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magicalrocketships · 2 months ago

Note

You talked in the author's note about having more thoughts on Max's sexuality in Breaking every rule for you. I'd love to hear more about that, if you want to? 🤍

Oh, thank you for asking!! I did a whole disassociation thing after I posted the last chapter and I was like "it's very important to reply to comments and asks about this fic which meant a lot to me to write and to receive" and then I simultaneously thought orrrrr, alternatively, you can keep putting that off because you won't be able to properly tell people how much all the comments and asks meant. Anyway, that's a perfectly sensible series of thoughts to have, which brings me to this ask.

So, Max in Breaking Every Rule For You. This is half brain-dump, half director's cut of Max's POV. Either way, I accidentally wrote 3000 words about my beloved, feral Max. Sorry? Not sorry. I'll always want to talk about him 🧡🧡

He has literally no conception of this (and neither does Daniel), but he's very much on the asexual spectrum. He's demisexual, which is a word he's never heard and wouldn't know to use even if he had.

He continues to tell the truth about his experience of life, but Daniel doesn't know enough to understand what Max is accidentally telling him, and Max doesn't know that his experience isn't universal. So! This fic is basically Max experiencing sexual attraction for the first time.

OBVIOUSLY this does not excuse Max behaving monstrously to Zoe and being hopelessly cruel to Daniel. He is, however, experiencing a lot of stuff for the first time and he didn't know! That he could feel like this! He is horny about someone else for the first time in his life! He'd be feral anyway, and he and Daniel stay completely feral after the fic's done and long into the future, feral and horny and all over each other, but there's this whole extra layer to it that's just Max being like... you can feel like this about another person? You can want someone THIS MUCH? You can want to fuck and come and kiss and touch another human being? Everybody in the world isn't lying about wanting it?

So on the one hand you've got Daniel's much more linear experience of oh, fuck, I've been bisexual all along, and the person who's opened my eyes about it is Max, what does this mean for my life and am I allowed to have something with Max for the longer term? In contrast to Max being so fucking thirsty to experience all of these things he's wanting for the first time, and barely understanding what it is he's wanting and the impact on the lives of the people around him who love him. He's so fucking needy and he barely understands the reasoning behind that, but that's partly why he keeps bringing Daniel back and reminding him of everything he's promised, everything Max is dying to experience but hasn't yet.

Even like, right back at the beginning when Max wants pictures of Daniel, it's because he's literally never felt attraction to another person. He's never looked at someone's body and wanted to touch it (or, in Max's case, to come all over him over and and over again and make him fucking filthy and his and have him show Max how he touches himself and how he looks soft and hard and horny and everything in between).

And all the things he wants to do to Daniel, he's never done to anyone else because he was horny about it. Everything he's done is because he thought he should, because he thought everyone was faking it when they said they were horny for touching other people. He can't slow himself down. He wants all of it. And then he'll do things like just warm Daniel's dick because he didn't know it felt good, and it feels so good.

On the other hand, Max has a fixed conception of love and relationships and they are work. They are a job. He has had girlfriends because he was supposed to have girlfriends and he's literally not figured out he's gay because he's not been close to a man long enough for attraction to develop, and with Max it takes a lonnnnng time, he's known Daniel for years and it's only been in the past few months it's started to change how he feels about him, ever since Daniel said he was going to leave and Max realised he not only wanted him to stay, he wanted him. And he doesn't want what he has with Daniel (something good) to crossover into relationship (something bad, something that's work, something that's always been a to-do list item) because then it will be bad. Max is getting every single thing he wants for the very first time in his life, of course he wants to keep things exactly how they are and ringfence this space in his life where Daniel is and he's getting everything he wants. The downside is that it's horribly cruel, but he doesn't entirely understand that, because he doesn't entirely understand either how he feels or how Daniel feels, and because he thinks that what he experiences is the universal, which is that relationships and love are bad and work.

I kind of love that Max at the beginning isn't a great kisser - Max kisses like he jerks off, fierce and unimaginative. A race to the finish line. One day Daniel will make him slow it down. And part of that is literally because he's never enjoyed it before. He's never kissed anyone he wanted to have kiss him back.

But also, Max loves to jerk off. He loves to jerk off. Masturbation is the one thing he's always loved to do, because he's never been low on sexual desire, just attraction. He's jerked off thinking about Daniel before, too. Even before being really attracted to him. It's sort of why he wants Daniel in his bed, not because it's where he shares with Zoe when she's in Monaco, but because it's where Max jerks off, which is the one hugely positive sexual thing he's ever had in his life. Yeah, there's also some kind of "having a girlfriend is boring and work and I'm beating the system by having a better time in the space where that boring work happens" but Max isn't pre-meditiatively cruel in this. His cruelty is a by-product.

Also: Max doesn't know that things can be better than what he has.

He's barely managed to get his shirt off before Max is launching himself at him, making some Max-like attempt at human touch by cupping Daniel's face in his hands and pressing their mouths together. It's not romantic. It's not anything, other than fast, and maybe a little furious.

"You talked about kissing me," Max says, pulling away just enough that Daniel can feel the heat of his breath against his mouth. He's still cupping Daniel's face, and Daniel wants to cover Max's hands with his own and keep him there, make him stay still, make time slow down for them just this fucking once. "You said you thought about it. Kissing me. I've never kissed anyone like that, Daniel. I want it."

Max is telling Daniel the truth but Daniel doesn't pick up on it. Max hasn't ever kissed anyone like this before. And he wants it.

Daniel spends a lot of time thinking about Zoe. Max doesn't think about her at all. He buys Daniel gifts because he's wild about him, because he needs to, like, put some of what he's feeling out into the world but he just— doesn't know how to do it. He's overflowing with it.

"Think all the time about kissing you," Max tells him, still kneeling over him, leaning in so that he can mouth at Daniel's neck, kiss him so that Daniel will have a fucking love bite he'll have to cover with concealer if he wants to leave the house. Daniel doesn't stop him. Max can mark him up any way he wants. Daniel will take any scrap he can get. People shouldn't live off scraps, but Daniel will take anything Max throws at him. He'll judge himself later. "You have a good mouth, Daniel, I think about it so much." He kisses Daniel's jaw, along the line of it, over his stubble and up to his ear. It is not foreplay. It is just Max, taking what he wants. Daniel giving it because he wants the whole fucking lot of it and to drown in it afterwards. Better drown than starve. Max kisses his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Once, twice. The side of his nose. Is this Max, trying to be gentle with him? Trying to give something he normally only takes?

And then Daniel changes things, he tries to break up with Max and Max goes insane with it. For Max, Daniel really is ruining things. He is being a stupid motherfucker. This really is just sex because Max doesn't know how to understand what he's feeling. And he doesn't want to feel! Feeling is bad. He keeps trying to make the feelings stop. Of course Max just keeps trying to take things back to the space where things were working, because he wants it so much. Of course he's jealous, because he's fucking feral and a mess and he has no idea how to feel things like a real boy, because he never fucking has, and how he feels about Daniel is really fucking easy if only he knew how to identify or name any of the feelings he's feeling.

So yeah: Max is heartbroken for the first time in his life, but he also just doesn't understand it. His chest hurts. He wants Daniel back in the space where it was all working. Daniel isn't the stupid motherfucker, Max is, for not managing to keep it so that Daniel would still kiss him and want him and touch him and text him, and Max is for not being able to stop himself from feeling stuff he doesn't understand. And then Zoe goes, and he doesn't feel anything. Not really. The only thing he's thinking about is Daniel. And then you get Max's entirely pragmatic, ruthless side, whereby he just makes sure Daniel is safe. He pays whatever he needs to pay to make sure Zoe is satisfied. He tells her the truth about not feeling about her the way he feels about Daniel. He doesn't mean to be cruel. It's a by-product again. It still is hopelessly cruel. He still only wants Daniel. He's the stupid motherfucker, not Daniel.

And all the time, Max thinking he can get Daniel back to what they had before if only he keep trying. He knows Daniel wants him back. And he thinks he's getting it. He thinks he's getting Daniel back. It's want like he's never wanted. He thinks he's managed it, and then Daniel just— shuts him down. And Max just… breaks. It takes him by surprise as much as it takes Daniel when he sees Max crying, like he's crying and he didn't mean to start but he also can't stop. He loves him. That's what this is.

"You are not listening," Max says, wiping his tears on his shoulder. "All of this time I am trying and I am trying not to want you and not to feel things but it did not work and I do and I did and I feel it in here and it won't stop." He presses the side of his fist to his chest, like Max is referring to his own fucking heart, which he can't be, because Max is Max, and Max doesn't feel anything, and he doesn't fucking feel anything for Daniel. "It is not fair that you won't listen. Always I am asking how do I make it stop, because you are just supposed to be sex, you are dick and that is for the dark and instead you are always just here, in my head and you have made me go mad thinking about you. Everything I do is very insane and it is all about you and my girlfriend left me and I do not care because she is not you and you tell me that you miss me too but now you are saying no when I want you more than I want anything and it is not okay."

It's the first time in his life he's ever been in love, and he's trying to make sense of it because he couldn't stop loving Daniel if he tried, but here's Daniel telling him he doesn't, and that he's stopped, and that is just— so far outside of Max's understanding. It's not fair and it's not okay and he doesn't know how Daniel could stop loving him if love is what he feels back for Daniel.

And then he stays. He tells Daniel that no one kisses him like Daniel does. He says: "Nobody touches me like you do," Max says, which is probably a lie since Zoe loved him and wanted him and probably would have touched Max any way he wanted if he'd only told her. "Nobody, Daniel, nobody makes me feel like you do."

Daniel makes a soft, unholy noise in the back of his throat.

"It's true," Max says, urgently. "It is true."

Daniel doesn't realise how true. That no one has ever made Max feel or want like this. That this is the first time he's ever been attracted to someone.

And for Max it's so clearly worlds apart from him and Zoe. They're not comparable.

"She was my girlfriend," Max says. "But I didn't love her like I love you."

For a moment, Daniel's brain judders to a halt. It's felt like he's been on a constant spin cycle since last night, but for a moment, everything's still. "Yeah?"

"With you it is very different," Max says. "Everything is very different."

He keeps stroking the inside of Daniel's wrist. Daniel can't think of anything to say. He just watches Max touch him.

"Of course I kissed her, Daniel. She was my girlfriend. I did all the things you're supposed to do with your girlfriend. You cannot be tearing yourself up into knots about her when she is gone and you are here."

And

"I thought about your dick a lot. I thought I would like to see it. I jerked off and used my fingers and thought about you jerking off. I thought if I was going to suck a dick then it would be nice if it was yours."

"You had a girlfriend."

"Yes. I had everything I was supposed to want. Red Bull and Zoe and one day I will have my World Championship. But not you because you are a stupid motherfucker and you left me."

And Max loves jerking off. It's his favourite thing.

But like, Max finally gets what he didn't know he wanted, which is more than just having sex at regular and irregular intervals, he gets a boyfriend, someone he can actually love and want to be with and it's all turning his conception of relationships and love upside down and he has to re-evaluate how that fits into his life, because relationships have been a boring part of work before, and now they're not, so he just has to… figure that shit out.

This conversation where Daniel asks Max if he's gay:

"Max," he says softly, after a minute. "Max, do you like girls?"

Max shifts on the pillow. He rolls his eyes. "Of course I do, Daniel, do not ask stupid questions. They are 50% of the population."

"I'm not—" Daniel searches Max's face. He wants to find something there that Max isn't showing him, some measure of understanding, of common ground beyond the fact that they're fucking and in love. "Do you like dating them?"

"I am dating you," Max says, as if he's talking to someone who barely understands English.

"Yes, but. Before. Did you like having sex with girls?"

"Zoe was my girlfriend. Of course I liked having sex with her."

This isn't Max just obfuscating. He hasn't defined himself as gay. He is, but he didn't necessarily— need to know it or define himself as such? It just wasn't important to him. He didn't really want to have sex with anyone so not wanting to have sex with girls less than him not wanting to have sex with guys he wasn't attracted to didn't matter so much? And now there's Daniel so it's even less of an issue because it turns out he can ferally cheat on Zoe for months and still not intend to ever be with anyone who isn't Daniel.

Honestly it's more of a journey than Daniel will ever know to get Max to this:

"I will do better," Max says, when there's nothing else coming, and Daniel's about to step out into the road. "I will learn, Daniel. To be a good boyfriend."

It's not something he ever even considered before, and now not only does he want to, he's going to work on it too.

Max smiles at him. He still fingers Daniel, because Max likes to multi-task and do it efficiently, but he lets his gaze rest on Daniel's. He looks happy. He looks so, so happy. "It has never been like this," he says, and Daniel doesn't say because you've been having sex with girls and you don't like them. He'll believe it's just about him. That Max feels like this about him and him alone.

Max telling the ultimate truth - it never has been like this, not a single element of it. Not kissing, not sex, not loving somebody else. Daniel doesn't entirely hear it, but then why would he? Even Max doesn't realise how much of a truth it is.

"I always thought people were lying about kissing," Max says, without moving or looking at him or anything. "It was so boring. Everyone had to be lying. Nobody could like it unless they liked boring things."

What the fuck.

"So boring," Max says. He still doesn't move or look at him "Sex was boring too. I didn't know why anybody went out of their way when they could just jerk off. Masturbating was so much better than sex, Daniel."

Christ. Daniel's fingers twitch in Max's. "Did you ever think that was because you didn't like girls? And you kept having sex with them?"

"Eh," Max says, and shrugs. "I kissed boys too. Two of them. It was still boring."

Daniel's never thought sex was boring. He's liked it pretty much every time he's had it. He's been kissing girls since he was 14 and could make them laugh enough to kiss him over bags of crisps after school. He thinks about the two boys Max has kissed. What he did with them. When it was. Who it was. If he really thought it was awful. "Do you still think it's boring?"

Max shifts at that, twisting so he can look up at Daniel with the most insulted, don't be fucking stupid look on his face. "I have just licked my come out of your ass, Daniel. I want to have sex with you all the time. All of the things I jerked off thinking about doing I want to do with you. I want to kiss you forever."

Anyway. TL;DR, Max is demisexual and is new to sexual attraction and wouldn't be able to label himself as that if somebody paid him.

#breaking every rule for you #director's cut #kind of??#waffling on about fic #anyway!!!! I will talk about this forever

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cinematicnomad · 9 months ago

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cinematicnomad's steddie fic recs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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deityoftherain · 6 months ago

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“I don’t know how to tag my fics on AO3,” you say, and I sympathize, so here’s this simple guide I typed up for someone on discord awhile ago to help with tagging:

Roles, setting, character traits, relationships, genre, tropes/situations, feel, trigger warnings, and extra stuff you want to add!

Now here’s that again but with some examples in parentheses:

Roles (POV Joel | Smallishbeans, Martyn Littlewood | InTheLittleWood-centric, Mentioned Ryan | GoodTimesWithScar), setting (Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Canon Compliant, Double Life Setting), character traits (Elf Scott Major | Smajor1995, Winged Charles | Grian, She/Her and They/Them Pronouns for ZombieCleo), relationships (Bryce | Fwhip and GeminiTay are Siblings, Established Relationship, Getting Together), genre (Fantasy, Romance, Sci-Fi), tropes/situations (5 + 1 Things, Fake Dating, Literal Sleeping Together), feel (Hurt/Comfort, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending), trigger warnings (Past Abuse, Eating Disorders, Major Character Injury), and then random things that you want to add (Girls Kissing, Love Confessions, Boys in Skirts, Amusement Parks, First Aid)

If you want to learn to title your fics, click here!

#rain rambles #rain’s tips #ao3 writer #ao3 author #ao3 #ao3 tags #ao3 help #archive of our own #tag guide #fanfic writing #fanfic #fanfiction #for those not in the know #i write non-rpf mcyt fanfic that is why the tags are like that

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 months ago

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The Dollhouse 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as fear, coercion, violence, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Five girls move into a shared residence for the upcoming school year but not all is as it seems.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, Captain Syverson, Steve Abnesti, Lloyd Hansen, and Peter Parker

This fic features five named readers; Ann, Lulu, Polly, Barbie, and Molly. This chapter features Ann and Lulu. Please note that characters may switch but will maintain second-person POV.

Note: It's thirstday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all until you can’t stand it. Take care. 💖

You’ve been waiting all summer to come back. Campus is like paradise to you. Sure, it’s fun to party but there’s also all the clubs and the general sense of community. You always manage to find your way right into the heart of it all.

You’re a bit disappointed to not be living on campus itself but you found an alternative not too far away, and in a nice neighbourhood too. Not to mention, your best friend ever, Polly, will be living with you!

The uber pulls up to the front of the idyllic building and your cheeks bloom with excitement. You spent the extra money to haul all your bags from the station, and it was worth it. You couldn’t have dragged it all that way, even on the bus.

The driver helps you get everything onto the curb. You thank him and tip him on the app. He looks at you with that fogginess that a lot of guys get. He asks if you need anything else and you assure him you’re just fine. He seems almost reluctant to go. His spindly fingers twiddle at his side as he slinks around the hood.

You stand with your bags and take out your phone. Polly said she was on her way. You don’t want to go in without her. You send her a message asking how close she is.

“Hey, what’re ya standing in the middle of the sidewalk for, bitch?”

You wince as you spin to face the grizzly snarl. You harrumph and scowl at Polly as she cackles. It’s funny to think she could do such a scary voice considering she always looks so dainty and perfect. Even then, she wears a blouse and skirt, with a scarf that reminds you of an Audrey classic. Never a stitch out of place with her.

“You sure are dressed for moving day,” you remark dryly.

“Mm, don’t talk to me Barbie Doll,” she tosses the derisive nickname at you, “I see you have on the classic Mattel shade today.”

You pout your pinkened lips at her and roll your eyes, “whatever! Pol! We’re gonna be roommates!”

You squeal together and she lifts her bag over the lip of the pavement, “hell yeah.”

You giggle and look up at the house. You went there once before for the walkthrough and it’s even more perfect than you remember. You bend to take your smallest bag and Polly shakes her head.

“Really? You brought all that? I hope you don’t think I’m gonna be your personal camel and carry it.”

“Don’t be such a downer,” you stick your tongue out.

“Excuse me,” a deep timbre rolls over as the front gate squeaks. You and Polly share a startled look then turn to the large blond man as he steps through. That isn’t Jonathan... “Are you girls here for moving day?”

“Uhhhhh,” you drone out and once more glance at your BFF, “we are.”

“Oh, let me explain, Jonathan can’t make it. He has an emergency at another property. He left your keys with me to deliver,” he stirs around in the pocket of his blazers as he stands across the pavement.

He's taller than the building manager you met in July, broader too. He’s bigger in every way and just as blond. He wears a pair of square glasses and only a plain tee under his suit jacket. He fishes out two key rings and shakes them.

“Here we are,” he grins. He steps forward and offers you one of the fobs. “Front door is a censor. All new system.” He gives Polly the other dongle. “By the way, I’m Steve. I help Jonathan with security. I’ll be popping in for routine measures but I shouldn’t bother you too much.”

“Oh thanks. I’m Barbie, this is Polly,” you squeeze the fob and smile at the grand facade of the building. “Awesome.”

Polly toys with her keyring and stays quiet. She’s usually a riot but around men, you’ve noticed she gets a bit shy. You don’t blame her. Steve is a big guy and his gaze doesn’t falter for a single second.

“Well, that’s great,” you continue, “good to be safe.”

“Yeah, especially with a house full of girls. You never know,” he says.

You blink at the subtlety of his suggestion. Obviously, there’s always those who will have the worst intentions but you try not to think of that. Besides, you’ve been around the block and it all looks very ordinary to you.

“Anyway, let me show you inside. You’ve already got a roommate waiting on your girls,” he announces and claps his hands. “Can I help you with some of this?”

He nods to your bags and you shimmy as you laugh at yourself, “oh, yeah, aha. I wanted to make sure I had everything.”

“No problem, think I can handle it,” he bends and picks up your two largest bags. He doesn’t struggle at all. You gather up the three smaller ones and Polly rolls her suitcase with her.

He stands inside the gate as he waits for you to enter. You lead the way up the walk as Polly clicks behind you. You climb the steps and strut across the porch.

“Go on in,” Steve calls from behind.

You do as he says and set your bags to the side of the entryway. You pause to take off your shoes as you see another pair on the mat. A pair of round-toed flats with bows.

“You two are upstairs,” Steve says, “at the top, rooms at the end of the hall. Do you want me to bring your bags up?”

“Oh, no, you can leave them at the door,” you face him again. “This is so lovely. Will you let Jonathan know we got here or should I call him?”

“I can take care of it,” he says. “I’ll be headed to him once the rest of you show up. My partner’s out of town so we’re short right now.”

“Your partner?”

“Like I said, security.”

“Ah, right, ha,” you rock your shoulders and he puts your bags down lightly.

“Sure you don’t want some help,” he peers upstairs.

“Really, we’re all good, right Polly?”

“Mhmm,” she nods and looks past him.

“Right, I’ll be outside. There's three more coming.” He nods and turns to go.

You wait until he’s out the door to proceed upstairs. As you do, Polly sighs.

“He was nice,” you say.

“I guess,” she agrees dully.

“He’s just doing his job.”

“I know, it’s just, boys, guys, or whatever, standing next to you with them is like being invisible sometimes,” she mutters. “Not your fault but... yeah.”

“Whatever. He’s a bit old for me,” you scoff as you get to the second-floor hall. You forgot how wide it was. Probably a good thing knowing it will be a full house.

As you come to the end of the hall, a door opens and you see a single eye peer out. You stop short and Polly hits your back. The girl shifts the door and sticks her head out.

“Uh, hi,” she squeaks, “I’m Lulu.”

“Hey, uh, we’re... Barbie,” you point to yourself, “and Polly.”

Polly leans around to wave with her free hands, “hi, Lulu.”

Lulu lets the door go and steps out, “it’s been so quiet around here. I got here last week. It’s so nice to have people around.”

“Oh, really?” You wonder.

“I’m on exchange so... yeah, had to fly in,” she smiles sheepishly. “Anyway, sorry to bug you. Just wanted to say hi.”

“You’re not bugging us at all! We were just chatting with Steve--”

“Steve?” She frowns, “oh, the big bald guy? That’s Sy.”

You frown and look at Polly, “no, Steve. Blond hair. Big.” You make yourself wide as you say the last word.

“Ohhhh, sorry, I haven’t been out of my room. I’ve been so nervous,” she giggles and it sounds like a tinkling bell.

“He’s the security guy or something,” Polly says.

“Right,” Lulu’s lips tremble, “cool. Um, anyway, if you need me to show you around...”

“Um, sure. We’ll drop out things off then I want to have a look at the kitchen. I was thinking of having some drinks once the rest got here. Maybe we can do a housewarming,” you chirp.

“Oh, that sounds fun,” Lulu laughs again and it seems to clog her throat. She clears it and blinks, “sorry. Nervous.”

You smile. You like meeting new people and the most exciting part for you, is all the different personalities coming together. And there’s still three more girls on the way.

New things are always scary. For you, even the familiar is frightening. Sometimes what you know is the most dangerous. Like the bullies you went to school with for years.

Transferring to a new college is enough stress on its own but moving to a whole new city, that’s another beast on its own. Just like a dragon on its hoard. You clutch your worn novel to your chest as you walk down the street, your bag bouncing on the cracks in the sidewalk.

You should’ve written this down. You think you’re going in the right direction. After the greyhound, you counter the city transit into the core and from there, you’ve been walking in circles. Finally, you recognise a street name and stop to turn on your data and spend a few MBs on confirming your destination. Just at the end. Phew.

That gate was in the photos, those hedges too. Wow, it looks so much better IRL. You slow down in disbelief as you stare up at the siding. This can’t be. For the price you’re paying, you have to have taken a wrong turn.

“Moving in?” A chipper voice asks as a shadow skews over the pavement next to yours.

You blanch and look over at a boy about your age with reddish brown hair and warm amber eyes. He grins as you lower your chin then turn back to the house, “uh, yeah?”

“Me too,” he says. “Peter. It’s a pretty cool building, huh? My aunt knows the owner.”

“Mr. Pine,” you murmur.

“I call him Jonathan but, yeah,” he chuckles. “You’re a Thrones fan?”

You furrow your brow and glance over again. Then you check the book in your hand.

“I’ve only read the books,” you say.

“Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Molly,” you answer and sniff. You stare up at the house as it sinks in. You’ll be sharing a space with him. Not only him, but four others.

“Should we go in together?” He offers.

“Sure, why not,” you clutch your phone against the book and drag your bag forward. “Um, Mr. Pine said we should call--”

“Yeah, that’s whatever. Like I said, I know him,” he insists as he goes ahead of you and unlatches the gate. “Come on.”

You come forward as he hitches up his duffle bag. Your suitcase rattles over the threshold as another figure appears from the porch, “Pete, didn’t say you were bringing your girlfriend.”

A large blond man, built like a warrior in a fantasy novel, descends the steps, “don’t think the roommates will be very happy about that.” “Whatever, Steve. She’s one of them. We just met.”

“Ah, another one,” the man says, “great, just one more then.” The man digs in his pocket, “Jonathan left the keys.” He takes out two fobs and doles them out between you and Peter, “I’m Steve. Security.” He explains.

“Oh, uh, nice to meet you,” you eke out.

“This is Molly,” Peter intones and you give a bashful look. Oops, you forgot that.

“Right, you two are on the first floor,” Steve says, “you wanna show her around, Pete?”

Peter clucks, “Peter,” he corrects, “Steven.”

The large man chortles and nods at you, “let me know if he gives you any trouble. It is my job to deal with the rabble.”

You smile tightly and Peter waves off the other man, “come on. I’m sure you don’t wanna stand out in the sun with this lump head.”

You show your teeth apologetically before you follow Peter. He strides down the walk and up the steps. You’re a few feet behind him.

As you enter the house, you hear voices. They hush and you listen for them as they seem to do the same. Peter stands on the mat as you unlace your sneakers.

“Hello?” He calls out, “anybody here?”

There’s some noise before footsteps come from somewhere deep in the house. You look up to the top of the stairs as a figure appears above. The girl bounds down as two others loom behind her.

“Helloooooo!” She trills, “I’m Barbie!”

“Barbie,” Peter says, “hey. I love your lipstick.”

“It’s gloss, actually, honey,” she winks, “you two are moving in? You’re friends too?”

“Oh, uh no,” you shake your head, “we just...”

“Good timing,” Peter says, “Peter, Molly.” He points in tandem with his introductions.

“So cute, Molly, well up there is Polly. That rhymes! Polly and Molly, and that’s Lulu,” she gestures up behind her as the girls wave, “think there’s only one room left.”

“What are we thinking?” Peter asks. “Party tonight? Ice breakers?”

“Something like that. Drinks?” Barbie suggests.

“You’re my kinda girl, Barbs.”

“Barbie, hon,” she chides with a wag of her finger, “anywho, I’ll let you two get cozy while we wait on the last one.”

“I hope it’s a dude,” Peter mutters as he turns away.

You smile at Barbie then follow him. You’re not sure where your room is but he seems to know exactly where he’s going. You wouldn’t mind a door to hide behind.

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loveroftoomanyfandoms · 26 days ago

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Sweet on You, Chapter 6

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Story Summary: HERE

Warnings/Tags: Sugar Daddy!Matt Murdock, Idiots to Lovers, No Age Gap, Alternating PoV, No Use of Y/N

Word Count: ~3700

A/N: Guess who's back, back again? Matty's back, tell a friend...

After months of fucking off to who-knows-where, Matt finally sauntered back into the writing room in my head with a smirk on his face and the DDBA trailer in tow, so expect updates to all of my Matt fics to start back up!

As always, many thanks to @realfernmayo for the divider!!!

Tag List: @danzer8705 @capylore @shouldbestudying41 @atemydadforbreakfast @peachy-flxwr @sleepysleepymom @fishinsuits @milkbummm @lazyxsquirrel @beezusvreeland @caughtthefever @bohemianrhapsody86 @yarrystyleeza @indestructeible @pepperthebi-spy @kezibear

“I need you to stay late,” Mr. DiStefano said the following evening as you prepared to leave the office.

You paused in the middle of unlocking your desk drawer to retrieve your purse. “Wait, what? Why?”

“Harrison just called, he wants to completely redo the condos we're designing for him so he's coming in for an emergency meeting. I need you here to take notes.”

You frowned. Harrison Coco was the head of the Coco Corporation, one of the largest and most prestigious development companies in New York. “He’s coming in tonight ?”

Mr. DiStefano shook his head. “I don't like it either, but he's our biggest client. I don't want to run the risk of losing his account.”

“Can't it at least wait until tomorrow? I had plans this evening.”

“Oh, well, if whatever it is you had planned is more important than your job , then…” Mr. DiStefano trailed off, his meaning evident.

You sighed. You had been looking forward to a quiet dinner with Matt after an already hectic day. “No, sir. It's fine, I can see if I can reschedule for another day.”

“Good. Make a pot of coffee, would you? We're going to need it.”

You pulled out your phone as Mr. DiStefano walked back to his office, sighing once again as you texted Matt. I'm really sorry, but I can't make it to dinner tonight.

Your phone immediately chimed with a response. Everything okay?

Yeah, an important client is coming in so my boss is making me work late.

Ah. I see.

“He probably doesn't believe me,” you muttered to yourself. Would you mind taking a raincheck for this weekend? Or I can even do an extra dinner next week if that's preferable.

You chewed on your lip in anticipation, hoping that Matt didn't consider you already in breach of your contract and tell you to just forget about the whole thing.

Would tomorrow work for you? 6 PM at the restaurant instead of 7?

You huffed out a relieved breath. Yes, that should work. Again, I'm so sorry, my boss literally just sprang this on me.

That's quite alright, I have some things I needed to finish up tonight at the office anyway. I'll see you tomorrow.

See you tomorrow.

You put your phone away and headed to the kitchen to brew the requested pot of coffee. Design meetings typically ran for several hours as it was, but meetings with Harrison were always even longer and more detailed. Might as well make extra since I'll probably be here until midnight.

You measured out the coffee grounds then added water to the reservoir, wondering if you'd have the time and energy to at least scarf down the leftover baked chicken you had made the previous evening before needing to get ready for bed or if you should order something to eat at the office for dinner.

You pressed the start button on the coffee machine, deciding to err on the side of caution and order in something.

You headed back to Mr. DiStefano’s office. “I'm going to grab something for dinner, do you want anything?”

Mr. DiStefano nodded. “Yeah, actually. What were you getting?”

“I was thinking maybe that ramen bar down the street.” It was relatively inexpensive and close enough to the office to where you could just run and pick it up rather than having to wait on delivery.

Mr. DiStefano nodded. “That sounds good. Give me a minute and I'll let you know what I want.”

“Okay.”

You went back to the kitchen to pour the coffee you had made into a carafe to keep warm, then brought the carafe into the meeting room and set it on a table against the wall along with some cups, a caddy full of various sweeteners and creamers, and several bottles of water. Okay, I think that's everything.

You walked back into Mr. DiStefano's office. “Decide what you want, sir?”

Mr. DiStefano nodded. “Yeah, get me the black tonkotsu with a side of takoyaki.”

You pulled your phone out to place your orders. “Okay, not a problem.”

Mr. DiStefano pulled his wallet out of his pocket and took out some cash. “Here, this should cover mine.”

You took the money and stuck it in your pocket. “I’ll let you know when I leave to go pick it up. What time will Mr. Coco be arriving?”

“Around 6:30 or so. He just got back into town from a business trip and will be on his way shortly.”

You nodded. At least that would give you enough time to eat. “I’ve got coffee and water set up in the meeting room. Do you need anything else?”

Mr. DiStefano shook his head. “No, I think that’s it for now.”

You went back to your desk and responded to a few emails from clients that you had originally left to answer the next morning, then stopped by Mr. DiStefano's office once again in order to let him know that you were leaving to go pick up dinner.

At least Abbott and Williams have already left for the day so I don't have to worry about having to deal with them too , you thought as you locked the office door behind you.

You walked the three blocks to the restaurant and picked up your order, then headed back.

“Mr. DiStefano, I'm back,” you announced as you unlocked the door and stepped back inside. “They had initially forgotten your okonomiyaki sauce, but I made sure to get them to put extra in the bag for you.”

“Okay, thanks,” Mr. DiStefano said as he came into the lobby. “Before Harrison gets here I need you to pull the current renderings for the condos as well as the designs for the Baker, Hawkins, and Guiducci accounts. Hopefully we can convince him to stick with the original design or at the very least go with something similar to what we've done before.”

There goes my time to actually sit and enjoy my dinner , you thought . It was already 6:00 and it would take you at least 15 minutes to find and pull the requested designs. “Yes, sir.”

You handed him his order and put your own on your desk before going to pull the designs. While most architectural firms were utilizing digital-only designs, DiStefano and Associates still used mostly hand-drawn renderings depending on the needs of the client. “Digital renderings may be faster,” Mr. DiStefano had once put it when you had asked him about it, “but a computer can't give you the warmth and depth of a space that hand-drawn designs can.”

Apparently the architecture world agreed, because DiStefano and Associates had been named one of Architecture Today ’s top firms for the past 5 years straight.

You found the requested plans and brought them to the meeting room then returned to your desk to hurriedly eat your (now cold) dinner.

You had just finished when you heard a tap on the front door. Perfect timing.

You hurriedly threw your take-out container in the trashcan next to your desk and walked over to unlock the door. “Mr. Coco, it's good to see you,” you said with false-but-professional pleasantness as you opened it.

You honestly didn't have anything against him personally -- he was a tall, medium-built, good-looking man around your age with dark hair and piercing blue eyes -- but you couldn't help but be annoyed that he had (unknowingly) caused you to have to cancel your dinner plans for the evening.

“Same to you,” he replied. “And I've asked you before, please call me Harrison. Mr. Coco is my father.”

You stepped out of the doorway to let him inside. “Come on in.”

You locked the door behind him and led him to the meeting room. “I'll let Mr. DiStefano know that you're here.”

Harrison nodded. “Thanks.”

You walked back to Mr. DiStefano's office. “Mr. Coco is waiting for you in the meeting room, sir.”

Mr. DiStefano nodded. “Okay, thanks. I'll be right there.”

You passed by your desk to grab your notebook and returned to the meeting room. “Mr. DiStefano will be with you in a moment. In the meantime, there's fresh coffee and bottled water if you'd like anything to drink, or I can bring you a cup of tea if you'd prefer.”

Harrison looked over at the coffee station, then back at you. “Actually, a cup of tea would be nice.”

You nodded. “We have English Breakfast, green tea, Chai, Earl Grey, honey-chamomile, and herbal peppermint. Which would you prefer?”

Harrison thought for a moment. “Let's do the Chai.”

“Okay, I'll be right back with that.”

You went to the kitchen and brewed a cup of hot water then placed a tea bag in it before returning once again to the meeting room. “Here you are.”

Harrison nodded as you handed him the cup. “Appreciate it. So, how have you been?”

“Fine, thanks.” Harrison was one of the few clients who always took the time to actually speak to you and made you feel seen and not like furniture. “How about you? Mr. DiStefano said you just got back from a trip?”

Harrison nodded. “Actually, yeah, which is why I --”

“Harrison, hello!” Mr. DiStefano's voice boomed as he walked into the meeting room. “It's good to see you.”

Harrison turned to shake Mr. DiStefano's hand. “John, thanks for meeting with me so quickly.”

Mr. DiStefano shook his head. “Not a problem. Please, have a seat.”

You sat in your usual chair in the corner of the room as the two men sat at the table.

“So tell me,” Mr. DiStefano said. “What's the issue with the condo design? I thought you said you loved it.”

Harrison sighed. “I did, I did, it's just that upon looking at it again I realized it looks like every other condo building in New York. I want something different, something that makes Coco Corp stand out. I need something… inviting .”

You wrote down different and inviting as Mr. DiStefano nodded. “Okay, I can absolutely see that. I've pulled a few comps for you to check out.”

You refrained from rolling your eyes. You knew you were just Mr. DiStefano's office assistant, but the least he could do was to say he’d had his assistant pull the blueprints rather than act like he had actually taken the time to do it himself.

Mr. DiStefano reached over and unrolled the first rendering. “Here's one we did for the Taylor Group --”

Harrison shook his head. “No, you don't understand me, John. It's gotta be a completely original design, unlike anything else in New York. I want people to look at it and see something unique, not just another high-rise taking up space where there used to be a park. And I want it to be as environmentally friendly as possible.”

Environmentally friendly, you added to your notes.

Mr. DiStefano sat back and scratched at his chin. “Well, going back to the drawing board and starting over completely from scratch is going to cost you, Harrison. I mean I've already put a lot of time and effort into the original design…”

“I don't care how much it costs. I'll pay you triple your usual hourly rate, I just need a completely new, unique design by Monday morning. I have to get the new plans over to City Hall for approval before I leave for Taiwan Monday afternoon.”

Mr. DiStefano nodded. “It'll require me to work through the weekend, but considering it's an emergency and it's for you, I'll do it.”

Harrison grinned. “Great. Let's get started then.”

You sighed to yourself. You'd been hoping that Harrison would like one of the other designs with just a few tweaks being made to make it part of his signature style, but to completely start the design process over?

It was going to be a long night.

“Walk me through step-by-step what happened when you arrived on scene,” Matt's voice said on the recording of his interview with Officer Stanton from earlier that day.

Officer Stanton had sighed. “The housekeeper answered the door and let us in, then led us to Senator and Mrs. Thompson’s bodies.”

“She was the one who discovered the victims, right?” Matt had listened to her original deposition that morning and already knew that she had arrived at the Thompson residence around 8 AM to start her workday only to discover Senator and Mrs. Thompson dead in the foyer, but he'd wanted to confirm it with Officer Stanton.

“Yeah.”

“Was anyone else at the residence?”

“No, but Mrs. Thompson’s sister arrived shortly thereafter.”

“Ah, yes, Ms…” Matt had paused to check his notes. “Stafford.”

“Yeah, that's right.”

“The Thompson’s deaths hadn't yet been made public and no next of kin had been contacted at the time, correct?”

“Right.”

“So her reason for being there?”

“She said she had made plans with Mrs. Thompson to go shopping and to have lunch.”

“And she was the one who first mentioned that my client had argued with Mrs. Thompson the previous day?”

Officer Stanton had shifted in his seat. “Yeah.”

“Yet you testified in court that it was Ms. Davies who initially mentioned the argument.”

There was a rustle of clothing as Officer Stanton had shrugged. “I got mixed up. Ms. Stafford mentioned it to us then Ms. Davies confirmed it during questioning.”

“How did Ms. Davies know about the argument?”

“She overheard Mrs. Thompson telling Ms. Stafford about it during tea at the Thompson residence.”

“Did either one know what the argument was about?”

“No.”

“Had anyone else other than my client ever been considered a suspect?”

“I don't know, you'd have to ask Detective Fraser. He was the lead on the case, I was just the first officer on the scene.”

“I will. That's all the questions I have for you, thank you for your time.”

Matt turned off the recording and took out his earbuds. He needed to talk to Detective Fraser, but he was pretty sure the police had never looked beyond Conrad -- who was clearly innocent -- for suspects.

He sighed. There wasn't anything else he could do on Conrad's case that night and he had already wrapped up his other tasks earlier in the day in anticipation of his scheduled dinner with you.

Matt had admittedly been disappointed when you had texted him to cancel and initially thought that maybe you had changed your mind about your arrangement, but had believed your explanation of having to work late, especially after you had offered to make it up to him.

He checked the time as his stomach rumbled. 11:34 PM. Shit, I should call it a night. Probably should eat something, too, since I skipped lunch.

There was a deli nearby that was open until midnight, so he gathered his belongings and headed out of the office, locking the door behind him.

He unfolded his cane and headed down the sidewalk, the smell of freshly-baked bread and sliced meat becoming stronger and more enticing the further he got down the street.

His brow furrowed as he picked up the sound of your voice. Your office was about a half a block from the deli and you had said that you'd had to work late, but Matt definitely hadn't expected you to be working this late.

“Goodnight, Mr. DiStefano,” you were saying. “See you in the morning.”

Matt frowned. He presumed that you would be walking home since cabs were scarce at this hour, but even with his efforts as Daredevil the streets weren't 100% safe. I should make sure she gets home okay.

He bypassed the deli and kept walking, reaching your office right as you were finishing locking up behind you.

You double-checked that the door was locked tight then turned towards him. “Matt?”

Matt said your name in what he hoped was a believably surprised tone. “Hi. Wow, are you just now getting off of work?”

“Yeah, design meetings always take forever, especially meetings with this particular client.” You paused. “What about you? Are you just now getting off too?”

Matt nodded. “Yeah, I lost track of time working on this one particular case and totally skipped dinner, so I just left the office and was heading to Raoul’s to grab a sandwich to eat at home.”

“Oh, um, you passed it. It's about half a block back the way you came.”

Matt made a fake grimace. “Oh shit, did I? Damn, it's late and I'm tired, I must've miscounted the steps.”

“Want me to escort you there?”

“You don't mind?”

“Of course not.” You moved to stand next to him and offered him your arm. “Come on, it's right down here.”

Matt took your arm and allowed you to guide him back down the street to Raoul's. “Thanks, by the way.”

“No problem.” You slowed to a stop as the two of you reached the deli. “Here it is.”

Matt nodded. “Thanks again.”

You huffed out a light laugh. “Part of the service, remember?”

Matt grinned. “Right, right.”

“I'll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Matt bit his lip. “...Unless you don't mind waiting a few minutes for me to get my sandwich then letting me walk you home?”

He could feel you relax as you shook your head. “No, I don't mind. I'd actually really appreciate it.”

“Okay, great.”

The two of you headed inside and walked up to the counter.

“Welcome to Raoul's, what can I get you folks?” the clerk said.

“Ah, yeah, can I get turkey and ham on a sub, hold the mustard?” Matt turned towards you. “Would you like anything?”

“Oh, no thank you,” you replied. “I had dinner at the office earlier.”

You were telling the truth, so Matt just nodded. “Okay. That'll be all, thanks.”

He paid for his sandwich then the two of you moved to the other end of the counter to wait for it.

“So do you work late often?” Matt asked.

“No, not really,” you answered. “And even when I do it's usually never this late. We just had a very important client insist on meeting tonight about an emergency redesign on a project my boss is doing for him and I had to be there to take notes.”

You paused briefly before continuing. “I shouldn't need to cancel dinner so last-minute again.”

Matt shook his head. “Honestly, it's fine. I might have to do the same on occasion.”

“Also, thank you for agreeing to reschedule. I was afraid you'd tell me to just forget the whole deal.”

Matt's brow furrowed. “Why would I do that?”

He heard the ruffle of your coat as you shrugged. “I dunno,” you hedged. “I thought that maybe you wouldn't believe that I was working late and that I was actually seeing another S&S client or something.”

The thought had never crossed Matt's mind, but now that you mentioned it... “ Do you have other clients?”

“No, you're my only one right now. But what about you? I know you said you're single, but you could still have a friend with benefits… with actual benefits.”

Matt shook his head. “No, there's no one in my life in that capacity right now either.”

He chewed on his lip as he thought for a moment. “How about for both our peace of mind we add an addendum to our contract? Something along the lines of ‘Neither party shall seek out or participate in other companionship or romantic entanglements while joined under the terms of this contract’.”

You let out a breath. “Agreed. I mean, since we're going to be letting people believe that we're legitimately dating it makes sense for both of us to be otherwise unattached.”

Matt nodded. “I'll write it up and we can sign it tomorrow before dinner. And now that I'm thinking about it, I probably should increase your monthly stipend since I'm preventing you from taking on other clients.”

You hesitated briefly before answering. “I appreciate that, but it's not necessary. You're already paying me more than enough as it is.”

“Are you sure? Because I don't mind increasing it.”

“I'm sure. But thanks for the offer.”

“Okay then.”

“Do you still want to meet at the restaurant? Or would you rather meet at your office to sign the addendum?”

“Restaurant is fine. It's just one extra clause so it's only one page.”

“Okay, that sounds good then.”

Your conversation halted as Matt's order was called. “You folks have a good night,” the deli clerk said as he handed Matt a plastic bag containing his sandwich.

“Thanks, you too,” Matt replied.

“You as well,” you added before the two of you headed outside.

Matt unfolded his cane and took your elbow. “Alright, which way are we heading?”

You turned back towards your office. “This way.”

The two of you walked silently, each lost in your own thoughts.

“By the way --” Matt began.

“Hey, thank you again --” you started to say at the same time.

Matt chuckled. “You go first.”

You took a breath. “I was just gonna say thank you again for walking me home. I really do appreciate it.”

Matt nodded. “It's not a problem.”

“So what were you going to say?”

“Oh, just that Foggy and Karen want to meet you.”

“Oh, okay. That's not a problem, just let me know when and where.”

“I told them maybe in a couple of weeks once we see how things go.” Matt grinned. “I want us to be comfortable with each other before I subject you to the rest of Nelson, Murdock and Page for cross-examination.”

You huffed out a light laugh. “I'll be sure to prepare, counselor.”

Matt felt you slow down as you reached your apartment building. “Well, this is me. Thanks again for walking me home.”

Matt smiled and gave you a slight nod. “Usually I'm embarrassed when I accidentally pass up places I'm trying to get to, but tonight it worked out. I'm glad I ran into you.”

“Me too. Do you need directions back to your place?”

Matt shook his head. “Nah. I can use the GPS on my phone.”

“Okay.” You gave his arm a light squeeze. “I'll see you tomorrow evening then?”

Matt nodded. “See you tomorrow evening.”

He waited as you went inside your building then turned and headed towards home, his mind going back and forth from Conrad's case to Matt's contract with you. There was something he was definitely missing in order to definitively prove Conrad's innocence, but he couldn't quite figure out what.

He shook his head. He needed to eat, shower, and sleep. He'd work on proving Conrad's innocence and writing up the addendum to his and your contract tomorrow.

#lotmf writes #Sweet on You Masterlist #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x f!reader

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inevitably-johnlocked · 1 month ago

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Five Fics Friday: January 10/25

Happy Friday everyone!! I hope you all had a wonderful week, and will enjoy today's selection of fics on my radar this week... PLUS Make sure to give the boosted fics some extra love as well!!! Enjoy!!

SIGNAL BOOSTING

There's nothing in the rulebook by avalanching effect (G, 6,218 w., 1 Ch. || Magical Realism AU || Familiars, Fluff, Humour, Alternating POV, Dogs, Urban Fantasy, Medical Inaccuracies) – In which Lestrade rolls with the metaphorical punches, Sherlock's body betrays him, and John is completely normal :)

Mimetidae by avalanching effect (T, 20,222 w., 5 Ch. || Magical Realism AU || Pre and Post TRF, POV Alternating, Urban Fantasy, Unreliable Narrators, Hurt/Comfort, Developing Relationship) – Magic has to make everything so complicated, doesn't it?

So Much Wine by halfwayup (M, 25,646 w., 6 Ch. || S2 Divergence / No TRF, Five and One, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Alcoholism, Fluff and Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Protective Sherlock, Child Abuse, John Whump, Developing Relationship, Alcoholism, Blood and Injury, Hospitals, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Christmas, Domestic Violence, Happy Ending) – For John Watson, Christmas has always come with the familiar dread of loneliness. Leaving behind a house filled with anger and wine-stained memories, he finds himself in a present still haunted by the ghosts of his past. But then Sherlock Holmes falls into his life - brilliant, chaotic, turning his whole world upside down - and for the first time, there’s a chance that things might finally be alright. Well, if only it could be that easy, for once. Or: Five times John has a terrible Christmas, and one time he finally has a great one.

RECENT MFLs

Irresistible Temptation by Lock_John_Silver (T, 4,352 w., 6 Ch. || Mrs Hudson's Backstory, Undercover Missions, Spies and Secret Agents, Idiots in Love, Developing Relationship, Purple Shirt of Sex, Dancing, Reminiscing, POV First Person Mrs Hudson) – Nobody but one in her close circle of friends and acquaintances knows about her past. She wouldn't put it past Sherlock to have deduced fragments of it, but Martha Hudson is far too proficient at hiding the true nature of her former professional life. Even the world's only consulting detective is helpless when it comes to solving this puzzle. Part 5 of Mrs. Hudson's diary

Unthinkable by BakerTumblings (M, 19,586+ w., 5/7 Ch. || WiP || Post S4, Teen Rosie, Hurt/Comfort, Rosie Whump, Co-Parenting / Parentlock, Domestic Life, Pre-Relationship, Friends To Lovers, Medical Trauma, Head Injury, Happy Ending) – When Rosie is injured in a motor vehicle accident, John and Sherlock navigate a crisis that changes things.

#johnlock fic recs #five fics friday #my fic recs #signal boost

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navybrat817 · 2 years ago

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Epinephrine

Summary: Bucky races to win as you watch with anticipation.

Pairing: Motocross!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Word Count: Over 1.5k Warnings: Nerves, K-I-S-S-I-NG, swearing, POV switch, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?). Graphics talent and thanks: Banner by @sgt-seabass. Divider by @saradika. Bucky edit by Nix. Moodboard by yours truly. A/N: My third Connect 4 (C4007 - Square 3) / Into an Alternate Juneiverse for @buckybarnesevents! Set in my Dialed In AU, but can be read as a standalone. Apologies for any inaccuracies, but I'm human and still had fun writing this.❤️ Thank you @targaryenvampireslayer for the POV switch suggestion! Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Epinephrine. Both a hormone and a neurotransmitter, the chemical messenger transmits nerve signals to prepare your body for fight or flight. Most call it adrenaline. Some liken it to pre-race jitters.

Bucky considered it his own personal fuel.

Just breathe.

It amazed him how so many wrote off motocross as just another sport without considering the physical and mental training they put into it or how dangerous it was. Position, weight distribution, and correct form on the bike were all things to consider when practicing and racing. Not to mention no two tracks are alike, the conditions constantly changing. You had to take the hills, jumps, turns, and distance for your own safety and those around you.

He mentally wished Steve and the others a safe race, even Rumlow. Prick or not, he didn’t want the guy to get hurt. He sure as hell didn't want to lose to him either.

"For what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t hit him. Because he would have won and guys like him don’t deserve to win."

No, he doesn't.

His heart raced a little faster, his right palm starting to sweat as the nerves and excitement clashed in his chest. The knot in his stomach settled as he waited for the race to start, his focus on the path in front of him. The rough terrain ahead called to him, urging him to unleash whatever anger, fear, joy, and anything he had built up inside. He would go all out, leaving no regrets in his path.

All leading to you after he crossed the finish line.

"Good luck."

Gave me all the luck I need, Spitfire.

With your voice in his mind, it quieted any doubt that lingered. He knew his strengths and even his limits when it came to the sport. Getting back on the bike after his accident already proved that he was a winner. He didn't need to prove himself to anyone else.

But he hoped you would see his worth.

And as the gate dropped, he smiled behind his helmet.

You grabbed Natasha's arm as the riders took off, keeping an eye out for Bucky. She didn't pull away or make a comment when you dug your nails in. You appreciated her a bit more because of that. You also didn't understand why you were nervous when you weren't the one on the track.

I've seen plenty of races, but I didn't have anything at stake before.

"Sorry," you muttered as you let the redhead go.

"It's okay. He's got this," she assured you.

You nodded, doing your best to give her a smile. A mile and a half long course and likely a twenty to thirty minute race and extra lap, you knew it was standard. But watching the dirt fly as you focused on Bucky's helmet, your heart felt like it was in your throat. You didn't just want him to win, you wanted him safe.

Just breathe. He knows what he's doing.

"If he gets hurt, I'm kicking his ass," you said, sucking in a breath as another rider got close to his back wheel.

"And nurse him back to health," Natasha teased.

"Yeah. With a uniform and all," you teased, actually kind of into the idea.

Down girl.

You got uncharacteristically quiet after that, your stomach dropping when Maddox gained on Bucky. He was still in a good position, his friend, Steve, up there with him. It was almost like witnessing a roller coaster ride, the ups and downs, the twists and drops. Adrenaline pumped through your veins and you could only imagine how the guys out there felt actually experiencing it.

Exhilarating.

As the riders got close to the final lap, you jumped up. You somehow stayed on your feet when your head spun, but you weren't going to miss this. Bucky and Maddox were almost neck-in-neck, but Maddox probably thought he had it in the bag. That kind of cockiness didn't always pay off.

You sure as hell didn’t want it to pay off today.

"Come on, Hothead," you whispered.

While Maddox turned his head to look at Bucky, the latter kept his head facing forward and elbows up. As if he didn't care that his competition was there. He raced smarter, not harder, as you watched with bated breath. He kept his lead toward the finish line as you couldn’t help but smile.

Bucky Barnes won the race.

He won. He fucking won.

"Fuck yes!" you shouted, uncaring of your language as Bucky took first, his left fist pumping in the air. The way everyone else cheered, they probably didn't notice. But you finally felt like you could take a proper breath, the mental ride coming to a stop. "For the record, I'm just happy he made it across the finish line. This has nothing to do with the date."

I can actually smell my own bullshit.

"Wow. You managed to say that with a straight face. Impressive," Natasha said, nodding toward the course as the race wrapped up. "Come on. Let's go congratulate him. And by we I mean you."

"He raced a good race. It was very exciting," you said evenly, but you eagerly pulled her along to get out of the stands and through the crowd.

You weren’t sure if you were actually allowed to go up to greet him, but people moved to let you through. Was it your strut or Natasha’s subtle stare that made everyone jump out of the way? As you got closer to Bucky and the other riders, you felt like your heart was going to race out of your chest when you stopped at the edge of the course. Especially when took off his helmet, a light sheen of sweat on his face as he shook his hair out.

Fuck me in the dirt, please.

“Go,” Natasha encouraged after some of the guys congratulated Bucky, except for Maddox who stood feet away with a glare on his face.

Sore loser doesn’t look good on him, but he’s not why I’m here.

Holding your head high, you locked eyes with Bucky when he looked your way. Seemingly forgetting the others around him, he walked toward you to meet you halfway when you stepped in the dirt. The two of you stood there for a long moment before he smirked. A slight one, but still a smirk.

“Looks like I won,” he said, his voice rough.

“You did. Congratulations,” you said, stepping back to hold out your hand. “And it looks like you get to go out with me, so double congratulations,” you simpered, previous annoyance that he bet a date with you completely forgotten.

“Are we shaking on it?” he chuckled, his gloved hand reaching for yours. A spark of electricity moved up your arm once he took it and you refused to deny your attraction at that moment.

“You could say that,” you smirked, yanking him close. “But I prefer to seal it with a kiss.”

You took a moment to appreciate how soft and warm his lips felt when you initiated the kiss this time. You allowed his tongue to slip inside and explore when you parted your lips, feeling the beat of his heart as he pressed his chest against your body. It wasn’t hard or urgent, but excitement and passion consumed you. It didn’t matter if he got your clothes dirty. Or that a few of the riders whistled and cheered at the display.

He smiled against your lips when you had to take a breath. “I thought you said you weren’t a prize.”

“And I thought you said your ass was all mine after you win,” you reminded him, almost wishing you reached around to squeeze it. Even dirty and sweaty, he still looked and smelled amazing. It was a phenomenon.

“I did and I meant it,” he said, sneaking in another kiss before he had to pull away. “You sticking around?”

“I’ll be with Nat. Go do what you have to,” you said, turning away to back to your friend. She had a smile on her face. You had one on yours, too.

“I still have to get your number, so don’t go anywhere!” Bucky called after you.

“Who said I was giving you my number?” you asked over your shoulder. “I never agreed to that.”

“How am I supposed to take you on a date without it?” he asked.

“You seem like a smart guy. You’ll figure it out, Hothead,” you teased, egging him on just a little.

“Want me to get on my knees, Spitfire?”

Yes and split me open with that talented tongue of yours.

“She’ll give you her number,” Natasha said, waving Bucky on as you laughed. You may have checked his ass out again because he did say it was yours. And he no doubt checked yours out as you walked away. “You are giving him your number before we leave.”

“I will,” you promised, giving her a small smile. “I’m glad you introduced me to him,” you added gently, looking forward to getting to know him more.

“And I’m glad you put a smile back on his face.”

Hearing that felt like a victory.

I guess we’re both winners today, Hothead.

Yay! He won! Was there ever any doubt? More to come. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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tinycozycomfort · 2 years ago

Text

rest in the cup of my palms (part one)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter one: drawing from life

series masterlist | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: ellie volunteers joel to model for a drawing class on campus. you find someone worth dreaming about.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut (w individual tags to come), unnecessary descriptions of joel being beautiful, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn, joel miller wins girl dad of the century via unanimous vote (for this chapter) -> masturbation (f), intense feelings of loneliness, existential rumination

word count: 7.2k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: some good ol' work up, necessary to explain the rated r plans i have for them. ive been terrified of writing a series but i'm also tired of editing everything down to be one-shot appropriate, so today we try. im full-swing into my fixation era and on my 'i cant be loved + ive known how to love you for 1,000 lifetimes' bullshit. this fic is as self indulgent as they come, but i hope you can enjoy it! and for those of you willing to trudge through this with me, i love you.

read on ao3

“To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed.”

Susan Sontag - On Photography

───────

A halo of hot light falls through the pane of glass above the sink. Joel’s got one eye pinched semi-shut, trying hard to focus on not burning himself while he drains boiling water out of a pot of pasta.

When he woke up this morning, the blinds on every window in the house had been strung up to the lip. He’d barely gotten a hand around one of the strings in the glass frame above the couch before Ellie appeared out of nowhere to literally slap his wrist, ‘I’m drawing’. Still groggy, he tried to challenge her, ‘Do they all have to be open?’, to which she patiently explained—for what she probably feels is the millionth time—that she needed the extra light, and if she had them all open when she started, they’d need to stay that way until she was done.

So he left her to work, knowing she’s got midterms to finish, walking around with his eyes closed until he felt his way back into his bedroom. He came out once for coffee, and not again until dinner. This is their weekend.

Joel spoons out some of the food into bowls, leaving them to stay warm by the stove before he steps into the dining room. He stops himself half-way, hanging back in the archway to give his daughter another minute as the last shreds of strong sunlight start to wane out.

Ellie’s right where he left her: at the table, cross-legged in her chair with an eraser-less pencil held tightly in her fist. She’s hunched over a large pad of paper, the back of it lifted at an angle under a pile of old books and dog-eared tool catalogs. The sketchbook she uses as a reference guide is propped up on the corner of her left knee, leaned against the edge of the table. She rifles between two pages of it, eyeing some of the quick sketches—visual notes, as she puts it—that she took in class to help her navigate the larger, more detailed version with ease. Silent save for her short huffs of breath, she’s concentrated, wrist-corner lifted to not misplace any graphite. Her process is always the same; a little creature of habit.

She’s wearing her headphones, the cord winding dangerously low, threatening to dip into a cup of water she’d placed in the empty triangle between her lap—the same one he’d seen her with six hours ago. She hasn’t even touched it, still full nearly to the brim. He wonders if she’s gotten up at all. The girl works herself a bit too hard, he thinks, always falls head first into whatever project she’s working on, nothing if not like her dad. The corner of his mouth tugs up so tight it hurts. What is he going to do without her?

He just stands there, feet crossed on top of each other and arms in a twist over his chest, and watches her while she’s not looking, knowing she still gets shy sometimes when he catches her like this. She’s the sweetest reminder of everything good Joel’s ever done; another life he’d gladly offer his own for.

It’s always come naturally—to be what someone needs of him—in a way that transcends reward or expectation.

Joel had been his brother’s primary caregiver first, from birth and then well into their adulthood—always around to bail him out of jail or lend him money he didn’t have. Because he cared. Loved him. He couldn’t ever really say it, always had a problem with the wording, but he knew that at least some of what he wanted to explain had come across. He can see it in the way Tommy is with his own family.

His brother has Maria now, and the kids, and seeing how happy Tommy could be in spite of their upbringing was the first time Joel had ever put his priorities into question. Somewhere in all the caring-for he did, he’d forgotten about himself; the possibility of having his own wife and child and home. He’d always ached for that, deep down, but didn’t even know it was an option until he saw it happen. By that point, he wasn’t sure if he could do any of it, or if he even had the time to start. Then came Ellie.

She entered his life when a close friend of Tommy’s had died unexpectedly and no one came forward to claim her, unknowingly giving him a second chance; one he worked to make count. She was tough to crack at first—also like him in that way—but the love had always been there, waiting its turn after all the awkwardness and misunderstanding and adapting before finally showing its face. She’d needed him then, as much as his brother had all those years ago, carrying on the torch of purpose that Joel so feverishly searched for.

He rolls his eyes at himself; he’s been having too many misty-eyed moments about her lately. It’s so unserious, the actuality of it; of being her dad. Going to work and the supermarket and museums, being there to chaperone field-trips and take one-thousand mostly-blurry photos of her graduation. But it’s been everything to him. He’s desperately clung to the five years of her life that she’s shared with him, and he’s so proud to witness it, but he knows she’s getting to a point where she needs to be her own person. He’ll miss her when she’s only home for summers, then only home for Christmas, then only home once in a while—so he holds on to every bit, and tries not to think about what’s next for him.

He walks closer to her, tilting his head to try and steal a glance of what it is she’s working on. He catches a glimpse of the face of a woman, a portrait from shoulders-up. She’s pretty, with a soft and thoughtful expression, looking downward off the side of the pad. From what he could make out between the movements of Ellie’s hand, she even looks a little shy. His daughter rubs at the cheeks and nose of the girl on the paper, imitating the shadow-less areas where light would fall. Joel is mesmerized by the way she creates so effortlessly, like breathing.

Without moving her head, she pulls a tiny white bobble out from her ear, “I know you’re watching me, weirdo.”

Joel laughs, wet and thick in his mouth with the emotion he’s still climbing down from, “Is this how you treat me when I’m trying to feed you?”

She smiles, he can see the fat of her cheek rounding out even from this angle, “You should’ve just said that.”

Ellie leaves her set-up untouched, just getting up and moving down to an empty seat while Joel goes to bring the food out.

She shifts around in her seat, feet folded again on the flat of it, eating too fast—ill-mannered—and it reminds Joel of all the nights they spent at Tommy’s for family dinner, right at the beginning, back when they’d just begun to become close. When she’d push his patience with her behavior to see if he’d say something, to see if he still paid her mind—he always did, still does, “Jesus Christ, kid. Have I taught you nothing?”

She holds back a laugh, mouth full of tomato sauce, “You love it. I’m charming.”

He snorts, the two of them falling into a comfortable quiet for only a few minutes before she breaks it again, “Speaking of how much you love me, I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Oh no,” He jokes, “What now?”

“Remember those drawings I turned in of you last month?” She starts pushing around the last bite of her spaghetti, never a good sign, but he nods anyway for her to continue, “Well my teacher really liked them. And there’s been an issue with finding people to sit for the drawings. Sooo,” she really drags it out, “I signed you up.”

“What do you mean, you signed me up? For what?”

“To model,” Joel’s mouth pops open in an immediate attempt to oppose, but Ellie’s quicker, “Didn’t you say you’d always support me in school?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Joel finishes his plate and then they’re both just clinking their forks against porcelain for a heavy eightnineten seconds before she gives it another shot.

“C’mon, seriously. I’ll get extra credit if you do it,” She lets out a long sigh like she can’t believe she has to explain anything more than that, “My professor teaches a Monday session for the master’s program and they need people. It’s just one time.”

“Ellie. It’s Sunday. How are you gonna tell me this now?”

“Please, you just sit there for, like, two hours while they draw you and you don’t have to talk. That’s two of your favorite things. Three if you consider that you’d be helping me out.” she looks at him with a sticky-sweet smile, eyes crinkled—like she knows she’s getting away with it.

She might be.

“Why don’t you ask one of your friends to do it?” Joel gathers up their plates from the table to carry them into the kitchen. Ellie picks up their still half-full glasses as an excuse to follow him.

“Because we all have class together tomorrow on the other side of campus. Plus, you’re easy to draw and—”

“Hey.”

She ignores the flat look he shoots her, flipping on the sink, “That’s a compliment, by the way. But really, it’s no effort and you’d be getting me into a good place with my professor ‘cause she’ll be super grateful. The budget’s kinda tight this semester.”

“Then what am I payin’ for, if you’re gonna make me do this stuff myself?” It’s a half-hearted dig—he’s mostly annoyed because she probably already figured out he’s going to agree.

Her little smirk graduates to a shit-eating grin, she knows it, “Best dad ever.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, y’know that?”

“Just because I knew you were gonna say that, I actually signed you up for two.”

───────

Joel stumbles out of the elevator, filing hurriedly through groups of students with a new-found purpose now that he’s managed to make it to the correct floor. Ellie made a point of not mentioning that he had to be at the school at 7:30am until she was saying goodnight to him a few hours ago, because she thought it would dissuade him—she was right—so now he’s running late on top of everything else.

He’s got the little scaled-down, splotchy-printed version of the campus map gripped tightly between his hands. Room 14B is seemingly only two turns and one corner from where he stands—if he’s holding it the right way. He wants to ask for directions, but he feels too out-of-place to set aside his embarrassment. He’s older than at least half the staff, and some of the attendees are even younger, and he doesn’t want to run the risk of looking incapable, as foolish as it is. He wishes Ellie would have just offered to show him where to go before she headed off to her own class.

For someone who prides themselves on their ability to parent, he feels hopeless now without his daughter; not for the first time, but it’s especially harsh considering the circumstances. It hurts something bittersweet, to think about how much more they’ve bonded since he started working less and she decided to live at home her first year of college (though it’s coming to an end sooner than he’d like). Again, too many sad thoughts, and she’s not here, so he trudges on.

He walks in two more circles before he finds the right place—down a fucking hallway and hidden behind a door he didn’t know he was allowed to open, of course. A woman with long, dark blonde hair is sitting at a desk by the door when he enters. She doesn’t look up at him.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sorry I’m late. My—uh. You teach my daughter? I’m here for—”

“Ellie’s dad,” She cocks her head without meeting his eye, “Late? You’re about twenty minutes early, she told me you probably would be.”

She knows me too well, the brat. He chastises her in his mind but outwardly he corrects himself, “Yes, right, sorry. I’m a little turned around.”

“That’s alright. There’s just a waiver you need to sign, and you can get undressed in the bathroom down the hall. I’ll give you a cover-up to wear until I come to grab you.”

Right, he’d have to be naked. He already knew that—sort-of—having seen dozens of Ellie’s sketches from semesters past. He knows the students don’t see it that way, knows that they’ve all drawn the same things so many times they would be desensitized to his nudity. They’d probably all be desensitized to him as well; in their eyes, he was just a reference, as familiar as any of the memorialized piles of fruit or arrangements of glass that Ellie's also brought home.

Still, Joel feels a wash of anxiety come over him. He’s more than comfortable in his body, after putting it through so much, but this degree of vulnerability is severe in comparison to vanity or sex—it’s a state of living he hasn’t participated in for a long time. He doesn’t like to be seen, and being documented—having physical evidence of how he’s interpreted by others—makes his stomach turn. He hasn’t looked in a mirror for more than a moment in months, but it can’t be that bad, right? Ellie’s always given him a favorable light, but he worries she has a bias beyond belief. What if he sees something about himself he doesn’t like? What if everyone’s been able to see it all along?

Caught in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize the woman is still talking, “We have a scheduled break halfway through class. You can leave then. Next week it’ll flip and you can come for the latter half so they can finish.” She slides the form and a swath of black fabric across the table, and almost like she can sense his apprehension, finally raises her head to give him a meaningful look, “Thank you again for doing this. I know it can feel weird, but it makes a difference for them. There’ll be a joint show at the end of the month, too, with Ellie’s class.”

He just offers her a little nod of his head, thank you, signing the form and padding to the bathroom to unceremoniously disrobe in an empty stall.

It’s just two hours.

───────

If they make you take another figure-drawing class, you’re going to scream.

You’d think this far into a second degree, the school board would stop requiring you to take what is essentially the same class every semester. Sincerely, the only thing that changes is how long the session runs and what number follows the class title. It’s getting old.

To be fair, it’s not necessarily that you dislike drawing—it provides a pretty firm foundation for your personal work to stand on—it’s just tedious. Nothing is inspiring about assignment-based work, especially when they’ve decided the only way you can prove your skill-set is to make you draw the same three objects five-thousand ways.

But it’s not up to you.

So here you are again, two weeks from spring break, back in this frigid building after surviving another forty minutes of traffic, body still stiff from fighting the urge to fall asleep at the wheel.

It’s important, you remind yourself, to show up and put your fullest effort into everything, no matter how much you don’t enjoy it. Even if just to prove to yourself you can still finish things.

Coming back to school was an idea you’d toyed with for years after graduating.

There had been a lot of pressure on you to go in the first place, from your parents and your teachers and your nightmare of an ex, because according to them you’d get nowhere without it. After enough pressure and in a need to appease them, you folded and went; suffered every long night and pushed through every period of self-doubt and smiled for every ‘worth-capturing’ moment right up to the end. And then when it was over, gone faster than you could comprehend, you felt like something was taken away from you, even with how low it had made you—the worst kind of stockholm syndrome.

In an attempt to keep some momentum, you were over-eager for more right out of the gate. There was an initial need to continue, because you’d been reliant on academic structure just by the nature of familiarity, and maybe a little ill-prepared to face who you were without guidance. Without the instruction of someone with two degrees and a smoking addiction and no teaching license. Now it sounds silly, but then you spent a few too many nights uncontrollably looking into post-grad institutions or internship programs, googling professors and reading forums for first-hand accounts.

Then, after a year, the thought of continuing got a little less exciting, and you became comfortable in the freedom of nothing after being in school your whole life. So you pretended to research, emailed everyone about how great the options looked, signed up for one-on-ones you didn’t show up for—until people stopped asking.

It was at that point that you finally had the time to process what you were doing and why, and accepted that you didn’t have to have all the answers, despite what everyone had led you to believe. Truthfully, you still had no idea who you wanted to be and that’s okay—living with it and living alongside it weren’t mutually exclusive. You just took time to practice being yourself—sucked up the embarrassment and did the work, little exercises in unleashing yourself onto the world instead of letting every experience be done to you. If you were going to do anything anymore, even something like continuing your education, it had to be on your own terms, to try it all in the effort of self-discovery.

So yes, applying and getting accepted and attending every class—even this one—this time around was for you—to better yourself instead of just filling an expectation. You’re determined to make good on the opportunity.

And it has been better, so far. You even have friends this time around. Okay, two, and one of them is your roommate, but it's more of a support system than what you had going into undergrad.

You say yes now, too; not to everything, but to more than before. Which is maybe how you got roped into getting ‘introductory’ drinks later this evening with everyone, now that more people have joined the program as winter thaws out and it’s easier to commute. It’ll be nice to swap ideas and catch up and maybe even get laid instead of spending hours staring at the ceiling and willing time to pass. That thought alone is enough to keep you here.

It’s just two hours.

The room this semester is a little bigger, at least; probably the only perk that moving up so gracefully from Drawing II to Drawing III had earned you. It’s still unfortunately just another classroom; windowless to protect it from outside influence and drenched in fluorescent light to create a controlled environment. Old, stained art horses form a circle in the center of the space, crowding around a painted-gray wood pallet like an audience. A metal stool sits atop the make-shift stage, providing a seat for the subject. It’s clinical, the way the elements come together; a perfectly disarrayed scene that’s been neatly curated to emulate every ‘socratic seminar’ model you’ve seen in education since you can remember. Always the same.

You’re hoping for someone new today to rest on the chair; the department has been in less-than-preferred financial standing lately, so you’ve seen the same faces interchanged for most of the term.

Your professor is at her desk when you make your way in, greeting you with a grin despite the tired look on her face. A hardworking woman, the shadows under her eyes gave her a beauty you could only explain as determined. You knew she cross-taught for both sections of the department, and you respected her for it. It couldn’t be anything short of a struggle to toggle between those modes of seriousness—to have the patience to answer the younger students’ unending questions and the passion to keep the post-grads engaged.

Moving to get a seat as far on the outskirts of the cluster as possible, you watch as your classmates arrive slowly until all the slots are filled. No one really talks, probably all similarly bogged down by the early start and the cold weather outside. Ian, your friend who’d invited you out tonight, waves at you from four horses down and you halfheartedly nod back at him.

“Good morning everyone, we’ve only got two more classes after this until your week off, so we’ll make this next one a two-parter and have critique on the twenty-first. I want you guys to focus on composition more than anything else,” She turns in her seat to write some names on the board behind her, “We’ll go for two hours then break. If your name’s up here we’ll have a conversation about your thesis. The rest of you can go.”

Thankfully you’ve been spared this time—granted another seven-nights-straight writing the segment of your thesis that was meant to be finished two months ago. Your brain hurts inside of your skull.

You set up your little station, sketchpad raised against the easel, body straddling the drawing horse as you fiddle with some dirty erasers in your pack.

You can hear the slap slap slap of the model’s feet on the concrete floor as they enter—a long gait paired with hard, thudding steps; probably a man by the sound of it. Tall and heavy.

“Okay guys, we’re starting,” She winds up the dial on a plastic kitchen timer and sets it on the edge of her desk, “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be making a few passes throughout and we’ll exchange thoughts.”

You roll your neck, knowing the model tends to take a minute to find a comfortable position, and that people watching didn’t do anything to help. A tempered soundtrack—the poorly contained buzzing of the clock and the moan of the air-conditioning—plays on in the background. Your leg is asleep. It’s cold in here. You count to thirty in your head. That’s enough time, right? You shift again, stretching your arms once more just in case.

Looking up, you peer over the side of the easel to get a quick look at the model’s pose and immediately do a double take.

It is a man.

He’s sitting on the chair, facing the girl a few seats down from you so that you can only see him from a three-quarters view. He has one long, thick leg pushed against the lower bar of the stool, the other one, closest to you, hiked up on the seat, folded so that his knee points towards the ceiling. His arms are crossed, hugging his erect shin with his wide back wrapped over his thigh, effectively shielding the ‘naked’ parts of him from view. He looks shy, but not uncomfortable; either like he’s done this before or he’s accustomed to protecting himself—to hiding.

The frame of his body is captivating; he looks strong but used, little nicks and scars littering his shoulders and hands. Weathered. As you make your way up his torso, you find it’s a similar state of experienced, tan profile and neck bearing the slightest difference in color from the soft of his side, and you can see the faintest curve of a hem-shaped tan-line across the dip in his shoulder. Little wisps of gray-dusted brown curls frame the edges of his face. He’s beautiful in a gentle way, with a dark, heavy brow that leads into the sharp slope of his nose, plush lips pursed like he’s concentrating.

Part of you feels bad about staring, but it’s easy enough to disguise it as working, so you map him with your gaze again and again until you can still see him when you blink. It takes the constant movement of your classmate’s hand sketching something in your periphery to remember you’re being timed.

You choke out a cough, repositioning your body and grabbing some charcoal.

The way you usually approach this task is simple: get down the general gist of the body, careful to keep out the details of the person in favor of capturing light and weight—there’s a graded challenge to be considered, after all.

Yet as you watch him, you decide you can fulfill the requirements in a way that gives him more room to exist. You crop the drawing tighter, paying careful attention to the landscape of his face; the hills of his cheekbones and the valley between his lips. You want to immortalize him.

You’re suddenly deeply concerned with the history that’s woven itself into the shape of him, in what happened to make him look this way. It seems like life has been useful to him, but that he’d had to grow from something to make it so—like he had to work for it. He’s the living manifestation of his own grief and enjoyment and passion, and you want to know all of it.

Countless minutes pass as you take him in and spill him out, fingers moving quickly to recreate the weighted feeling of his posture, exhausted and heavy, muscles held together on the string of bone that runs through the center of his back. You write him down, again and again, flipping to a new page half-way through to get in one last version of him—one for yourself.

You’ve never seen him before, but you see part of yourself in him. He mirrors the anxious peace you’ve been operating under for the last few years, humming with energy but willfully stagnant. It makes you feel seen, less burdened by your recent inability to connect—he makes you want to keep trying.

You wonder if he writes or draws or makes, and if he’d show you. You want to hear him talk. You want to see the other side of him, literally and metaphorically. You want to feel—

The tinny ring of the alarm sounds off, and you’re taken out of the fantasy.

The second drawing is only really half done, but you didn’t make it with the intention of sharing it anyway, so you flip back to the original to hide it..

You try not to watch the man when he stands—remembering that just because he’d been hidden before doesn't mean he wasn't naked the entire time—maybe more for your sake than his. You peek around the room instead, taking a healthy, albeit competitive, glance around for other interpretations of the man; did they see him too, the way you do?

When you look up to take a comparative look, he’s gone. You’re a little disappointed, admittedly, but there’s still one more chance to interact with him, and you can make up for it then. You start to pack up your things in an effort to make it to the parking lot before the crowd. A sudden rise in the volume level in the room tells you that the shock of the early morning has started to burn off. You try to tune it out, so much so that you don’t hear someone walking up behind you.

“Wow.” It’s a man’s voice, deep and smooth. You pivot in your seat.

It’s him, in all his communal-robe wearing glory, even more gorgeous from head on. It’s a pleasant surprise, this reveal; his beauty is evenly distributed, like a handwritten note that extends into the margins or when a movie’s ending is just as good as the start.

“Oh. Hi. Thank you.” You feel exposed, like you got caught doing something bad, even though there are ten other people in the room with even more detailed portraits of him.

“Can I see the other one, too?”

“What?”

“You flipped your page. I didn’t see anyone else do that. Did you make two?”

You just nod, shocked that he was watching you back, peeling back the paper to reveal to him the unfinished drawing. He won’t question it if you don’t give him a reason to.

“Are you gonna finish it?” He asks, eyes rolling over it with an intense curiosity.

“Uh, probably not. I don’t like it as much as the first one.” Maybe lying your way through this would provide better reasoning than ‘I wanted a part of you that no one else could see’.

“Can I have it?”

When you can’t find something to say fast enough, he just continues.

“I’m sorry, is that rude? If you’re just gonna get rid of it, I’ll take it. It just… looks like me. I mean they all do, I’ve been told I have a ‘simple face’,” He coughs awkwardly in acknowledgement of his own tangent, “I just mean to say that it feels a lot like me. If that makes sense.”

“You’re actually very visually interesting.” Is the first thing you can think of, and fuck, did that come out really fucking wrong, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s better if he takes it, if it’ll stop you from fumbling, “But yeah, you can have it.” You pull a little plastic mail-tube out of your bag, ripping the drawing free from its perforated tether and rolling it in on itself.

The edges of his mouth pull up, a cute little thing, free of laughter or judgement, “Thank you. I’m Joel.” One of his hands drapes across his stomach, palm spread over the knot of the wrap—he’s holding himself at length again. Why?

“Hi Joel. You seem to know a fair amount about this whole thing. Not your first time, then?” You offer him your name in return, and he parrots it back—guard still up, still standing too far away.

“It is, actually. The closest I’ve come to this is sitting in the yard for my daughter,” He watches as you slide the drawing into the cylindrical case, “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.” It feels weird to hear the praise twice, “How’d they get you to pose for no money? I heard the department’s a little strapped. I’ve been subbing in for the undergrads too when I can.”

“My daughter volunteered me, she’s on the other side of the program. Your teacher was giving out extra credit.” He takes the roll when you pass it to him, going out of his way to grab it from the middle, his thumb grazing yours. Your skin heats up where he’s touched it, and you look down at the floor, suddenly nervous.

“Wow, this is the first time I’m hearing anything about that.” You continue to pack away items into your bag, “I’m owed quite a lot if that’s true.”

His face falls in on itself in a wince, “Oh. Didn’t mean to do her in like that.” You can feel him looking at you for a few beats too long, and his eyes narrow like he’s about to say more.

In the same moment, as if summoned, your professor turns on her heel, walking over to your bench.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay without it. I’ll see you next week, right?”

He shakes a little, releasing his stare, and throws a thumbs up in your direction with his protective hand, “Yeah, see ya next week. Nice to meet you.”

───────

After another four-hour class and a too-long nap and a break for dinner, everyone from this morning joins together in a few cars to head to a bar downtown. You meet up with Ian, who offered to drive as a bargaining chip, because he knows by now that you’d back out if you had to show up on your own.

The bar is dark and divey and perfect for being overly-observant in secret. You’ve warmed up to this crowd enough, but you’re still on plus-one basis with a lot of them, Ian serving as your invitation. You like to just listen to them at first during these outings, strategically planning your involvement so you don’t feel put on the spot when they give you a turn.

It’s a lot like being in class; the group of you occupying a dimly lit corner, a round-table of bodies, with the person in the center alternating as the topic changes. Tonight you stay at the furthest end.

You cling to the single tequila soda you ordered, watery and flat by now with pea-sized ice chips bobbing around in the center to avoid the heat of your fingers. You watch them swim, tipping your cup to see them swirl in a frenzied circle until they disappear.

Some guy from your English class—Andre or Andrew or who cares—is talking at you, making his best attempt at what you think is supposed to be flirting. It’s really just him asking your opinions on his five favorite books, not hiding his disapproval when you mention you haven’t read one or the other.

You watch Ian, who left you twenty minutes ago in search of the bar-top for another drink. He’s caught now on his third conversation on the way back, maybe thinking he’s doing you a favor by taking his time. You try relentlessly to catch his eye instead, and he bounds over without question when he sees you. The glass of wine in his hand is already half empty, and the English-class-guy spooks at the sight of what he probably thinks is competition. So much for that.

“Having fun?” he prods when he slips in the chair beside you, already aware that you are absolutely very much not having fun.

Ian’s a nice guy, and he means well. You met him a week into your first semester—almost a year ago now—at orientation, because your last names were the beginning and end of the line of their respective letters. He was from somewhere in Canada, studying photography with a minor in painting and drawing. He’s maybe a year or two older than you, though you’ve never asked to confirm; tall and long and pretty, for lack of a better word, with big eyes and a permanent split in the little bangs that cover his forehead. He’s the first man in years you’ve been comfortable around, never initiating anything or pushing too hard for your friendship. All in all, no one’s been as welcoming to you, except the person you literally live with, and you’re happy to let him drag you out if it means he’ll continue to look after you the way he does.

“Of course, when have you ever known me to have a bad time?”

“No luck with Adrian?” Adrian. You were close.

“Just likes to hear himself talk, I think. I wasn’t interested in being an audience.”

He hums, “Someone else on your mind?”

“Like who?” You lean the lip of your cup against your mouth.

“Saw you making eyes at the model today,” He teases, nudging you in your rib when you take a sip of your drink so that you keel over slightly. You sputter, unamused with the tactic to get you to fess up.

Was it that obvious?

“Isn’t that the point of the class?”

“Yeah maybe, smartass, but that’s not what I meant. I saw him talking to you, saw you give him a little gift,” He bobs his eyebrows at you suggestively, “Excited for him to come back next week?”

“So I can stare more, you mean?”

“So you can get his number.”

“Ian.”

“I’m just saying you should try and find someone outside our section of the building. No writers, either, obviously.” He gestures to where Adrian is already trying his shtick on some girl from your class.

“He’s a little too old for me, don’t you think? His daughter goes here.” You muse. He’s mostly right about you needing to expand your reach, but you won’t let him off that easily.

“Maybe. But if you don’t care, and he doesn’t care, what’s it matter? He’s not too old to fuck you.” He makes a face and you roll your eyes.

The thought is nice, but you know forging relationships is unlikely when you’re concerned, at least as of late, “I don’t want to spend my night talking about people I’m not going to fuck.”

“Whatever you say.” He slinks out from his seat, mumbling something about a glass of water. A few steps away, he looks back over his shoulder, “You’re not doomed, by the way,” the asshole can read your mind, “You can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty. You’re allowed to like people.”

And then you’re alone again.

It’s like that for another hour, small attempts at chatter and meetings until you realize you’re too tired to fuck anyone, let alone continue to sit upright. Being up so early this morning took more of a toll than an hour nap could fix, and you're begging Ian to take you home. He agrees, spending the trip trying to plan another outing later in the week before everyone’s gone on vacation.

You give him a sleepy goodbye when he pulls into your apartment complex, making sure he’s still going to class tomorrow before letting him drive away. Once you’re inside, slipping quietly in through the front door, you realize your roommate isn’t home. She’s probably still in a late class or at her boyfriend’s or somewhere else. You enjoy the quiet enough to not think about it too hard.

The five sips of tequila-mostly-water has settled into your stomach by now, making you a quarter-second slower when you strip all your clothes off and climb into bed.

You twist under the sheets, and after a while your skin starts to feel too hot, even in the cold air of your room. Breathing deep, you try to think of something boring to get your mind to still, but when you sense the sleep about to take over, it switches.

You see his face behind your eyelids, the man from today, strong and pretty and delicate, remembering all your favorite details—the length of his fingers and the depth of his voice. You curse yourself for assigning this importance to him. He’s just another page in your portfolio, if you even keep him, yet you can feel a slow heat bubble up at your core when you remember the stretch of his body under the robe. It’s okay to be taken with him, you think, he’s objectively gorgeous.

Your conversation with Ian replays in your head—less about his sincere advice and more about how you need to get laid. It’s been too long; maybe you are just horny, and maybe taking care of it just this once could be enough to stop this hollow interest from growing.

You reach a hand down under your blanket, the tips of your digits pushing into the slit of your cunt. You’re wet, arousal tacky and pooled so much that the light pressure you meant to be exploring with is enough to have you accidentally slipping inside. Okay, he’s really hot. So what? Was it really that bad if you thought so?

You dip a finger further in, timid at first; you’re used to keeping quiet for this kind of activity, and even though your roommate was gone when you got here, it doesn’t mean she hadn’t come in in the thirty minutes of rolling around you’d done before giving into your desire. You lay your free hand over your mouth just in case, teeth biting into the meat at the base of your thumb to keep yourself quiet.

You slide in a second finger to the knuckle to join the first, the light stretch of it enough to make you pant. You see him again, hard and soft and beautiful. You think about what his skin would taste like, if he’d let you sink your teeth into the sinew of his neck. It feels weird to know what he looks like without his clothes, and you’re weirdly proud of yourself for holding back from seeing him fully; it's easier to dream about that way. You wonder how he’d present himself to you, how he’d want to fuck you. You imagine him winding a hand around the hinge of your jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft of your cheeks. Would he be gentle? Would he make it hurt? You suspect either would be too much. You feverishly palm your clit, hips canting in an effort to climax. The pictures flash faster—his cock in your mouth, his tongue in your cunt, the way he’d spit and grip and hold—and you’re coming, drooling over your hand as you hear him say your name in your mind.

You take your hand away after a minute, breath pushing out heavily from your nose. It’s fine, you needed to do it, just one time. No shame in that. It’s out of your system now.

And if you see his face one more time before you fall asleep, it’s probably an afterthought.

───────

By the end of the week, you come to a horrible conclusion.

It starts the next morning when you take your sketchbook out, itching to get a handle on the many writing assignments you’ve been dutifully ignoring, hoping for an outline or a free-flow of ideas. Nothing comes to mind. You draw a little bit to fill the space while you think, just a mess of material on the page, strokes of your hand that leave barely anything behind.

Then on Wednesday you’re at your laptop, typing with one hand while the other one slides against the wood of the dining table, down and around in a loop, mimicking the same shape each time.

And again last night in the shower, letting the shame of a different semi-failed night-out wash over and off of you. You slosh your foot around in the water in the basin below, catching it as it runs down and pools, ankle dragging in a tiny, controlled movement.

It’s not until now that you put it together.

You’re sitting at your desk, with creative materials at your disposal this time, trying to make sense of what it is you’re forming. You find that no matter the medium, your hand automatically makes a single hard line. The same line, from memory. It’s negligible at first, just a light press of pen or pencil or crayon, until it drags down, down, down. It’s not until you lift your utensil that you recognize it. The hook of a nose and the crest of a top lip.

A hard pit forms in your stomach, blood draining from your head to gather in the center of your chest, a blooming sickness of obsession you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re drawing him. You’ve been drawing him. You know this feeling, have participated in this kind of behavior. These are the actions that cause the humiliating dregs of attraction to bleed over into fixation—juvenile and universal and unavoidable. He’s going to be a problem.

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