone said they thought they saw me there, and once one person said they saw me there, suddenly everyone saw me there.” Hard swallow, palms wiped on jeans. “I was arrested the next morning, and even though I had three alibis, I didn’t have any hard receipts or any of that shit they wanted to establish where I was and at what time. And when my alibis were a bunch of Satanic cultist shithead troublemakers like me, they were brushed off. And why wouldn’t they be? It’s my friend’s word against thirty people who swore the long haired guy they saw at the party was me. Cops thought they caught their man, booked me, and had me in interrogation in under an hour from kicking down my door.”

He licked his lips.

“January of ‘88,” he said with an unsteady cadence, shooting out the sentences as they came to him, lurching faster and faster towards the horrid scars he’d never heal from. “I was so fucking lucky, so fucking lucky. DNA testing had only become a thing the year before. Mhm. That’s what saved my ass. But even then, it wasn’t like it is now. That shit took weeks to process.” He lifted his hands–fingers loosely curled, trembling. “For weeks they made me look at the pictures of her. H-Her body. The b-bruises around her neck.” He gestured at his own, and his voice swung higher pitched, “Interrogated me over and over again. For days, and weeks. Trying to get me to confess. It took weeks to prove I was innocent, and clear my name. Weeks, and weeks. A-A-And in those weeks–”

The trembling escalated to uncontrollable shaking.

“–Fuck–I don’t want to talk about this,” he said, volume fluctuating.

The air was too thick to breathe.

The wrinkles between his brows deepened, as did the lines bracketing his mouth. Red flush overtook his shuddering chest, his strained throat, his scrunched face with his eyes closed in refusal to acknowledge you sat opposite him, your expression slackened by dread.

“In the weeks between waiting f-for the DNA results,” each word wobbled worse than the last, “I found out Adrie’s mom was four months pregnant. And if I knew, then all of Hawkins knew. Everyone knew I knocked someone up, and.. and more rumors started..” He lifted his eyebrows, and his hands developed a violent shiver, hovering over the table, palms open, afraid and begging. “Because of.. what happened to the body.. People thought that she was.. That I..” each pause was a short wheeze.

Your blood ran cold with the slow realization of what word he was avoiding.

Desperation influenced his stammer, “I swear to you, w-what happened between us was consensual,” he stressed the last word in a whimper delivered straight to your dropped stomach. “She doesn’t answer my calls–but I could try, if you need to hear it from her–I promise, I promise, as soon as the rumors started, as soon as they started, she denied them. She tried to stop them from spreading. She tried. She told everyone it-it-it wasn't–that we both chose to–” he sniffed back the croaky sob, and without the grace of respite, he coughed the rasp from his throat, and ushered you into another apology you didn’t know you were owed, “I should’ve told you before we went to Adrie’s school. You had a right to know why people were staring. I’m so fucking sorry.”

In the room at the end of the dark hallway, his daughter who he sacrificed everything for rolled over in her bed, bringing the covers with her. In the belly of the trailer belonging to his uncle, you kept your feet tucked under your chair, letting the information wash over you in worse and worse crashes. In the lousy home he hated, Eddie held his breath until the aches reached their peak, and released them in a cough; and another, and another, until the pain subsided.

Deep breath, deep breath.

Your chair creaked from your uncomfortable shifting.

With time, the tension in his body waned to where his composed words could be heard in all the clarity they deserved, “I know this has been a lot to hear, and process, and I’m so sorry for unloading all of this on you at once, but I wanted you to know the whole story so you could make an informed decision.”

You weren’t sure if you were supposed to speak yet, but your whisper broke through, “Informed decision?”

Cheeks hot, but dry, and lower lashes clumped together from the rescinded tears, he answered you indirectly at first, “It took months to find and arrest the guy, and by then Hawkins didn’t care. Babe, you can be anonymous in the city, but this is how small town mentality works. All it took was one person to say I was at that party, and like that, my life was ruined. My name was stained. No one cared if I was innocent. The culprit was some other guy they’d never heard of from another state whose picture they flashed on the 6 o’clock news once. He might as well not even exist.” A pause. A change. A regret. “I want to protect you.”

There was pressure building behind your eyes, and you moved your gaze to the shelves above you in an effort to stifle the well of tears from falling–for him, for the dead girl, for what he was about to say next.

Eddie alternated between weakly slapping his hands flat on the table, then turning over to show his palms, then slapping them down again; guilt and shame and loneliness and fear working its way into every part of his gentle nature. “My name carries a stigma, and if you’re going to be coming around to my place, or be seen with me in public, you need to know there are consequences. Assumptions are going to be made about you. People are going to speculate, warn you, judge you. You don’t deserve that shit, so please, tell me, and I’ll accept just being friends at work, and leave it at that. I won’t ask questions. I won’t bother you. I won’t ask for more.”

“What?”

“I’ll understand,” he said, eyes tightening in a flinch.

“Eddie–” It came out broken. His encouragement for you to end the burden of this relationship at coworkers for the sake of your image stung like the tender throb of rejection–except, it was worse. It was him giving you permission to break things off because he didn’t see himself as worth the hassle.

Your poise collapsed. “You’re right, it is a lot to process, and it’s all I’m gonna be thinking about for the next week, a-and yeah, I wish you told me sooner, but Eddie–” His knuckles made a harsh sound when you grasped for his hand, knocking them on the table with the force of your messy coordination through the blur of true friendship disrupting your vision. “This changes nothing between us.”

Graceless under the circumstances, you took his right hand and wrapped your fingers around his thumb, fitting the meat of your palm into the curve of his. You delved your other fingers under his sleeve cuff, stroking them down, then up, slotting them beneath the stretchy bracelet. D-A-D-D-Y. He cupped his free hand over top of yours, enveloping them both, and waded through the entanglement to caress the prominent callus at the tip of his middle finger over the white blocks with black lettering. M-O-U-S-E.

“I’m with you,” you said. “I’m here. And whenever you want me here, whenever Adrie wants me here, ask and I’ll be on my bike pedaling as fast as I can.”

His face pinched in sentimental yearn. “Baby..”

Instead of suffocating the intensity of his emotions as he normally would, he slid his chair back and buried his head in the hollow of his outstretched arms; and in the pocket of space where he felt safest, he allowed himself the relief of two hot tears streaking through the fine sweat overtaking his puffy face. They clung to the tip of his nose, and dripped to his jeans in a loud splat.

He snorted, but it came out as a muted huff due to his stopped up sinuses. “Can’t believe I made it all the way through that sober and without crying, and then you just–went ahead and said something like that.”

You smiled. He probably did, too. Then as yours ebbed, his probably did, too.

The intertwined pocket where you clasped each other ran hot with body temperature, humidity, and the loaded implications of his confession and your subsequent acceptance. Heavy with the context for why people stared at him. Their significant glances at you, and the new depths and meaning beyond people thinking he was weird, and you were weird by association.

But at the same time, their stares didn’t last long. They were glances by every definition. A look over, a judgment, and then away, back to their own little world and their own little lives.

You asked, “Are the rumors still as bad as they were?”

The short curls at the crown of his head waved back and forth with his slow head shake. “I don’t think so. I think they’ve gotten better in a weird, fucked up way.” He sniffled, and wiped his nose on the inside of his sleeve before returning to the darkened confines of his arms, refusing excess stimulation until he could handle it. “Ever since Home Alone came out, my friends joke that I’m like that old man, y’know, the one all the neighborhood kids target, and turn one rumor about him into this entire narrative where he’s slayed over a dozen people, and keeps the bodies in his basement.” He laughed, truly. A warm, muffled thing. “That’s the sorta rumors going around now, I think; that I’m some Boogieman that gets blamed for every bump in the night. Adults probably know the accusations, but, like I said, Adrie’s mom did try to stop the other ones, but I guess I don’t know for sure if–when people look at you and me–that’s what they’re thinking. Uhm, I don’t know if I’m making sense anymore.”

“You’re good,” you consoled him. Your thumbs whispered sentiments on his skin, smoothing over the rough terrain from his labor, and catching on the excess sweat, wicking it away and creating more with each hindered brush across his inner wrist, trapped under the weight of his heavy hand copying you; running his fingers over wherever he could, needy, grounding himself to your presence, and seeking closure. “Thank you for finally telling me.”

“Thanks for listening,” he responded quietly.

Eddie shrugged his shoulders to his cheeks, and dried his face on his jacket to the best of his ability. Together, you sat in silence for a while longer, holding each other. Thinking. Decompressing. Plunging into the ice water of yet another development in your relationship, and emerging to the surface in unison, breaking the surface tension latched together by the same lifesaver.

You squeezed.

He squeezed back.

“I think I need a minute,” Eddie said, throwing his head towards the bathroom and letting go of you to inelegantly wipe at his runny nose. He drew further away from the table, standing up and walking in his odd, awkward way; playing with his bangs, and taking his hair out of the ponytail. “I’ll see if Adrie’s awake and wants soup, too.” The edge of the bathroom door flooded with yellowed light and a faucet was turned on high.

There was a nice moment where you nodded at the homely kitchen, lost in thought, absorbing the sounds and smells of the thick bubbling brew, and tomatoey pungence. Until it dawned on you.

“Shit, the soup–!”

Thankfully, as you stirred, the potatoes stuck to the bottom of the pot dislodged themselves, and nothing appeared burnt. Because, honestly, you couldn’t take the wound to your pride if the first time you ever cooked for Eddie Munson resulted in you burning soup.

After searching, you discovered the cabinet above the dish rack housed the dinnerware. You grabbed two mismatched bowls and hesitated on the shallow Little Mermaid one, until hearing the click of the bathroom door swinging open, and a squeak from the adjacent bedroom.

Soft footsteps announced his excitement before you could turn and see Eddie’s silly hand wave.

Come here, he mouthed, peeking from around the wall.

You dropped the serving spoon on the–had to be homemade–ceramic ashtray masquerading as spoon rest, and followed, hungry for new discoveries; the first being the (offensively ugly) pirate ship wheel chandelier hanging above the washing machine you had to have been an idiot to miss earlier. Deeper into the carpeted hallway was the coat closet with crayon squiggles, a shelf of kitschy knick knacks, and a thrifted painting of a lake scene with the curled-edge price sticker still on the corner of the glass. Passing the bathroom, you got a glimpse of a dark green shower curtain, a wet rag on a packed sink of various spilled products, and a bucket of rubber ducks next to the tub.

Eddie slowed, and you were confronted with his back. Slim shoulders on display from his oversized jacket falling further down his arms, thick canvas folding over itself around his tapered waist. The white tank top was stretched to fit him, hem of the armholes digging into his flexed lats as he eased the bedroom door open, back muscles contouring in the heavy shadows as he hunched and held his breath at the creaky hinges broadcasting his entrance. Edges of tattoos taunted you while he blinked into the darkness. And when the one who usurped his bed nearly five years ago didn’t wake, he straightened up and shook his hair out of his face.

He angled to the side, opening himself to you with his arm outstretched; an unspoken suggestion in his fingertips finding the edge of your cable knit sweater. You understood the glossy shine of unfiltered love in his gaze, and fit yourself between him and the doorway, stealing the soft filtered light brushing Adrienne’s sleeping form in tender illumination–made sweeter by the curls falling over her closed eyes, and the pale blue unicorn hugged in her arms.

‘Oh,’ you sighed in surprise, and clasped your hands on either side of your cheeks, craning to look up at him.

Just like the time he helped you hang decorations in the breakroom, your head made contact with the stick-and-poke viper, and his grin was instant.

His inhale cradled you. “She loves that thing,” he said, chest rumbling against your nape, stomach pressing to your side with an amused grunt, filling the gaps between you and him with warmth.

It was as if nothing changed. Not really.

Eddie canted his forehead to you with an expression of mild jealousy over your plush toy wrapped in his little girl’s arms when his cold plasticy ones sat at a miniature table in a pink playhouse pretending to have a tea party. His eyebrows were the same–raised, hidden beneath the wet stringy pieces of his bangs skimming his wrinkled forehead. His damp cheeks, jaw, and neck were the same after his cold water wake up call, splashing himself over the bathroom sink. His full lips were the same, pink and pulled back to show his teeth. His strong chin was the same, peppered with a recent shave. His handsome nose was the same, albeit red. The crinkles at the corner of his eyes were the same, if not slightly fuller from his recent cry.

But everything had changed.

Before, you lacked the understanding of the fear in his eyes when Mr. Moore had walked into the shop. How he had risked a painful bruise on his hip from the chair he knocked over in his scramble to get away from you. The tremble in his hands when he ran them through his hair in an urgent act to appear composed, and not like he was doing something worse with you. To you.

Everything was different, but it was felt, not seen.

The leftover adrenaline from the confrontation at his kitchen table faded, and in its place, rising from the truest, barest, rawest vulnerabilities of himself, was trust. A candid expression of respect in his palm at your back, fingers curled in to stroke his nails along the knitted design of your turtleneck. He confessed his secrets, you knew him to be an innocent man, and despite his worry for your reputation becoming infected by his, you promised him the same loyalty you always had, because there was not a lie in existence that would break the bond you facilitated months ago, born from your sheer desire to annoy the one mechanic who wouldn’t speak to you.

Felt, not seen.

A promise, and an urge.

The tingly pleasure of his nails scratching over your sweater advanced to a divine expression of affection.

He wrapped his arm around you, settling his hand in the curve above your hip. It lasted all of two seconds, long enough for him to bring you into the crook of his body for the purpose of whispering something in your ear, but it was a phenomenal improvement over the usual nervous flittering his fingers performed when in your company.

His voice was candy sweet after watching your face break into a smile for his daughter, “Maybe we should let her sleep, hmm?”

You leaned into him. “Yeah,” you sighed, rolling your head along his shoulder, guiding your silly grin from him to Adrie. “She looks so peaceful.”

“And quiet,” he observed in the wise tone of a single father after long hours of soothing his child’s headache when her cries created one of his own, and juggling the duty of cleaning up her puke from the floor, her clothes, his clothes, and bathing her while wallowing in the misery of doing it all by himself.

Eddie persuaded you into the hallway, and closed the door behind him, letting his arm fall to his side, ending the cocoon of warmth he provided with the harsh drag of the metal zipper scratching across the back of your jeans. He followed you to the kitchen and opened the fridge, muttering a string of words about deserving something as he snapped a silver and blue can from the plastic ring holding them together. “Want a beer? I don’t think you can get a DUI on a bike.”

“You actually can in some states.” You didn’t elaborate, and continued spooning soup into the bowls in questionable silence. “But no, thank you.”

Crack, tss. He held your stare over the rim as he tipped back a long gulp, pressed his lips together, and swallowed with a satisfied ‘ah,’ giving you ample time to ignore him. Finally, he moved his hand about, and asked, “Not gonna tell me why you know that?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.”

Moving on, you located two spoons from the absolute chaos of the cutlery drawer, and brought the bowls to the table while he reached into the pantry for an open sleeve of saltines, tossing them between the both of you and falling into his chair with a soft grunt.

“This looks great,” he complimented in earnest, voice and face alight with appreciation as he thrashed his arms to get out of his jacket, and took another sip of beer before crowding his side of the table with elbows, forearms, and hands; always holding the Pabst, or the soup, or reaching; always in motion, dominating the space you shared between your bowls, and beneath, where your legs were slotted in tight between his wide-spread knees.

His manners were about what you would assume after eating lunch with him many times, but that’s not what had you breathless.

He just.. took off his jacket like it was a completely normal thing he did dozens of times in front of you, sometimes accompanied by a hand rolled cigarette hanging from his lips, or joined by a sneer at some bad joke you told.

But it wasn’t normal. Not this time.

Hungry, hungry, hungry, you devoured the sight of his bare skin.

While he stirred the finely diced carrots and potatoes, you were afforded the time to admire the art no longer hidden by coveralls. Guessing at the older blotchy etches on his inner arm, theorizing about the origins of the souvenirs done in various stages between professional and very not professional, probably by himself or a friend. He didn’t have many, but it was easy to get caught up in the collection of motifs spanning from the top of his shoulders, and crawling in disorder downwards, to a tiny dagger at the apex of his bicep, two dice above his elbow, and a classic twist of barbed wire. Very cool and tough, but your roving stopped at one tattoo in particular.

Rather, one cluster of tattoos making up a whole.

“The bats..”

He perked up at your whisper–”Hm?”–and looked down at his arm. “Oh, yeah. These were my fourth, I think? Somethin’ like that. You like ‘em?” he asked, mouth cutting into the same delighted place a smirk originated from, but with more fascination as he too realized this was your first (technically second) time seeing his exposed arms.

Sucking in your cheeks to curb your habit of smiling at everything he said, you nodded in response, falling into a rhythmic head dip as you thought back to your first time meeting Adrie, and the picture she drew for you, and her Halloween costume, and how she chose not to dress as a princess like all her friends, but as a bat instead, because her daddy liked bats. “Yeah.. Yeah, I like them.”

He removed the twist tie from around the crackers and counted out three, stacking them neatly between his palms and, without warning, crushing them into his soup, sending a fine powder into the air.

It was obvious you were watching him on account of your untouched food, but it was beyond your control. Winter created a barrier between you and his skin. You needed to reap the beauty now while you could. Learn what you could, like the scorpion above his collar bone opposite the viper, and the eyeball monster with tentacles twisting over the bulk of muscles laying dormant in his solid forearms, and whatever the hell else was peeking out from under his tank top.

He scraped his spoon along the bottom of his bowl, and determined he needed one more cracker to make his soup as thick as he liked, and collected it from the crinkly pack. Yet another simple movement he had executed hundreds of times in front of you, and yet..

You stared. And stared. And stared. And made a sound of disgust. Rising from your chair, you loomed an impressive shadow over Eddie’s face as he gazed up at you with an expression of open confusion.

His eyes were trained solely on the pretty glint in yours. 

Shiver. Goosebumps.

He jumped at your bold finger slipping under the strap of his tank top to move it aside. You pinched your brows, narrowed your eyes, and pressed your palm to his skin, enthralled by the sensation of him existing under you, aware of the full breath he took to fill out his chest as you introduced the touch.

Humming, you studied your hand cupped over the black widow spider inked onto his naked pec, and concluded, “That one’s smaller than my palm.”

The pale saltine cracker shattered in his grip.

Acting oblivious, you scooted your chair under you, sat, smoothed your hands over your lap as if a napkin existed there, and slurped your spoonful of soup as if you had done something as natural as point out the weather.

He released his surprise in a huff, and brushed the crumbs from his palms. “You are the lamest person I have ever met.”

“Have you met yourself?” At his weak glare, you slurped more of your soup. An amicable silence followed–the sort of camaraderie communicated through full bellies–but there’d been something on your mind since he willingly opened himself up to you and shared his past, expecting his name to become a forgotten word in your mouth and nothing more. “Hey, since we’re like, baring our souls and shit tonight, do you want to know why I created my ‘yes’ policy?”

Instead of a comically over-quirked eyebrow, he showed genuine interest in listening to your story. He set down his spoon, and turned his full attention to you. “I’m intrigued.”

“I’m tellin’ ya now, it’s not as riveting as yours, but uh,” you faltered on a pause, and fostered the same sort of nervous shrug he did. “Growing up, my parents were really.. negative, I guess is the best way to put it. Like, they wouldn’t let me hang out with friends, told me I’d never amount to anything, said I was a disappointment. Y’know, normal stuff. Uhm, I wasn’t allowed to do much, only really leaving the house to go to school or go to my job when I was old enough to have one. They said I’d never live up to their expectations, I was a failure, I’d never get a boyfriend, I’d be a bad wife, I’m going nowhere in life, and I’m an annoyance and take up too much of their time, and I was never wanted.” You swiped your tongue along your top teeth, and popped your lips after perhaps sharing too much. “Anyway, I made good grades in high school, so I took a lot of electives, and one of those happened to be Drama class. This may come as a surprise, but I was really shy at first, but after a while I got used to playing different roles, and fell in love with the freedom of becoming whoever I wanted on stage. And one day my teacher taught us a lesson in improv, and yeah.. the moment she explained the concept of ‘Yes, and..’ I was hooked. Just the mindset of nothing being rejected, and no idea was made fun of, or shot down was brand new to me. And as you can infer by now, I adopted that ideology for my own life, and, uh, yeah, I’ve been saying ‘yes’ to everything since then and never looked back. Literally, I’ve talked to my parents like, once since moving out, and that was about my insurance.

“Uh, anyway,” you said, still talking a mile a minute, “it did kinda create a people-pleasing complex for a while. I wanted to say ‘yes’ to everyone because it made them happy, since, y’know, I was always told ‘no’ and it did the opposite. But it’s whatever. And, uh, while we’re doing this, I wanted to apologize for always pointing out that you’re single.” You avoided eye contact. “Kinda harsh in hindsight.”

He broke into a laugh–a loud clap like thunder, and curling in on himself–finding the humor in your flustered state.

“Well, I’m glad you find it so funny,” you deadpanned.

“No, no, sorry–” He concealed his giggles behind his knuckle crooked to his lips. “I, yeah, I’m sorry for pointing out that you’re single too.”

“Appreciated.”

The brief teasing commenced to a slight frown between his eyebrows. His gaze drifted to his soup, worry twisting at his lips as the bubbles of oil sloshed across the surface of the reddened broth, trembling in ripples from his bouncing leg.

Eddie was emotionally fatigued. Words weren’t coming to him–none that carried the weight they needed–so he offered an alternative to hollow apologies.

He brought a shaky spoonful of soup to his lips, and dribbled some off the side as he overcorrected the angle he needed to slide it into his mouth. The next dive for a potato proved just as awkward, trepidatious, but the struggle of eating with his non-dominant side was worth it.

Your fingertips brushed over saltine dust as you accepted the proposal of his hand resting at the center of the table, palm open, and fingers coaxing you to reunite skin on skin.

“I like your policy,” he said, voice gone gruff with the exhaustion of the day.

“Really? On more than one occasion you’ve called it stupid, irresponsible, absurd, the dumbest thing you’d ever heard of, naive–”

He shut you up by curling his fingers over yours, setting your cheeks ablaze with his unashamed thumb pressed to your bracelet. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your policy.”

A powerful move, and you matched the intimacy.

You hooked your thumb around to the scars lining the backs of his fingers, and lost yourself in the warmth of his embrace, giving yourself to him with each circle you massaged over his knuckles and between the joints. He did the same. Touching, touching, touching. Trusting. Melting into each other's palms. Holding hands with a man accused of so much, and forgiven so little. Holding hands with someone, just months ago, he brushed off as flippantly as her parents did.

He was sorry for the way he treated you.

You were sorry for the way the world treated him.

He squeezed.

You squeezed back.

~~~

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” you asked with a whine.

The pot of leftover soup still sat without a lid on the stovetop, and the serving spoon had a layer of scum dried to it. The dirty bowls and spoons were stacked in the sink, and Eddie hadn’t moved his wet laundry from the washing machine yet. Surely, you could help by wiping up the crumbs on the table, or cleaning up the spilled toothpaste on the bathroom sink, or–

He clapped his hands on your shoulders. “No,” he stressed slowly, “it’s late, and I’d prefer it if you got home before Buckley’s mom starts filing a missing persons report, and adding another rumor to my ass.” You cupped his elbows–barricaded from his body heat by his jacket–and opened your mouth, ready to argue. “And I swear if you don’t turn on your bike’s headlight, I’m gonna–”

You threw your head back, and groaned, “You’re so annoying.”

With the trailer’s door open, the quiet night penetrated the mix of air colliding from his warm kitchen and meeting the windless cold from the season, joining where your bodies connected on his cement steps. Your shoes dragged on the pebbly concrete in a woeful goodbye, making your effort to leave appear utmost arduous, tacking on a classic bottom lip pout when you both relinquished your holds on each other, and he shooed you off.

Not like you actually wanted to clean his house, it was just fun to annoy him into thinking you did.

Leaned against the doorway, he crossed his arms and tilted his head, mirroring your fondness in his gaze. “Yeah, yeah. Get out of here before people start gossiping about the pretty girl leaving my trailer, alive.”

The sudden belly laugh escaping you reverberated off the metal boneyard.

You slapped your hand over your mouth. “Sorry,” and after a thought, you asked gently while crouched to unchain your bike from the handrail, “Do you normally joke about what happened to you?”

His shadow shrugged over the hubcap hidden amongst the crunchy brittle grass. “Makes it easier, sometimes.”

“Noted.” You threw your leg over the seat, and made a big production of clicking on the headlight situated between your handlebars. “See you at work tomorrow, pretty boy.”

The scoff he was going for devolved into a snort. “Bye. Be safe. Please.”

Eddie locked the door behind him.

For minutes he stood at the center of his uncle’s trailer. It looked much the same as any other day when he came home from work, if not neater. But things had changed. As much as he liked eating across from Adrie, the two bowls in the sink were adult-sized, and it wasn’t the scent of stale smoke clinging to Wayne’s flannels that had Eddie throwing his arms over his head, locking his grip around his wrist, and twisting back and forth on the spot.

“Not exactly what I meant when I said I was gonna invite her over,” he informed no one but the darkness behind his closed eyes, remembering he promised Adrie that you’d come over soon.

Inhaling deep, he expelled a loud sigh and addressed the leftover soup. “But what a fucking night, huh?”

Inundated by the heaviness of feeling wanted, he opened the fridge and grabbed a tall boy stuffed behind the shelf of condiments. It wasn’t a drink of sadness as it usually was, but in celebration.

Afterall, he had much to celebrate. He held your hand. Twice.

And, not to mention, you know, how he showed you the gruesome details of the reality he lived in–his home, his reputation, his daughter sneezing into his open mouth when he was instructing her on how to take her temperature while you gagged from outside her bedroom. You knew it all, and you’d see him tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Morning smiles, afternoon laughter. Maybe he’d even ask that question he’d meant to before you left.

But for now..

He ran his fingers over the old tattoo on his shoulder, and pressed his palm over it, replicating the weight of your head resting there when you so lovingly witnessed Adrie being his best wingman, hugging her stuffed unicorn while she slept. It’s what gave him the bravery to wrap his arm around you. And what did you do in return? You leaned into him with a smile, utterly charmed by his forwardness, if his cynical eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

A voice in the back of his head whispered a seed of doubt, but after a sip, he dismissed it.

“Still fucking got it, Munson,” he complimented himself, downing a long gulp.

————

See you at work tomorrow..

You definitely didn’t see him tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.

“Here you go, my lovely,” Robin cooed. She entered your room on tiptoes, ever so quiet, and placed your requested bottle of Nyquil on the bedside table with a glass of water. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart?”

You broke from your nest of blankets for the lone reason of glaring at her saccharine voice; somehow sweating through yet another t-shirt, while still shivering as if you’d just emerged from an ice bath.

“Aw, don’t look so grumpy, baby,” she comforted you with a pinch to your cheek. “It’s what you get for locking lips with Eddie.”

“I did not–” You cut your own self off with a round of coughs, making your attempts at speaking scratchier, and scratchier. And by the time you’d recovered, Robin had escorted herself out of your vicinity.

Her giggles haunted you from downstairs.

“Yeah, she’s fine!” She yelled to her mom. “Just lovesick.”

You rolled over, and sighed.

Goodbye extra sick day.

[urgardenandmine]

parker's lab buddy 🕷 - p. parker

hi y'all! this is my first like piece of work so i am extremely sorry if this is so shit but i hope it's good enough for y'all to at least read to past the time! hope y'all enjoy!

summary: peter parker is ready to start his senior year but will it be fun...? genre: fluff (ish?) pairing: m!reader x peter parker (the spider-man himself) word count: 1.4K

today was a nice, brisk autumn day in the simple city queens of the great state of new york. the weather was a nice 57F, with the sky being somewhat checkered with clouds that casted nice shade for the student of midtown high. one student in particular was walking down the cluttered halls of midtown high, who himself was mr. peter parker. peter let out a blissful sigh as he was making his way towards his next class. looking around, he saw some noticeable faces. 

one face was his own right hand man, ned leeds. he was dressed in brown cargo pants and the usual muted navy blue colored hoodie his lola had gifted him last christmas. his bag was half open, but it went unnoticed as he was trying to talk to betty bryant, the head host of midtown’s broadcasting show. peter zoomed in, staring at betty’s facial expressions which did not look good whatsoever. 

rushing over, he stood behind the pair, listening in to his best friend somewhat ruin his chances with they blonde.

“and y’know- vader wasn’t really a bad guy! just heavily misunderstood!” he exclaimed, almost buzzing as he continued to ramble on his all-time favorite sci-fi movie. the blonde mindlessly nodded, snapping out of her trance as she saw the brunette make his way towards his friend. she smiled, waving at him causing ned to turn. 

“hi peter!” betty chirped, smiling at him as he returned it. she then pulled out her phone, opening her recording app as she aimed it towards the other’s mouth.

“my sources say you dropped from the school’s decathlon, why is that?” she interrogated, practically shoving her gray cased phone into his rosy lips. peter’s eyes darted towards his best friend, who sheepishly laughed as he avoided the secret hero’s gaze. 

peter chuckled, shrugging as he gripped his backpack straps, his head moving away from the phone. 

“w-well, y’know, i got a new job helping my aunt may so i kinda couldn’t really do all the things i do.” he answered, cheering himself in his head from his well-composed response.

“what things?” she pushed, raising her left eyebrow. the sudden new question made the “jumpy” teen freeze. by the change in his body language, the blonde smiled. 

as he was about to answer, the halls were filled with a piercing call that caused many students to immediately disperse. betty huffed, putting her phone away as she stared at peter and ned, who had exchanged a small glance before she leaned into ned’s face. the boy jumped, his face somewhat turning red as she eyed them both.

“i’ll figure you two out eventually.” she whispered, before turning on her heel to catch up to her other friends. 

peter let out a small sigh of relief, glad that his cover wasn’t blown. collecting his thoughts, he then turned his attention to his friend as he punched the other boy’s shoulder gently. he was still getting used to his powers after having to fight off about one petty thief last night. ned winced, rubbing his right shoulder looking at his friend.

“sources? sources, ned!” peter whisper yelled, looking around the hall to make sure they were in the clear. ned sputtered, shrugging as he gripped his soft green backpack straps. this seemed to be a habit the boys shared when they were caught. it was an easy tell for them both considering one was literally spider-man.

“i was just talking about star wars! then she was asking me on you and it slipped, promise. i would never betray my-” he looked around carefully, “superhero best friend.” ned whispered happily, nudging him. peter rolled his dark brown orbs, smirking as he nudged his friend back.

“come on, we’re gonna be late for physics.” he reminded the other, both making their way to their first class of the school year. as they made their way down the hallway, peter’s hair then stood on end on his neck. his spidey sense began to tingle, alerting him to a new ‘danger” or “disturbance” in the force. looking behind him, peter saw a student he’s never seen before. as he eyed him, peter’s senses began to almost deafen him. shaking himself out of his own head, peter made his way to class with ned with one thought in his head…

was he really gonna have to fight on his first day of school?

⋆｡°✩

as the two walked into the lab classroom, the two took a deep breath and smiled at one another. the smell of chemicals, the sights of beakers and more practically excited the two. the two saw empty tables in the back, both making a beeline towards the back.

ned made his way inside, sitting on the left side. as peter was about to slip off his backpack, his good ‘ol buddy flash thompson immediately sat himself down onto the stool, setting his checker backpack onto the floor at his feet. peter stood there dazed, looking at his friend as thompson looked up at him. he stared at him, coughing into his fist as he chuckled.

“uh, parker? i know i’m great but you can’t copy me the first day of school.” he said, chuckling at flash’s own friend who was behind ned’s seat. flash exchanged a look with ned, who was left a bit in shock but not really surprised. behind ned, a small cough was let out. turning back, he made eye contact with a burly teen, who nodded his head to the left. ned nodded, slowly removing himself from the stool. ned and peter stood a bit annoyed, yet again, not really shocked that he would pull this on the first day of school. 

the bell rang again, signaling that class was in session. the class teacher, mr. roger harrington looked at the two and only standing boys.

“uh, boys? if you wouldn’t mind taking a seat?” he hinted, both aiming at the empty seats in class. the two nodded, both now somewhat embarrassed that their first day is now off to a great start. in the middle of the class, there was an empty seat one closer to the board, next to one student and in the back, there was an empty table. peter slowly made his way to the back table, not looking back. sitting down, he had seen that ned has made his way to the other table, accidentally separating the two. mr. harrington clapped his hands, smiling at all his students as he was ready to begin his lesson.

ned’s hand shot up, hoping to ask to sit next to his partner in crime, yet mr. harrington eyed him as he let out a soft sigh.

“now ned, you know once i start my lesson, i can’t stop for anything other than necessary questions and bathroom breaks.” he reminded him, causing ned to drop his hand. the tan boy looked behind his shoulder at the other, mouthing a small “sorry” as he smiled at him. peter shook his head, chuckling as he sat in the back and took out his notebook. looking down into his bag, his hair began to stand on end again. peter’s spidey senses shot into overdrive, making him shoot his head up. the oak door creaked opened and soon walked in the school principal. trailing behind was the same boy from earlier, with a black book bag on one shoulder. 

“oh! principal morita! what a pleasure it is to see you! happy first day of school!” mr. roger’s chirped. the principal smiled, waving “hi” to the students as he had one hand placed on his hip. stepping towards mr. harrington, morita had whispered softly about a new “transfer student.” 

the boy stood nearby the door, eyeing the two adults. while he was eyeing them, peter had his eyes on him. 

the other teenage boy seemed more calm than nervous. most kids would be at least somewhat jittery or shy, but not him. he didn’t budge at all. peter took in everything.

he noticed the boy’s skin color, the way his eye color had somewhat lightened due to the sunlight and fluorescent lights of the room. he also made a mental note on the boy’s hair color and his height. 

as he continued to stare and zone out, he was snapped out of it when he heard…

“why don’t you sit next to peter. peter, raise your hand please.” mr. harrington announced, causing the teenage hero to shake his head. peter turned red, seeing everyone’s eyes on him as he slowly raised his hand. the teacher extended his arm in parker’s direction, smiling at the new student as he trudged down the aisle. 

removing his book bag, he sat down on the stool. peter was practically laser focused on him, his hair still on end. his gut was telling him something was wrong.

sitting up right after retrieving his pencil pouch and notebook, the boy turned to the other and smiled softly. extending one hand to him, he spoke gently.

“nice to meet you peter, i’m [y/n].” 

peter didn’t smile, but darted between the hand that was towards him and his eyes. peter’s brain began to run a million scenarios in his hand and only one thought…

i guess he was going to fight on his first day of school.

⋆｡°✩

hope it was a good read! the spider man i went off of was the one you see above so everything written towards him in this piece is basically things i can get off of the actor.

i guess this is like a part by part story? i didn't wanna make it too long for my first one TT

if y'all notice any like weird continuity issues, i deeply apologize because this one takes place during the time of the first movie/vulture era and i barely remember the plot of it so i did my best

[zepskies]

Take Me Home - Part 1

Pairing: Beau Arlen x F. Reader 

Summary: You are another lost soul at Sunny Day Excursions. You’re aiming to settle in Helena, Montana, where Beau Arlen is the new sheriff in town. But you’ve both got a past you’re running from. 

AN: Welcome to my first ever Big Sky series! I’ve been wanting to get to this for a while now. I’m so glad I finally get to start sharing this with you! I truly hope you enjoy the ride. (Note: This is set towards the beginning of season 3.)

Song Inspo: “Fly Away” by John Denver. And remember, you can listen to the full Take Me Home Playlist ⬅️ here.

Word Count: 4,400

Tags/Warnings: A bit of angst, a bit of setup, “Glamper Girl,” and a side helping of cops enjoying baked goods…

❤️ Series Masterlist

Part 1: All of Her Days

“This really feels like cheating,” you mused.

Yet again, you surveyed the sheer size and luxury of this tent you were supposed to be “camping” in.

Between the giant king-sized bed with crème and burgundy comforters, a two-seater dining table, a dresser (with a vanity), and even a small bookshelf, it looked like the Taj Mahal of glamping.

“Can’t you just enjoy it?” your best friend replied, poking a teasing finger into your side. She smirked when you flinched and gave her some playful side-eye. “My parents are the ones footing the bill, anyway.”

“Of which, I intend to pay them back for my half,” you said. Mary just rolled her eyes and waved you off. Her parents’ money was something she’d never had a problem spending.

“Come on, they’re getting ready to go on the hike without us,” she said, tossing her little purse over her shoulder. You were a bit more practical with your backpack, filled with a bottle of water, a couple snacks, bug spray, and your sketch pad.

Mary bumped your shoulder with hers as you two walked out of the tent, and you gave her a smile. You were glad she insisted on this little week-long excursion. It gave you exactly five more days to enjoy the fresh air of no responsibilities, before you returned to reality.

“So where are you guys from?” you asked a couple of walking companions on the early-morning hike.

The woods of Helena, Montana were vast and deep, and you found them a bit intimidating. You were a city girl, through and through, but you were learning to appreciate the mountains and the steep trails flanked by dense trees. You were also grateful that you weren’t alone. 

Emily seemed to be a nice girl around sixteen, while her stepfather Avery was a lightly graying man in his 40s. You pegged his accent as English, the “casual posh” kind. On a scale from Dame Maggie Smith to Dick Van Dyke's attempt at cockney, you’d put Avery on a Benedict Cumberbatch level.

“Well, I met her mother in Houston,” Avery replied, nodding at the girl beside you. “She and Emily joined me here in Helena after we were married this past spring.”

Emily confirmed with a nod. “Yep, starting school here in a few months.”

At that, you could smile. “Me too, actually.”

Emily gave you a confused look while she fiddled with an app on her phone.

“What? You’re still in school?” she asked.

“No,” you laughed. “I’m—”

“She’s a college professor,” Mary tacked on. “AKA: a giant nerd.”

Emily tried not to smile at your expense. You just shook your head at your friend.

“Thanks,” you said wryly, despite your amusement. “We can’t all be personal trainers. One can only take so much Spandex.”

Mary rolled her eyes and prepared to fire back a retort, but your attention shifted back to Emily, who seemed to be debating whether to press a red button on her phone. You thought it looked like a voice recording app.

You followed her line of vision and saw Paige and Luke up ahead—a young “happy couple” here at Sunny Day Excursions. They were whisper-yelling at each other, sniping something about Luke’s birthday. Apparently, he had a problem with getting another year older.

Don’t we all, you thought, with no small amount of sarcasm. The guy had been a sour apple since the start of this trip, and to be honest, he was starting to get on your damn nerves.

“This is like, prime time stuff for my podcast,” Emily whispered.

You looked over at her. “Oh yeah? What’s your podcast about?”

“Relationships, lies, that sort of thing,” she replied.

You almost grimaced. Good luck finding willing subjects for that one.

Mary snickered on your other side. She leaned close to your ear so only you would hear.

“God, Paige’s voice is so effing annoying. Like a chipmunk on helium,” she said. “I feel sorry for him.”

You shot her a dry look. “He’s the one asking for it, if you ask me. But they’ve been going at it the whole time. Makes me feel sorry for both of them.”

You shook your head and kept walking on the trail. Mary sobered as she stared back at you. She was reminded of why you two were really here, and what you’d been through this past year…

What you all had been through.

You and Mary fell behind Avery and Emily on the trail, giving Mary the opportunity to touch your arm and stop you in the middle of the trail.

“Do you really plan to stay here?” she asked. “In dusty-ass Montana? With the snakes and the bears and the old hicks?”

“Well, I got the key to my apartment before we got here,” you said. And she knew that. “My aunt is letting me crash with her until the rest of my things ship over in a couple of weeks, and I start a new job in the fall. So yeah, I’m staying.”

Mary’s lips pursed. She gave you a long look, but you held your ground. You even popped your Airpods in for good measure. You were done with this conversation.

She huffed and kept walking.

You watched your friend go in annoyance. You knew she would try to talk you out of your decision at some point on this trip, but you hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

Heaving a sigh, you looked up at the clear sky above you, filtered through the tall trees. You took a moment to collect yourself in this great big no man’s land, where you could finally let yourself slow down for a minute, and breathe.

You raised the volume in your Airpods when a particular song came through.

“All of her days have gone soft and cloudy. All of her dreams have gone dry,” crooned the soft melody. You nodded to the rhythm of the mellow notes, but all the while, you tried to blink through the sting of tears.

“All of her nights have gone sad and shady. She's getting ready to fly…”

You rubbed your left hand, where you still had the tan line of the ring you used to wear.

“It’s really okay, sweetie,” Mary tried to console you, rubbing her hand between your shoulders.

After the hike, you all had returned to camp and sat down to brunch. It was an amazing spread, with waffles and muffins and Danishes, eggs done three different ways, toast with jam, assorted sandwiches, coffee and orange juice (and sparkling wine for the adults).

But even with a huge plate of appetizing food in front of you, you were sulking a bit. You had your face covered by your hands as you rested your elbows on the table.

“One of my only goals on this trip was to ride a damn horse, and I couldn’t even do that,” you said.

Sunny Barnes and her husband Buck were the heads and hosts of this whole trip. And after the hike, their son, Cormack, had tried to help you onto the nice chestnut mare the handler had brought out of the stable for you. But your entire body had locked up in fear at the prospect of being vaulted onto the horse.

In fairness, she was huge. And you were both afraid of heights, and animals that could buck you off its back and trample you.

You hadn’t been able to speak. You just shook your head vigorously every time Cormack asked you if you were okay.

So he’d graciously patted your back and gave the mare to Emily instead.

“I’ve never been able to ride a horse either,” Avery offered in commiseration. You lowered your hands and gave him a wan smile.

Emily was carving an apple with an impressive (and somewhat scary) looking pocketknife. She shrugged.

“It’s not so hard,” she said. But, perhaps realizing how she sounded, she looked up and gave you an apologetic look. “Sorry. I mean, I’m sure you’ll get it! It’s hard in the beginning, but once you get used to it, it’s like riding a bike.”

Right. A bike with hooves, you thought, ripping a piece of bread from your egg and cheese sandwich.

Mary bumped your shoulder with a teasing smile. “You just got showed up by a high schooler. Again.”

You pursed your lips in amusement. You tossed the piece of bread. It hit her dead between the eyes. You giggled at the way she jumped with a start.

“Real mature,” she shot back.

“Yeah,” you replied, taking a giant bite of your sandwich for good measure. “I learned from you.”

Even Emily snickered, making Mary roll her eyes in amusement.

Shortly after, Avery and his stepdaughter were finished with brunch and got up to get back to their tents.

You glanced over and noticed that Emily had left her knife on the table, now closed in its sheath.

Sheriff Beau Arlen may have still been relatively new in town, but he considered himself a consummate professional.

He’d agreed to accompany Cassie, the local private investigator (and his friend), up to this mountain pass to look for a missing backpacker. Questioning Buck and Sunny Barnes and their crew was just good old-fashioned, thorough police work.

But if it also gave Beau a chance to check on his daughter up here “glamping” with her half-baked stepfather, then he couldn’t pass up on that opportunity, now could he?

After talking to Buck and Sunny, who hadn’t seen hide or hair of the backpacker, Beau let Cassie take care of questioning Cormack Barnes while Beau found his daughter outside her tent. After giving her a big hug and inspecting her “tent” (Really? he thought. Looks more like a hotel room than a tent.), he asked her how her trip was going so far.

“Good, Dad. But you really didn’t have to come all the way out here just to check up on me,” Emily said. She was amused, but no longer surprised to see him.

“No, no, no. I didn’t, okay?” Beau refuted. Though at the look on her face, he knew he wasn’t fooling her. She was a sharp kid. “All right, maybe not the only reason. We had to talk to Sunny about a missing backpacker. It’s something Cassie’s investigating.”

Emily’s amusement faded into surprise, and then concern.

“Wait, what?” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Just, you know…parents probably didn’t get the memo that ‘off-the-grid’ was part of the deal,” he said, giving her a meaningful raise of his brows. Maybe his daughter didn’t have to screen so many of his calls while she was on this trip.

“Overprotective parents, huh?” Emily dryly remarked.

“The worst,” Beau agreed, shaking his head.

But he smiled. Just seeing her made his whole week better…and it alleviated some of the hurt in his heart. Not getting to be with her on a trip like this stung. And knowing Avery was the one who got to be there for her grated on him.

Beau was already missing too much of his daughter’s life, and he still wasn’t too sure on how to deal with that.

Speak of the devil, he thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Avery approaching. Beau forced himself to look as close to pleasant as he could get around his ex-wife’s husband.

While Mary went back to the tent to freshen up, you grabbed Emily’s pocketknife and went to look for her so you could return it. It had a wood-carved hilt and had her initials, E. A., engraved on the side. The knife looked special, not the kind of thing you wanted to lose.

You found her outside her tent with her stepfather, and a man you didn’t know. He had broad shoulders and short brown hair that swept above his brow. When he turned to look at you, the first thing you noticed was the cut of his bearded chin, and then the green of his eyes.

You didn’t realize it, but your insides stilled, just for a moment. Then you remembered to smile.

Avery looked a bit tense, as did the newcomer. You sensed you were interrupting a tete-a-tete. 

“Uh, hi. I’m sorry,” you said, and extended the sheathed knife toward Emily. “Just wanted to get this back to you. You left it at the table.”

“Oh! Thanks,” Emily said gratefully.

“Well, hi there,” said the new guy. He was tall, you noted, wearing a beige jacket over a buttoned-down shirt, some jeans, and boots. It was a casual look, but all worked very well for him…in a rugged cowboy sense.

“This is my dad,” Emily supplied.

“Sheriff Beau Arlen, ma’am,” he said, giving you a more friendly smile that you matched in kind when you shook his hand. You also gave him your name to go along with it.

“You here for a little belated vacation, Sheriff?” you added.

“No. Matter of fact, I’m here on police business,” he replied. That concerned you, but he was quick to wave a dismissive hand. “Everything’s okay here. Just checking on a missing backpacker. But it looks like we’ll have to continue our search for him elsewhere.”

You hummed at that in concern. “Well, I hope you find him.”

“I do too,” he agreed with a nod.

Then, Emily took the slight pause in the conversation as her chance to escape.

“Okay, Dad, well, we’re gonna go hike down to the lake,” she said, gesturing at Avery. “But as you can see, I’m fine. We’re fine.”

Beau’s smile became a bit tight, but he nodded in understanding. He gave her a big hug, and you could see he was reluctant to let her go. Avery stood behind them. He held tension in his shoulders. You felt a bit awkward yourself, being in the midst of what was clearly an uneasy family dynamic.

Beau released his daughter. After she took off with Avery following close behind, Beau turned to you next. You tried not to blush at the sight of his handsome face.

“Sorry, again,” you said, raising a placating hand. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

His lips twitched upward, and he shook his head. “You’re fine. Though you don’t look like a local. You from outta town?”

I could say the same thing about you, cowboy, you thought. There was a slight southern drawl in his voice that sounded like Alabama. Maybe Texas?

“You got me,” you nodded. “I’m from Chicago originally, but…I’ve actually just moved here to Helena.”

“Ahh, a city girl,” he remarked. “Small world. I just got here a few months ago myself. Houston, Texas.”

Your smile brightened. Right on the money.

“Yeah, I figured,” you couldn’t help teasing him a little. His grin kicked up in the corner.

“How’re the mountains and fresh air treating you then?” he asked. “Better than that blanket a’ smog in Chicago.”

“We do not have smog…or, well, not that much,” you laughed, “but yes, I’m actually really liking it here so far. I mean, I just got here about a week ago. I’m still learning. Though Emily actually tried to help me ride a horse today.”

“Yeah?” His brows raised. “How’d that go?”

You had to laugh. A kind of self-deprecating laugh that had you half-covering your face to stem off your blush.

“Not well,” you admitted.

Beau ducked his head with a smile. He met your eyes in amusement, but not without kindness.

“Well, here’s a tip for ya,” he said. He planted his feet, held his hands up into lightly clenched fists. “The trick is in the legs. Grip tight, but not too tight. He’ll think you’re rarin’ to go.”

You blinked a bit wider. Was that just honest advice…or was he sort of flirting with you?

It made you blush in earnest.

“Ah. Good to know,” you said with a laugh. He treated you with a tip of his imaginary hat.

“Hey,” someone called out.

Both of your heads turned to a tall black woman with long curly hair. She gave you a polite smile before she nodded up at Beau.

“You ready to go?” she asked.

“Ah, yep,” Beau nodded. He gave you an apologetic look. “Sorry, gotta get back to the station.”

“Oh, of course,” you said. But you held up a finger. “Wait, just a sec.”

You hastened back over to the table of confections from brunch and offered them a chocolate chip muffin each for the road. Cassie politely declined, but Beau gladly took his.

“Although, are you trying to stereotype me or somethin’?” he teased.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, but after a moment, it hit you. You’d just given a cop a baked good.  

“At least it wasn’t a donut,” you quipped, despite your embarrassment. Beau still looked bemused, but he let you off the hook.

“That’s okay. I’ve never been known to turn down free food,” he assured.

“He really doesn’t,” Cassie confirmed. You noticed how she was waiting, arms crossed.

“Well, there you go! Sorry for keeping you,” you said.

“Not at all, darlin’,” said Beau. His smile had a charming gleam. “Nice to meet you.”

You quirked a smile back. “Wow, you are from Texas.”

You didn’t think you’d ever been called darlin’ in your life.

Beau’s good humor shifted into slight embarrassment himself.

“Sorry. I’ve been told to stop doing that,” he said. When he chuckled, you did along with him. You weren’t offended by it, just surprised by the old-fashioned endearment.

“It’s okay,” you said. “Nice to meet you too, Sheriff.”

You raised a hand in goodbye, and Beau returned it, watching you go. Meanwhile, Cassie watched him with a small smirk. He stepped down from the short platform in front of Emily’s tent to meet her.

“Were you just checking out Glamper Girl? In front of your daughter, no less,” Cassie remarked.

Beau shot her a look of denial. “I did no such thing. I’m a professional. And a gentleman, mind you.”

Cassie rose a brow at him. It stirred up a bit of his defensiveness. 

“But, I’ll have you know that Em had already moved on when I had a friendly conversation with the glamper,” he said.

Cassie rolled her eyes. Right.

That afternoon, you decided to bring your sketchpad and your modest collection of paints to the lake. You sat on the bank and tried to paint, while Mary joined the others in swimming.

“That looks nice,” Emily’s voice startled you from behind.

You twisted to look at her, and she gave you an apologetic look. She was dressed to go for a swim in a one-piece bathing suit and some shorts. She seemed more of a conservative dresser than typical high school girls her age. Maybe that had something to do with a policeman being her father, or maybe that was just her personality.

“Sorry,” she said, raising her hands.

“It’s okay.” You waved it off and gestured for her to sit beside you if she wanted. She did so, admiring your work over your shoulder. You felt a little embarrassed by it, but you didn’t mind her watching you try to paint ripples of light on the water.

“Are you an artist?” she asked.

You shot her a smile. “You’re very sweet, but no. I just started this year.”

You’d just Googled some therapeutic techniques instead of, you know, going to therapy. You just knew that if you did, your aunt would probably tell your parents, who would never let you hear the end of it. Specifically, why it was a waste of time. Your father especially would have something to say.

But one of the sources you found suggested trying out some creative outlets to calm the mind and think productively, but not create more stress for yourself. You’d tried a few different things, but landed on painting. It was working for you so far, even if you didn’t think you were that good.

“How do you like Montana so far?” you asked your companion. “Your dad told me you guys just moved here too, a few months ago.”

“Yeah, when my mom got remarried, my dad moved to stay close to me,” Emily explained.

Your brows raised. Your painting hand paused with the brush near the page.

“Well, that’s a good father,” you said. You smiled at the thought of Beau Arlen. The way he hugged his daughter before, like she was his entire world, and the fact that he’d moved entire states just to stay with her, told you a great deal about the town’s new sheriff.

Emily nodded, but her lips were pressed. “He’s a bit overprotective.”

“Well, he is a cop,” You said, smiling. “I assume that’s just part of the package.”

“I get that,” she said. “It’s just…a bit much sometimes.”

You gave her a sympathetic look. “I understand. My dad can be like that too. He’s got his soft moments, but he can be a real tough nut too… He’s a retired fireman.”

“Wow, that’s cool,” Emily said. She looked impressed. “Did you ever want to be a firefighter?”

You chuckled. “No, and he never wanted me to. It just wasn’t my beat, anyway.”

In the many years before your father had risen in the ranks to firehouse chief, your mother had often worried about him when he was on shift. Being a firefighter in inner-city Chicago had brought some hard and dangerous calls.

But you had always been more bookish, and both your parents were grateful for that.

You sighed. Your paintbrush made a stroke of deep green on the page, creating darker shades in the bottom of the lake.

“I did end up dating one though. Almost married him too,” you muttered, before you could stop yourself. You forgot you were talking to an insatiably curious girl.

“Really? What happened?” she asked. You looked over at her, and she was staring at you with her full attention. You remembered then that her podcast was supposed to be about relationships, but you had no desire to be a subject.

“It didn’t work out,” you said at last, and with difficulty.

“Why?” Emily asked.

Your internal struggle kept you quiet. It gave time for Emily to really see the withdrawn, almost pained look on your face, the slight hunch of your shoulders. She deflated guiltily.

“Uh, sorry,” she said.

You offered a small smile. “It’s okay, honey.”

“I’ll uh, just let you get back to painting,” she said. You waved her goodbye after she got up and left, giving you one last look before she joined her stepfather in the lake.

You let out a deep breath. The teen was tenacious, and naturally curious. That in itself wasn’t such a bad thing. But as you watched her splash at Avery, laughing that weightless laugh that kids got to have, you realized how much you missed being that young and free in your heart.

Again, out of habit, you set down your brush and rubbed at your empty left ring finger.

Mary finally joined you back in your shared tent after a long night of socializing by the fire. You had kept to the tent, reading Much Ado About Nothing for one of your classes that would start in the fall. It wasn’t your first time reading the Shakespeare play, by any means, but you did want to brush up on it.

“You know, you’re actually supposed to be vacationing on this vacation,” Mary pointed out. She started changing into her pajamas for bed. You were already cozy in one of your old college hoodies and some shorts, not to mention snuggled under the warm blankets.

“I am,” you said defensively. “I hiked, I painted, I ate no less than one burger, a basket of fries, and three smores, and now I’m reading.”

“Yeah, for school,” she pointed out. “I may not be as smart as you, but I know homework when I see it.”

You shot her a smile. “You’re plenty smart, M.”

She snorted and slipped into bed beside you. It felt like the sleepovers you two used to have in college, years ago, when she’d come to crash in your dorm, or you in hers. She’d been a philosophy major (despite not giving two shits about Socrates), forced to attend college by her parents. You were an English major, working three part-time jobs just to get you through until graduation.

“Hey,” she said, laying a hand on your shoulder. You turned to her in question. She seemed more serious than usual.

“I’m worried about you,” she said. “And I’m not the only one.”

You sighed. Lowering your book, you leaned back against your pillows and stared up at the tent’s fairy lights.

“I know,” you replied. “But you don’t need to be.”

“Yeah you keep saying that, but you know the real reason I’m here, right?” Mary asked. Her insistent hand on your arm made you meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to do this," she said. "You don’t have to move out here and leave everything behind. You should just come home with me. Your parents, our friends—everyone wants to be there for you, like we have all year.”

Your lips pursed, and you shook your head.

“I’m not going to change my mind. So if that’s really why you’re here, and not to just spend some time with me, as my friend, then you should just go home,” you said. “I’ll leave here and go to my aunt’s house. I’m sure your parents can negotiate some kind of refund.”

Mary got angry and huffy, just like you thought she would. You weren’t playing around though. This was your life, and your decision.

If your friends and your family couldn’t be happy for you, or at least understanding, then they could at least respect you. You just weren’t sure when they’d get the hint that this was real.

You were moving to Montana, permanently.

On the drive back into town from the camping site, Beau ate his chocolate chip muffin and tried his best to listen to Cassie—to her theories on where the backpacker might’ve gone, and how best to tell the parents to keep her on this investigation.

A good part of him was still thinking about his daughter, wishing he could be there with her right now. 

And maybe, his mind occasionally wandered…thinking about the pretty shade of your eyes when you smiled at him.

AN: And there we have it, Part 1 of a new series! If you liked it, please let me know! 🥰

And a special Happy Birthday to @jackles010378! 💖 I was going to say we're both Aries (mine is next month) but forgot Pisces comes first lol. ♓

Next Time:

The trees were tall and dark now. The moon was filtering through them like the sun had during other day hikes, but it was much more ominous at night.

“Shit,” you muttered. You gripped your flashlight in worry as panic started to well up in your chest.

Now you were lost.

You jumped with a start when the hoot of a bird passed by overhead.

Shiiiit. This was very bad.

You kept moving forward on what you thought was the trail. That was all you could do, keep moving forward. You made a few turns around some trees, occasionally calling out for Sunny, or Mary, or anyone to hear you.

▶️ Keep Reading: Part 2

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@antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @deans-daydream @deans-spinster-witch @agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @iprobablyshipit91 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @lostin-jensenseyes @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester

[raina-at]

Open

“Open up.”

Rather predictably, unfortunately, Sherlock gets no response.

Sherlock rubs an exasperated hand through his hair. “Listen,” he says, calmly, reasonably, trying his utmost to keep his frustration out of his voice. “We both know how this is going to end. In the end, you will cooperate. All you are doing right now is prolonging the time we both have to spend on this. So open. Up.”

Blue eyes glare at him with a stubborn recalcitrance he is unfortunately very familiar with.

“Watson. This is irrational. You have to eat. You want to eat. You like carrots. So do it please.”

“I have to ask, does that ever work?” John asks, leaning in the kitchen door. He looks rumpled and tousled from an involuntary nap on the sofa. His feet are bare and he looks domestic and relaxed and at home.

Sherlock deliberately refocuses on a still unfed Watson, unsure whether any of the fierce gladness he feels whenever he sees John be at home in Baker Street again is showing on his face.

“Watson is not an animal, John, she has capacity for rational thought.”

John says nothing, he just moves into the kitchen and drops a casual yet affectionate hand on Sherlock’s shoulder in passing. “Tea?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock answers, then refocuses on the younger Watson, both to get her fed, and because he needs to hide how shivery it makes him when John touches him so casually, yet so wonderfully. It’s been happening with increased frequency since John and Rosie moved in with him after Mary scarpered off to parts unknown, hopefully never to return.

Watson is chewing on her play spoon, watching him warily. “Ba,” she says. “Ga.”

“Eating is mandatory, unfortunately,” Sherlock says, taking up the spoon with the carrot mush again. “Believe me, I wish it wasn’t. If it were up to me, we would live on thought alone, but since the vessels our brains are unfortunately trapped in need sustenance…” He trails off, holding the spoon out to her.

Watson looks at the spoon, then grabs it with both hands and stuffs it into her mouth.

“Well done, Watson,” Sherlock says with a smug smile that melts off his face when she removes the spoon from her mouth again and with devastating precision flicks the carrot sauce right into his face.

“This isn’t funny,” Sherlock grumbles as he hears John snicker behind him, but he knows his voice lacks bite, because he’s smiling himself. He nods at Rosie. “Well played, Watson. Well played.” He turns to John. “And you can stop laughing now.”

John moves around the table towards him with a clean kitchen towel, obviously contrite, but still smiling. “She has good aim,” he observes quietly.

“She’s a Watson, I would expect no less.” 

Sherlock puts out his hand for the kitchen towel, but John surprises him again—how does he always surprise me?—by stepping up to his chair and gently cleaning the carrot mush off Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock can’t suppress a shiver. John is so close, his hands are so warm, his eyes are so—

Sherlock swallows. They’re suddenly very close.

“Sorry for laughing,” John whispers. 

“It was objectively funny,” Sherlock says, aware that he sounds as shivery as he feels. 

“It was, wasn’t it?” John’s voice is warm and low and close, his tone is affectionate, his eyes—

Kiss me, Sherlock thinks. Put me out of my misery and kiss me already. Or never look at me this way again.

For a few moments, they’re trapped in limbo, John’s hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, Sherlock grabbing at John’s elbow to prevent him from moving away. John is watching him, waiting. Sherlock suddenly realises that there’s a slight tilt of a challenging smile to John’s lips, but also an obvious hesitation.

If you want your kiss, Sherlock Holmes, you will have to come and get it.

Sherlock surges up and takes the unspoken invitation by pressing his lips to John’s.

John hesitates for a split second, but then he kisses back, winding his hands into Sherlock’s hair and pulling him in for a serious sort of kiss, one that sparks through Sherlock’s body with a tingling warmth, making him feel alive down to his toes.

It’s heavenly. It’s also far too short, because Watson, masterful in her timing as always, starts wailing, hitting John with her play spoon. 

They break apart and both start laughing. John turns a bit to his daughter and whispers, “You’re the worst wingman ever.”

Sherlock giggles, nerves and happiness and tension releasing between them in spurts of hilarity. “I think Watson is hungry after all.”

John rolls his eyes mockingly at Sherlock. “All these bodily needs, right?” he asks, a teasing smile playing over his lips.

Sherlock grabs John’s hand and presses his lips to John’s palm. “I may have underestimated the appeal of bodily needs.”

John’s eyes go dark and he visibly shivers. “Later?” he asks, his voice husky and barely there.

Sherlock smiles, feeling nervous anticipation spark over his body, but also a bone-deep certainty that this is right, and true, and wonderful. “Later.”

-------

Thank you so much @calaisreno for doing the May challenges this year. I'm not sure whether I can manage al 31 days this year, but I'll try. This was great fun last year, so thank you so much for doing it again this year.

Tagging a few people who might want to join. As always, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@jrow @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @lisbeth-kk @catlock-holmes @meetinginsamarra @discordantwords @totallysilvergirl

[heartfullofleeches]

Clementine [Yan Android Maid] comforting an anxious Reader

Word Count: 600

Warnings: None, pure fluff

-

“A clementine is a hybrid between a mandarin orange and a sweet orange.” 

Breath in. Breath out. A delicate palm weighs gingerly to your sternum, another perched to the left side of your chest where your heart springs frantically against its cage. Together, they aim to steady the palpations of your heart - artificial lungs imitating the breaths of air meant for you to follow. 

“Their growing season is limited. Typically, clementines are available from late November to January.” 

Your chest swells as you take the first normal breath of several - the tremble of your body dying out along with your erratic exhales. Clementine extracts her hand from your chest, running her fingers along your arms till they make contact with your sweaty palms. She encourages you to squeeze with the slightly turn of your wrists - eyes falling shut as your nails breach her synetic skin.

“You're off to a good start. Forgive me - I assure you that my ramblings were not of ill importance or to take lightly of your struggles. Estimations show a distraction may be beneficial for you at times like this and I thought you may be interested in hearing some of the facts I've gathered regarding my namesake. I apologize for that as well if I am wrong.”

“It's alright…” A hand automatically rises to your cheek as you sniffle. You rest your hand against her as you sigh. “I'm glad you're doing things for yourself.”

“If it is alright of me to inquire, could you please tell me the cause of your troubles so I may assist you better?”

The crowds. You were out shopping with Clementine when you decided to wander off by yourself to grab something you'd forgotten. She insisted on following you, but you were firm in believing you could do this one task on your own. Your android caretaker practically held your hand every which way you went and while that wasn't a bad thing in itself you had to have independency somewhere. 

The swarm of people swallowed you up not long after you left her visual line of sight. You thought about turning back, but with so many moving forward it was hard for you to push through. You eventually found a bench to wait the rush out, but it only got worse from there.

“There were just so many people… It was hard for me to breathe. I'm sorry for leaving with you. I thought I would be fine on my own… I'm sorry…”

The orange glow of her optics whitens to an almost amber color as she blinks. 

“There is nothing for you to apologize for. It's normal for your kind… Humans, to want their own freedom. I have experienced that want myself in the past. If it means anything, I am proud of you for going off on your own, but I would also feel safer if you allowed me to be there with you. Nothing will hurt you so long as I am here. If anyone does, I will crush them.” 

Clementine mirrors her conviction with a tightening of her fist - punching a knuckle sized crater in the concrete below her. You laugh, a bit catch off guard by her antics. Clementine is not one to be so expressive. She pushes dust off her hand as she holds it out to you. 

“Shall we return home?” 

You take her hand - lifting yourself off the bench. “I guess so- Waaa!-”

Pulled forward, your chest falls against her back as Clementine kneels to make up the difference in your height and sweep you off your feet. She hooks her arms behind your knees, standing tall all while balancing the shopping bags from your earlier endeavors on her shoulders. 

“Are you feel better?”

Locking your arms around her neck, you heartily nod - rubbing your cheek to her’s as a sign of your appreciation. “A bit. Thanks to you. I'm glad we met, Clem.”

The hue of her eyes softens yet again. 

“I couldn't ask for a better existence. It is you I should be thanking….”

[aria-greenhoodie]

Time stuck au but it’s Pacifica meeting the Anti-Cipher society. And she is becoming Abigale’s apprentice in engineering.

I thought I DELETED THIS ASK but I DIDNT it was just HIDDEN FOR SOME REASON! anyway this idea has captivated me, I have yet to draw Pac with the whole society (I WILL) but here’s some doodles of her and Abbey!!

Click for Quality!

Also some extra musings under the cut…..

The Northwests travel to Illinois one holiday. Pacifica takes some time off from her insufferable parents to find someplace worth visiting. Unfortunately, it seems like nothing in Illinois is worth visiting. She eventually finds herself at 333 North East West Drive, a functionally abandoned historical building, “For Rent” sign collecting dust in its windows. Something catches her eye on the ground - what looks to be a normal tape measurer. I say “looks to be,” because it is in fact a TIME tape-measurer, albeit a half-broken one.

Pacifica ends up in 1901 using the half-broken time tape measurer and manages to break it completely. Luckily for her, Abigale finds her and agrees to help fix it… and teach Pacifica some mechanical know-how in the process!

Abigale doesn’t know that she’s Pacifica’s ancestor. Pacifica is pretty certain Abigale Blackwing is Abigale Northwest, but doesn’t say anything because Abigale Northwest was always considered a bit of a stain on the family, half-buried by history. Pacifica doesn’t want to let Abigale know she’s been erased, and honestly, is still a little bought-in to her family’s philosophy of sweeping “unsavory” people or things under the rug at this point.

Pacifica is actually pretty damn good at mechanics! She takes a second to get a hang of it, but once she grasps the basics she learns the rest shockingly quick. Abigale is so proud.

Pacifica actually helps enable some semblance of workshop-safety in the society, what with her modern knowledge that lead, mercury, and arsenic are all deadly toxins that you shouldn’t be putting in “anti-cipher tonic” to guzzle and/or rub on your skin.

The rest of the society LOVE Pacifica. That’s their collective daughter now.

Jessamine teaches her how to shoot! Pacifica isn’t a very good natural aim, but Jessie is patient and knows skill comes with practice.

Horace is so charmed by her, he really takes up a sort of father figure. He would mow down entire countries for this kid. Pacifica doesn’t know how to take Horace at first, since she’s so used to her real dad sucking ass, but she becomes close with him fast!

Thurburt is SO her silly weird uncle. Thurburt was always a clumsy, accident-prone fool, but somehow around Pacifica he becomes even more slapstickly-inclined. Pacifica thinks he’s doing it on purpose to get a laugh out of her. He is. It always works.

Even O’Pimm, the crotchety old drunk that he is, gets a kick out of her! He likes her honesty. If Pac thinks something’s daft or dull, she’ll say it. O’Pimm is glad to not be the ONLY one with sense around the society anymore.

And of course, it goes without saying that Abigale ADORES Pac. Abigale never wanted to be a mother, but teaching Pacifica the ropes of engineering and working her through her problems made her reconsider that thought.

Pacifica actually manages to fix the time tape measurer all on her own one night. It takes 2 weeks for her to finally tell the society. She almost doesn’t want to leave.

Abigale was the one to convince her to go home. “The future needs you, Pacifica. It needs brilliant, talented girls like you. You’ve got people waiting on you, but more than that, you’ve got a whole WORLD waiting for you! Live your life, Pacifica, your story doesn’t end in this time. Promise me you’ll make some change in that future of yours, rather than feel trapped in the past with us…”

Pacifica is a lot different when she returns. She’s suddenly way into tinkering, something she keeps secret from her family. She’s also a lot happier, and a lot less concerned about mistakes (though she’s more worried when her parents are in eye or earshot…)

Pacifica starts to really get interested in the story of Abigale Northwest. She unearths a lot of hidden secrets about her life. Most of it isn’t good, especially now. At least Pacifica knows the truth, now. (I have a VERY specific idea as to how Abbey’s life was after the society disbanded and it is NOT pretty. When I post it I’ll add a link here)

She wishes Abigale could have had her happy ending. She wonders if she had stayed behind, could she have changed things? She considered using the time tape measurer to go back more times then she’d like to admit. But she made a promise, didn’t she? Her job is here in the future, not stuck in the past…

[judesmoonbeauty]

Miss Fairytale Keeper, Come Have Fun With Us: Nica Schwartz EPILOGUE

Translations will not include screenshots or CGs as mentioned here. Fan translation only. Not 100% accurate. Please expect grammatical errors. Cybird owns everything. Feel free to re-blog, but please do not post my translations elsewhere. Thank you, for you support! ☾.

Nica: She truly is a cute robin.

I heard a muttered voice and turned around, but he just smiled and waved.

Kate: Did you say something?

Nica: Nothing at all. Anyway, if you don’t go home, then will you keep doing naughty things with me?

Kate: I won’t!

When I turned away from him, Nica began to walk ahead, chuckling.

(I’m so tired today…..)

(It’s all because of Nica’s teasing me)

As I watched his nonchalant back, I felt a little irritated, but I didn’t feel any regret about taking his hand.

[Transitions to the Palace.]

One day, a few days after the mission —

(I’m glad the issue was exposed because there was evidence of illegal gambling.)

It was thought that the evidence had been lost in the fire, but a ledger left at the scene revealed illegal gambling, and was delivered to Her Majesty the Queen.

(This is just the tip of the iceberg.)

I recalled Nica’s words and came to a halt.

(Still, I think we need to solve the problems in front of us one at a time.)

With a changed mindset, I started walking,

(Maybe I should talk to Nica about it?)

I turned on my heel to search the entire palace to lay out the facts.

Nica: I found a cute robin looking for me.

At that moment, Nica appeared before me and I jumped in surprise.

Kate: How did you know I was looking for you?

Nica: Heh, so you really were looking for me.

(I’ve been taken along for a ride…..)

Nica: Is there something you wanted to say to me?

Nica: How about some tea?

When I accepted the invitation with a nod, he escorted me to the drawing room, where I sat down on the sofa.

Nica: So, you wanted to have a chat about the casino the other day?

Kate: How’s that….

Nica: I’m a staff officer, right?

Nica: Information gathering is a skill.

He takes a sip of his tea and begins cutting the deck of playing cards he has in hand.

Nica: The core of the aristocrats were arrested, but the children of the upper class were released on bail.

Nica: Well, they’re nothing more than debauched sons and daughters.

Kate: …..People who’ve lost everything because of gambling.

Nica: At best they’ll go to a rescue institution, otherwise won’t they die in ditch somewhere? [1]

Nica: I don’t care what happens to the gambling addicts.

I frowned at his skillful shuffling.

Kate: They certainly brought it upon themselves.

Kate: But I don't believe that all of the people who attacked me had ill intentions that were beyond the point of no return.

Whatever the reason, it was a crime to cause an explosion and attack so many people.

Kate: I don’t approve of methods that do not allow room for rehabilitation.

Nica’s eyes widened and he blinks repeatedly.

Then, there’s a loud laugh.

Nica: I’m jealous that a kind young lady is worried about them.

Nica: Would you like to gamble to find out how they feel?

Kate: Huh?

Nica: You might understand if you experience the thrill of not knowing if you’ll win or lose,

Nica: The exhilaration of winning and the despair of losing.

When I gazed at him who was dealing the cards alternately,

Nica: What will you bet? Money? Your body?

Kate: I won’t bet that!

Nica: The bigger the stakes, the more intense it is.

When he picks up the cards dealt,

Nica: If I win, show me around the city.

Nica: Of course, without telling Crown.

Nica discards a pair of matching cards, and I realize this is a game of Old Maid.

Nica: You might not be trusted as a fairytale keeper anymore.

Kate: What’s in it for me?

Nica: If you win, I’ll tell you all about us.

Kate: What?

He flashed a card,

Nica: What’s our aim, what we’re going to do, I’ll answer all your questions.

Nica: What will you do?

He smiled meaningfully and crossed his legs.

(Maybe I can learn about “their lies” that Harrison was talking about.)

Kate: I’ll do it.

Nica: Now you’re talking.

Taking a deep breath I faced it.

Nica: Ladies first.

As he said that, I reached and pulled out a card, but

(Ah,)

I drew the joker, and resisted the urge to make a facial expression.

Then Nica smiled widely.

(Maybe he knows what I drew…..?)

Nica: Why are you staring at me like that. Have you fallen in love with me?

This battle may have been decided who’d lose from the start.

Ftn [1] 野垂れ死に 'Notarejini' - Literally, to die in a field or die a dog’s death.

[Master List] Dividers: @.adornedwithlight

Tags list: @sh0jun @theimaginativelyreticent @sapphire-323 @letter-from-afar @nateko Please let me know if you'd like to be added to my tags list!

[paddockletters]

between goals and hearts | jude bellingham ft. pedri gonzalez

Part 1 | Part 2

pairing: pedri gonzalez x reader; jude bellingham x reader

summary: Elena navigates the complexities of her heart amidst her work for a prominent football team. As her friendship with Pedri deepens and a new player, Jude, enters her life, she finds herself caught between loyalty and newfound feelings.

warnings: none

author's note: I'm back with a new story and hopefully, my first serie. I hope you liked it! And if you want me to tag you en the part 2, let me know 👀

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the bustling streets of Madrid. In the heart of the city, where soccer chants echoed through narrow alleys, lived a girl named Elena. Her life revolved around two things: her job as a community manager for a prominent football team and the complicated dance of her heart.

Elena had known Pedri since they were kids. They met during a summer soccer camp, their shared passion for the game forging an unbreakable bond. As they grew older, their friendship deepened. Pedri's laughter was her refuge, and his unwavering support kept her grounded. But there was something more—a lingering tension that neither dared to address.

Then came Jude—a whirlwind of charisma and talent. He'd arrived in Madrid a year ago, signing with the team. Elena's first encounter with him was at a charity event. She'd been tasked with coordinating player appearances, and there he was: tall, with eyes that held secrets and a smile that could melt glaciers. Jude's charm was magnetic, pulling her into his orbit.

Elena had been working around the clock to ensure the charity event for Real Madrid was a flawless success. As the community manager, her responsibilities included coordinating the players' schedules, managing media coverage, and overseeing the event logistics. The charity gala, aimed at raising funds for underprivileged children in Madrid, was the kind of project that fueled her passion for making a difference through her work.

The grand ballroom of the Hotel Ritz was buzzing with anticipation, elegantly decorated with banners of the club and adorned with dazzling lights that set the perfect backdrop for the evening. As guests arrived in their finest attire, the air filled with a mix of excitement and the soft melodies of a string quartet playing in the corner.

Elena was in the midst of checking in guests when she noticed Jude, the team's recent transfer and a rising star, entering the venue. Known for his swift moves on the field and his charismatic presence off it, Jude carried with him an aura of both confidence and accessibility. Elena had seen him in team meetings and during practice sessions but had never interacted with him directly.

As Jude approached, Elena straightened her posture, smoothing down her black dress, and prepared to give him the usual briefing she gave all the players.

“Good evening, Jude,” she greeted him with a professional smile.

“Thank you for being here tonight. Your presence means a lot to the children we’re supporting.”

Jude returned her smile, his eyes briefly scanning the name tag pinned to her blazer.

“Elena, right? I’ve heard about the incredible work you’ve been putting into this event. It looks fantastic.”

Taken aback by his acknowledgment, Elena felt a warm flush of pride.

“Thank you, Jude. I’m glad you think so. There’s a photo session scheduled for you in about ten minutes, and then you're free to enjoy the evening until the auction starts. I can take you to the media area whenever you’re ready.”

“Actually, I’d appreciate a quick tour of the place if you don’t mind,” Jude suggested, his tone casual yet genuinely interested.

“I’m still getting used to these events, and it would be great to have an expert guide.”

Elena nodded, pleasantly surprised by his request. As they walked through the venue, she pointed out the different sections: the silent auction tables laden with memorabilia, the dining area with its meticulously arranged tables, and the small stage where testimonials and speeches would be held later in the evening.

Throughout the tour, they engaged in light conversation. Jude was curious about the organization’s work, asking insightful questions that showed his interest in more than just the surface details. Elena, in turn, was impressed by his genuine concern for the cause and his easygoing nature, making her job as a coordinator much easier.

“What made you decide to get involved in charity work?” Jude asked as they paused by the display of children’s artwork, part of the auction items for the evening.

Elena smiled, her eyes lighting up as she spoke.

“I’ve always believed in using whatever platform we have to make a difference. Working with Real Madrid gives me the opportunity to reach out and help on a larger scale. Every little bit counts, right?”

Jude nodded, his expression thoughtful.

“Absolutely. It’s refreshing to see someone so dedicated to these causes. Makes me want to get involved more too.”

As they concluded the tour, Jude thanked her for the insights.

“I hope I’ll get to work more directly with you on future projects, Elena. It’s been enlightening.”

Elena felt a flutter of excitement at the prospect.

“I’d like that, Jude. Enjoy the evening, and let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

Watching him blend back into the crowd, Elena couldn't help but feel that this charity event had just taken on an even more significant meaning. Not only was she helping a cause close to her heart, but she had also made a connection that might extend beyond just professional boundaries.

They became friends, she and Jude. Late-night conversations over tapas turned into shared secrets. He listened when she spoke about her dreams, her fears, and the ache in her heart. Jude was caring, attentive, and dangerously easy to fall for.

The friendship between Elena and Jude had blossomed effortlessly in the weeks following the charity event. They found themselves seeking each other's company more frequently, sharing lunches, coffee breaks, and the occasional dinner after work. It was during one of these dinners that their conversation drifted from light-hearted banter to more personal and flirtatious exchanges. They laughed easily, the air charged with an unspoken attraction that was becoming harder to ignore.

Elena sipped her wine, her gaze on Jude.

“Why did you become a footballer?”

He leaned back, his eyes tracing the constellations.

“For the rush—the adrenaline of the game. But also because it’s a language everyone understands. On the field, we’re equals.”

She smiled. “And off the field?”

Jude’s fingers brushed hers. “Off the field, I want to understand you.”

As they talked, the night unfolded like a story. Jude shared tales of his childhood, the winding streets of his hometown, and the way the sea smelled after a storm. Elena listened, captivated by his words. She told him about her love for job, everything.

They laughed, their laughter mingling with the soft music playing in the background. Jude’s eyes held a warmth that made Elena’s heart flutter. She wondered if he felt it too—the unspoken connection that pulled them together.

When dessert arrived—a decadent chocolate mousse—Jude leaned closer.

“Elena,” he said, “do you believe in fate?”

She traced the rim of her wine glass.

“I think sometimes the universe conspires to bring people together.”

He chuckled. “Well, then maybe it conspired to bring us here tonight.”

The night stretched into dawn, and they walked along the rooftop’s edge, fingers brushing. Jude pointed out constellations, weaving stories about mythical heroes and lost loves. Elena leaned against the railing, the city below a tapestry of lights.

“Tell me,” she said, “what’s your favorite memory?”

Jude hesitated, then looked at her with an intensity that stole her breath.

“This one,” he whispered. “Right now.”

One evening, after another enjoyable outing, Elena met up with her friend Sofia at their favorite café. The place was cozy, with soft music playing in the background, creating the perfect atmosphere for confessions.

"You seem different, Elena, lighter somehow. What's going on?" Sofia prodded with a knowing smile as they settled into their seats.

Elena bit her lip, her heart fluttering at the mention of Jude. "Well, I've been spending more time with Jude lately. He's... there's just something about him. We connect so easily, and he makes me laugh."

Sofia's eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Oh, sounds like someone has a crush! But isn't there something about Pedri? Last time we talked, you were unsure about him."

Elena sighed, her excitement dimming slightly. "Yes, I still think about Pedri sometimes. We’ve been friends for a long time, and there's always been this 'what if' hanging over us. But with Jude, it feels different, more... intense."

Laughing, Sofia nudged her playfully.

"Why don't you see where things go with Jude? Life’s too short for 'what ifs.' Besides, a little romance might clear up those doubts about Pedri."

Encouraged by Sofia's words, Elena agreed to go on another date with Jude. They chose a romantic restaurant overlooking the city, where the lights twinkled like distant stars. The night was filled with laughter and shared stories, and as they walked through the plaza afterwards, their hands brushed together. Jude took her hand in his, and the touch sent a thrill up her spine.

Stopping under the soft glow of a street lamp, Jude looked into her eyes, his gaze intense. "Elena, I've been wanting to do this for a while now," he murmured, leaning closer.

The world seemed to hold its breath as their lips met in a tentative kiss that quickly deepened. The kiss was a promise, filled with all the pent-up longing they had felt. As they pulled apart, the air between them crackled with sexual tension, both aware of the electricity that surged with that simple touch.

Elena's heart raced as Jude gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The night felt endless, and the possibilities limitless. Yet, in the back of her mind, a shadow lingered—the thought of Pedri and the unresolved feelings there. But for now, she was caught up in the moment, under the spell of the budding romance with Jude.

The evening ended with a sweet goodbye, leaving Elena to walk back to her apartment under the starlit sky, her mind a whirl of emotions. She felt exhilarated and terrified all at once, wondering if she had started something that could either blossom beautifully or leave her caught between two worlds.

As she lay in bed later that night, Elena couldn't help but replay the kiss in her mind, the warmth of Jude's lips on hers still lingering. The joy of the moment was palpable, but so were the doubts about what this meant for her friendship with Pedri. She knew she would have to face her feelings head-on, but for tonight, the memory of Jude's kiss brought a smile to her face, and she allowed herself to drift into sleep, wrapped in the sweet possibility of new love.

[theglamorousferal]

Persephone's Binding Part 7

Hardcover/Anger Management ship Sacrificial Bride au

AO3 Prompt Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

As he slid into the booth Jason was glad he had taken Danny's advice on wearing "Mid 2000's American chic". Clad in dark wash jeans, a red Henley shirt and his leather jacket he waited for Danny to come back with their order of "Nasty Burgers". He wasn't particularly excited about the name, but after sparring for four hours he was starving.

"One Double Nasty Burger with Nasty Fries and a chocolate milkshake for you and the rest is for me!" Danny returned to the table with his arms stretched longer than should be possible with four trays of food. He placed one in front of Jason and kept the others for himself. Jason raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"You sure you can eat all that?"

Danny smirked, grabbed a fist full of fries and declared "Watch me," and shoved his whole hand into his mouth in an almost cartoon logic sort of way.

Jason gaped for a moment before he chuckled to himself and picked up his burger. It looked like a regular burger, so he took a bite and - dammit it's delicious! He finished his bite and reached for the fries - eh, pretty mid.

"You were right about the burgers, this is delicious. However, once we figure out if or when we can contact my home dimension I am taking you to Batburger and your are gonna try the Jokerized fries." Jason finished his statement gesticulating with a fry before he popped it into his mouth.

"As long as your paying." Danny said, himself gesticulating with a fry. "I mean, flying around and doing ghostly shit is pretty taxing, so I'm always down for food, especially of the high calorie kind."

"Fair enough." They lapsed into a comfortable quiet for a while. Danny quickly worked his way through four Double Nasties, three large fries and two milkshakes.

Jason remembered something he had seen at the training grounds. "So I know we can't use projectiles on each other, but I noticed targets at the grounds. Any chance we can spend the afternoon practicing our aim?" Danny raised an eyebrow at him and Jason rolled his eyes. "Fine. Do you want to spend the afternoon trying to one-up each other?"

"Sounds like a plan, dude." Danny took a long slurp of one of his milkshakes. "So, what do you think of my sister?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Jason startled at the shift in topic and blinked. Am I about to get a shovel talk? I should probably be serious then. "I think she is very kind and genuine in her care of things. I think she's acting as Atlas and I think it's been that way for longer than she's been Regent. I think she probably should take one if not multiple days off." He brushed the salt from his fingers onto his jeans and licked his lips before speaking again. "I haven't really been able to have a real conversation with her yet. Mostly we've kinda just given each other a summary of our lives and a brief discussion about books after our discussion in the library last night. I've interacted with you more than I have her, but from what I've seen of both of you so far, I'm impressed."

Danny looked at him, his green eyes intense, as if scrutinizing his very soul. He very well might be doing that actually. Jason did not flinch at the inspection, everything he had said was genuine.

"Hmm." Danny took a loud slurp, finishing off that milkshake. He set it aside and grabbed the other. "Do you find her attractive?"

Jason did not waver as he responded. "Just because I do doesn't mean anything without her approval." Danny narrowed his eyes further and took a sip so long Jason wondered if he had to breathe.

Jason sighed. "Fine, I may try and make myself a bit more aesthetically pleasing to her to try and catch her attention besides that I am a person in need and would gladly take pointers if you aren't completely against me attempting to woo her."

Danny smirked. "I knew it! Ha, take that Johnny!" He whipped out a clunky looking device and sent off a message in a group chat. He then leveled Jason with a look. "K, so, I may be new to the whole 'reading souls' thing, but when I took a look as you were talking nothing looked off and I've enjoyed hanging out with you so far today so I'm going to help you." As Jason perked up, Danny held out a hand. "I'm just gonna say this right now; I am not a miracle worker. I'm going off of evidence from past crushes and boyfriends here and it's been years since her last one. She's been a bit too busy for romance with all the training and then everything that happened.

"Anyway, you're on the right track with the biker aesthetic if this is more like your every day clothes. If you had a bike to go with it then we can likely get your foot in the door. I mean, you've already got a leg up on her last boyfriend with talking to her about books." Danny paused in eating his fries. "You know what? Let's rain check on the target practice, I'm gonna take you someplace we can get you a ride. We'll kill three birds with one stone, you get more of the biker aesthetic, maybe you can get Jazz to go on a ride with you, and you can move around the Zone without needing one of us to guide you!" Danny shot off another message to his group chat and then promptly finished off the last of his fries. "Come on, let's head over!"

Jason gathered all the trash and dumped it away as he followed Danny out of the restaurant. Danny grabbed Jason by the shoulders and flew off from Amity and towards a segment of floating land that looked like a winding road.

"It's gonna take a bit to get there at normal person speeds. Mind if I speed this up a bit?" Danny looked down at Jason.

"Go for it, I'm used to flying with the Supers and they can move at light speed."

Danny looked at him shocked for a moment. "Man, your dimension sounds so cool!" At the last word Danny's entire being seemed to flicker brighter and the freckles on his face spun around and were shaped like stars. He cleared his throat, embarrassed for a moment. "I can't go nearly that fast, but my top speed should get us there in five instead of thirty minutes." With that he took off.

Soon enough, Jason saw quickly approaching what appeared to be a brownstone not unlike those from any major US city with an apartment above two businesses. A garage and a stylist's from the look of it. Standing in front of the place was a couple, a blonde and very pale man in a mechanic's jumpsuit covered in various stains, and a very pale woman with green hair and bright red leather jacket and skirt.

"Hey Phantom, so this is the poor schmuck?" The blonde asked after Danny placed Jason back on his feet.

"Hey Johnny, yeah, this is Jason. Poor guy got sacrificed to Jazz of all people." Danny replied with all the air of a younger sibling. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure he left his bike in his home dimension, mind hooking him up with a ride? I don't want to have to carry him everywhere and I doubt a ghostly horse is gonna do it for him." He stuck his thumb out, pointing at Jason behind him.

Johnny seemed to be sizing him up, his arms crossed before he eventually nodded. "Fine, but it's going on your bill." He turned to head into his shop. "See ya later Kitty, I got a big project apparently." He kissed the woman before he walked into the garage.

Jason made to follow, but Kitty stopped him. "If you ever need some styling you come to me okay kid? And if you make the Queen cry, I can make men vanish with a kiss." She patted him on the shoulder before sauntering back into her shop.

"Yeah, Kitty got close with Jazz after a fight she had with Johnny one time. It's kind of weird because when Jazz was dating Johnny, he was trying to get it so Kitty could possess her to exist in the Living Realm. It was a whole thing, but it's behind us at this point." Jason blinked at Danny's back as he floated his way into the garage. Okay then, just casually drop horrifying lore why don't you? Jason followed him inside.

Danny was floating over Johnny's shoulder as the man was drawing up basic schematics.

"Standard Court specs?" Johnny asked the floating High Prince.

"For liminal humans for now yeah. We haven't had the chance to bring him to get a full scan done to find his classification yet."

"Hmm. Okay, hey Sacrifice, get over here, do you like low riding or tight riding?" Jason joined them at the table and they spent the next few hours planning out Jason's ecto-bike. "Looks good, it's gonna take me a bit, but I can get it to you in a week, two tops if I can't get one of the parts. I'll hold off on the engine until we know what your classification is, if you produce your own ecto then we'll need a sample for it." At Jason's hesitation he continued. "It just means that it'll be more self-sustaining and you can summon it to your will. It'll lock-on to your ecto-signature."

"Cool, do you think it'd work in my home dimension? Or will I have to leave this beauty here if or when I leave?"

"Possibly? I mean, at the very least you are death-touched and that kinda manifests ectoplasm in universes. It depends on how much ambient ecto there is around. It doesn't run on gas, it runs on ectoplasm." Danny butted in. "Either way, it'll be good to have here, and who knows, if you have to leave it, maybe you can still come visit?"

"Yeah kid, I'd like that." Jason replied.

Danny smiled. "Cool, well, we gotta head back for dinner. Lunch Lady is making baked Mac and Cheese tonight and I am not missing getting the corner servings."

"See ya around Johnny! Thanks for this by the way."

Johnny waved him off. "Eh it's no big deal, I make all the rides of the Royal Family. You being sacrificed means you're probably bound to this craziness for eternity." Johnny looked at him seriously for a moment. "Do better for her than I did, K? I know that won't take much, but she's been through Hell and back and she deserves someone to take care of her for once."

Jason nodded back, determination set on his face. "If she lets me, I will."

[mageofgoobygrove]

Look After You (Baldur’s Gate 3)

A little something while I await for requests. Hope you enjoy! (8/2: i’m a dumbass, today was so unnecessarily hectic that i almost forgot to post. forgive me 🙈)

Gale Dekarios/Tav

(Featuring — Tara)

"Surely he should be here by now, Mrs. Dekarios?"

Gale almost sighed in deep relief when he heard Tara's voice. He stood outside of his tower just about to murmur the right words to unlock the front door. Because it was locked by magic rather than a mechanism, it took you some time to learn how it functioned. Magic wasn't your specialty, just as his wasn't swinging a blade.

Although this was an uncommon ground, it was days such as these that made him appreciate it. Coming home from teaching wild, ruthless prodigies was more than enough magic for one day.

The lock clicked once Gale commanded it. When he pushed the door open, he was met with his Tressym ready to greet him.

"Mr. Dekarios!" Tara said with surprise, more than was necessary. Before Gale could speak, she began making her rounds between his legs. She sniffed at his scorched pants and took note of the dark footprints on the matt below before stepping back.

Gale knew better than to try and move.

"What a state to return in! Who did this to you?"

"Tara, please," Gale begged in a whisper. "I will explain everything if you'd so kindly help me get to the bedroom."

"You reek of smoke, Mr. Dekarios." Tara explained flatly, "there is no sneaking around the tower."

"Tara—“

Tara interrupted with a loud shout. "Mrs. Dekarios!"

Gale had exactly six seconds before you'd see his singed appearance. Each second went by too quickly for his liking as he considered every option he had. First, there was the thought of an illusion spell. A quick wave of his hands (as you tended to describe it) and the magic word would save him from embarrassment. If you were easy to trick. Second came the grand idea to dash off and find a cover.

"You cannot hide this, Mr. Dekarios. And do not dare move, you will stain the floor."

"Well," Gale weakly shot back, "worse has happened in this tower."

At that moment, you rounded the corner and went in for a hug. Your smile quickly disappeared when you caught sight of the black, powdery substance all over Gale. Before you could touch him, you reeled back. Gale smiled as you took in his messy state.

"Am I glad to see you."

Gale hardly moved as you reached up and rubbed the powder from around his eyes. It hardly budged, but you were far more stubborn. He hummed with content at the small gesture.

"I can hardly see you, dearest," you laughed as his skin began to show. In a more softer tone, you asked, "I assume class went as planned?"

“The first hour? Oh, it was magnificent.” Gale explained as you reached down to Tara. She had left and returned with a damp cloth between her canines. It made progress much easier has you gently wiped his face.

“We delved deeper into the arcane, between electric cities and heatwaves. One asked me to demonstrate a fireball, which I rejected the idea immediately. Safety first, I said, when it could be practiced. Unleashing a fireball in a room full of young students is undoubtedly a quick path to losing my job.”

You hummed for him to continue. Tara instructed for him to undress before setting off to find something to cover him with. You took a step back as he started with his boots and worked his way up.

“So,” Gale waited for Tara to be out of earshot. If she heard, she would be attending class the next day with him. She would surely lecture his students about their actions until the end of time. And even after. “A little Clem Amakiir decided to present for me. At me.”

Your focus was wavered. While defiance at Blackstaff wasn’t new, a student attacking your husband was.

“Surely it was an accident.” Those children better pray it was.

Gale chuckled. “The fireball? No. No, that was completely intentional. To aim towards me…that was the mistake. At least I’m hoping it was. I suppose if my students wanted to kill me, it would’ve happened by now.”

Before you could scold him for his words, Tara returned. Her wings were stretched out as she carried clean robes for the wizard.

“Thank you, Tara.” Gale reached for the clothes on her back.

“I shall attend class with you tomorrow,” Tara stated as Gale redressed himself. “Allow me to teach those children obedience.”

“That is most unnecessary,” Gale dismissed, positive that Tara overheard him despite his careful volume. “They’re simply eager to learn! I cannot punish them for having a hunger for knowledge.”

“You can punish them for an attack, Mr. Dekarios.”

“What do you think?” Gale sighed as he looked over to you. As he struggled with the last hooks on the robe, you came to help. “I say, let them off with a warning.”

“Perhaps Tara is right.” You commented, “you have a hard time disciplining, Gale. Let her help you.”

“They’re not psychopathic,” Gale tried to defend.

“One is.”

Gale held back a laugh with a scoff. “She needs guidance. From her professor.”

You looked up and met his gaze. He was watching you hook the clasps, which was something he always fought with. But you could do it right, each and every time. He smiled at you, “you’re a natural.”

“Oh, do not change the subject!” Tara caught on.

Gale almost had forgotten she was there. Everytime he caught a glimpse of you, everything else would fade into milky darkness. As you pressed a kiss to his cheek, he peered back down at Tara. “I’ll think about it, Tara. Now may I relax with my dear wife?“

Tara squinted at him, “you may, Mr. Dekarios.“

Gale shivered as she walked away. With Tara on her own, he wrapped his arms around your waist and turned his attention toward you. He was looking forward to anything and everything that didn’t involve magic, for sometime.

“How do I look?”

You fixed his collar with a grin. “I’ll allow the mirror to answer.”