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plasticfangtastic · 5 months ago

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Dairy Girl-- Part 2

A Homelander x F! Reader fanfic

A/N: Sorry for taking so long to post this and hope the lenght is enough of an apology, yeah this is gonna be liek 4 parts i got too engrossed btw. hope yall like it here's the previous chapter:

Synopsis: In order to provide a constant supply of fresh breastmilk for Vought’s number one hero, Vought has had to get quite nifty in order to prevent this secret desire out the press and the public– you have unfortunately discovered the truth.

Tags: Stockholm Syndrome, abusive dynamic, Homelander being Homelander, dub-con, dark, mild smut, breastfeeding kink, kidnapping, child-death mention tw, cheating tw, set in s4 but canon nothing, slow burn.

word count: 3.4K

Part 2– Calf

As he’d mentioned before the house was an escape proof cage– every window had its hinges super glued or welded shut, glass panels thick enough to prevent shattering but thin enough to allow sound in. That night as he’d left you for the first time you kept your composure, perturbed more by the earlier events that nothing had time to sink in, you venture across the 3 bedroom home, each room old taken straight out from a vintage furniture catalog, the master bedroom smelled just like your grandmother’s, the bathroom walls covered in tacky pink tiles that you told yourself will never get used to.

By the time you explored the whole building you understood the following: The size felt deceiving, without a way to see the outside this building could’ve been 35 floors high and you wouldn’t know, the east-wing of the building at the opposite direction where you’d emerged was cut off from you by a thick metal door, an eye-scan request made its unpickable lock, looking at how it cut on the hardwood floors you’d guess this is where in the kitchen and perhaps the garage and entry hall could be found, this overall felt like an architectural nightmare, the only other oddity of this was the piles and piles of bottled water– Vought branded water… you much rather drink Dasani than this crap… It was by far the worst one in the supermarket.

There were indeed no phones or even ethernet ports on the wall, the TV was bolted in its place and so was the VHS player (and all the furniture too), there were at least 350 titles on the walls (something you bothered to count on day 5), an extremely old vinyl player your only other company... whoever had supposedly lived here was a big fan of Cab Calloway, ABBA and Bruce Springsteen, here you and Bruce could become intimate friends it seems after all you had all his vinyls, alongside an expansive jazz assortment, nothing in this selection went past 1989.

You also learned a very useful fact on day 3 you stared at one of the 18 cameras that you’d found.

“I really want some Mcnuggets! Like just a 12-pack and a large Sprite! Maybe an Oreo Mcflurry too!” You yelled into the camera waving your arms as if the circular lense would reply somehow.

Barely few minutes later the air was filled with the roaring sounds of a bike burning tires seemed the forbidden end faced some road which made you giddy, about 50 minutes later a small door at the door itself opened smoothly where the first strange hand you’ve seen in the last 3 days popped-out leaving a bag with a familiar logo… it wasn’t maccas tho, it was Vought-a-burger which was okay but that wasn’t the point, you picked your meal and your oversize ice-cream and drink and begun connecting lines– Your prison was in Pennsylvania, based on the area code on the phone number on that old pizza box, located close enough from both a pizza chain and on a 15 to 20 minutes drive from a Vought-a-Burger, the library held no maps for you to try to find your location but give or take about an hour or two by foot from any civilization… Yet as you drank the mostly melted caramel churro sundae you smiled thinking of how to steal a bike.

That Night you picked two tapes from the wall not caring one bit about what you were going to see, you stared at the camera.

“Hey can one of you check like an underrated 80s movie list from IMDb ‘cuz I seen a few of these already… at least bring me something new!”

As always no response was ever given, you dragged your feet towards that ornate bedroom of yours, pink walls, flowery quits, a matching chaise lounge, a hardwood coffee table bolted to the ground and your private TV and VHS player, it took you an hour to remember how to use these thing that second day here. You put on a movie, curling in your bed in the dark, smelling the sweet flowery smell of fabric softener, this didn’t smell like home, pillows too soft, mattress too soft everything here was made to bring you comfort but it was making you feel like a squatter.

The cold light of the screen enveloped every surface and you slowly faded away as ‘Lady in White’ began to wrap up, eyes glued to the screen so firmly you screamed when the faint red light peeked from the corner, clutching the quilt across your body as the red faded away and all you saw was a vaguely illuminated shape.

Blurry colors with no clean shapes, standing facelessly enough blue to let you see it was humanoid, Homelander creeped closer, his body blocking the light and like a shadow he devours everything, he turned around to pause the player, draping his gloves on the dumb box as he turned around once more, your heart caught in your throat, each breath quick and sharp as he took another step closer, hushing softly and he’s there swallowing you whole he kneeled into the bed the mattress squeaked and chimed sinking under his weight pulling you in, only the faint outline of gold eagles and soft blonde locks told you with absolute certainty that he was here… that 3 days ago you indeed met The Homelander, far from the pretty blue-eyed hunk from the movies more ghoul.

You swallowed as his head rested on the pillow next to your hips, his nose burying in the cushioned pillowcase.

“I was busy with work” He mumbles softly, staring at you with the same playfulness of a guilty pet owner who’d ran out of their cat's churu treats– "I promise to visit, I got you something… left it downstairs for you.”

He stared at your white knuckled hands and without uttering a word you understood his demands, fingers moved by psychic force alone, you welcomed him into your lap as you came undone, burying your digits into his hair, soft like cotton, so smooth you dreamt of cat’s bellies as you scratched him, he took the remote from under you lifting you with so much ease your brain struggled to compute it at first, the movie played and all he wanted was petting.

“Security told me you’ve been good… nothing crazy… am glad, "he said with a tired tone.

“What good would that do me…?” You replied with your eyes focused on the screen.

If you wanted to survive I had to get on his good side, no? you though

“I like it when you people understand your place” He chuckles softly.

‘You people’? You could easily discern the meaning behind his words by tone alone, your finger stopped suddenly, his eyes flaring up immediately.

“I think this would be more productive if you told me exactly what’s going on… I won’t try to run or scream… am just confused and scared…” you spoke bluntly as his gaze met yours in the dark.

“This is my private speakeasy and you’re the bartender… tap too… is hard being on top… and I want some relief… and a sanctum–

“To express your socially unacceptable inclinations/interests? Fair enough I can imagine the press would eat you alive if they found out you liked breastmilk.”

“You’re cute and smart too.” He pushed himself into your stomach, your body sinking to the shape he wanted, holding you tight– I’ll be a good owner and let you asks me absolutely anything you want”

“Why me?”

“Dunno.” His lips tightened into a flat line– the doctors picked you, I asked for a good provider… but all the women downstairs and you did have one thing in common” He sounded awkward as he spoke listening to your increasing heartbeat– you kept producing… I asked to have easy access to my treat but somebody downstairs came out with all of this” his hand lazily gestures around– bit extra I know.”

How simple, he didn’t even care about this to begin with, glaring at him gave you no answers or comfort.

“My family…?”

“They think you killed yourself, I've been told… your ex-hubby been on twitter acting holier than the virgin mary, absolutely devastated for likes” You bit your lips, face scrunching up ready to shout and cry– everybody suspects he murdered you even the cops”

“I'm going to kill him!!” Your tears flowed regardless – god fucking dammit!”

Your whole body rejected the news, twisting your stomach and filling you with needles

“How would you do it?”

“Bash his head in with a hammer…?? I don’t know but fuck him! I wasted 5 years of my life with that bastard!” You cried.

Homelander buried his face into your stomach, hiding the smile on his face. as you cursed outloud for a little bit, he paid no attention to your words.

“Sorry…” You cleaned your tears trying to stop this embarrassing display, the mere thought of him acting like he cared made you sick when he wouldn’t even come to his own son’s funeral– are you gonna hurt me?” you cleaned your nose against the pillow.

He moved so quickly before you knew it he’s face to face and even in this dark room only lit by rolling credits he appeared serene as a painting… It makes your blood run cold.

“Why would I hurt my comforter?”

That night he only slept for a couple hours, never moving from your stomach, holding you regardless, he snored softly, mumbling half-spoken words, lips twitching and brows furrowing, you petted him gently watching his hardened frown melt.

Some days he’d come once, others he’d come five times and then there were the days were you didn’t see him at all, leaving you awkwardly aware about how odd these exchanges felt… for it never felt truly sexual, your fears of molestation and ‘real’ assault dissuaded as you accepted that all this man was doing was come here to whine and bitch about work and suck on your titty– like right now, Homelander has been shouting, talkign so much shit about his coworkers you started to wonder if it was made up for nobody could certainly be that allegedly incompetent, about how stressful it was to do 20 plus media interviews all day, about hoq\w his latest film “Justice Serve” was a fucking nightmare already despite being only half-way thru pre-production.

“Do you even know what it's like to deal with idiots who think they’re better than you because they have an award!?” He put your nipple back in his mouth with a frown– who does Villeneuve think he is” He mumbled into your skin.

Yet he didn’t only bring petty grievances and thirsty lips– he showered you with gifts, perfumes you couldn’t pronounce filled with soft fragrances: sweet but not sugary, warm tones without too much spice. Brought you beauty products to pamper you… to watch you play with from the many cameras in the house, and dressed you like a doll in clothes you honestly wouldn't have bought in the first place, too flowery and tradwifey.

You did so with a fake smile, you’d be pretty for him if you must, keep your tongue in-check and swallow the ever increasing knot in your throat for he at least wasn’t loud towards you, he didn’t yell, he didn’t make scenes… you were just living like his newest pet.

His miniature cow standing in the living room instead of the evergreen pastures outside, VHS tapes and steel food trays made your fence.

You keep busy cleaning this house making stories of who had lived there, Bruce the only one who spoke to you.

Analysing the house inch by inch, there had to have been a spot they’ve missed you kept thinking, you figured that somehow they monitored your sleep cycle, only entering to remove dirty clothes and trash in the death of night, they knew if you were obviously awake, on day 14 you stayed up till around 5 am and not a peep was heard accross the house but as you woke past noon all your trash had been cleaned up, on day 16 you stayed awake all day felt sick passed out and same thing, you would find a way out, you would force them to take you out, all the furniture was glued in its post but if you had to cause a fire you fucking would… as you stared at your clean bedsheets you figure you could force them to come in and drag you outside but as you postulated the possibility of a faux-suicide attempt Homelander’s face flashed accross closed eyes– dare dissapointing him and lose all the goodwill you’d been building, trust, even presents more extravagant than anything your ex ever did.

Had he not kidnapped you, hold you against your will in an underground bunker, used you as a milk fountain and terrified the fuck out of you with his invisible steps in the middle of the night you would had found him charming… endearing even… at least he was still handsome… frightening but handsome.

Day 18-19-20 were the worse so far, days went by and your isolation only grew he had not come by, your meals delivered so quietly you missed them and found them cold, birds either too loud or gone but Homelander never came, every hour the anxiety only grew as you found your throat aching to speak with somebody other than a non-present 80s musician.

You made a stack of the movies you’ve seen yelling to the camera demanding more to watch, abandoning the cause to focus on the obscene collection of Danielle Steel books in the library… at least 30 books, at least it was a distraction as you woke up for the third day in a row without hearing from Homelander.

You talked to yourself, prettier views didn’t make up for human interaction, you had isolated yourselves before… you didn’t eat, shower, answer calls, simply left yourself to rot in your bed, sinking deeper and deeper into your mattress, the calm heartbeat of the machine keeping you alive until the phone battery died, now here you were curling in the couch feeling that endless void inside you screaming back at you, nothing to distract you from it any longer.

How ironic that those days locked in the basement had been the firsts since the funeral that you’d hadn’t thought about it.

Now every sleep came with dreams of distant cries, empty halls that cooed back, and a sense of urgency as time slipped from underneath you, nothing here smelled like him, yet in your sleep you held your pillow as you once held him, swearing it smelled like him, in the silence the singing birds sound like babies, but there’s nothing but creaking floorboards, old pipes and foreign ghosts in this place.

In this endless silence your mind told you this was limbo, jazz solos disguised the pandemonium of a silent afterlife, but as your heart anguished once again you buried yourself in paltry distractions, reading out loud as to keep your vocal chords warm and delude yourself that there was some company in here, mostly to hide the nonexistent crying.

It took you by surprise when half way thru ‘The Ghost’ you heard the buzzing of the steel door, your ears perked up stretching your neck before falling into the floor, shaky knees picked you up once more with a brave kick, quick steeping into the living room– Homelander stood staring at the messy pile talking to the camera to have this sorted and for the first time since you’d been here you sawn another human, who answered his call almost immediately, a man in kevlar rushed in his gun bouncing on his back alongside a young man dragging an ikea bag.

“Homelander!” Your voice was hoarse but he still turned to smile at you.

“We got you some new movies Ms. L/N” The young man spoke dropping the bag with a heavy thud.

“Watch it!” Homelander growled and you saw a slight stain dribble down his pants– just go wait in the library kitten while these ones sort this out for you.”

Your feet moved anyways, too excited by the presence of new faces, had he not cleared his throat you would’ve said anything just to make sure this wasn’t a dream, you looked away and that big steel door was wide open, an armed guard by the exit tho… it was an office, painted white with cool fluorescent lights.

Run, the voices scream.

Run.

For fucks sake run!!\

but...

You stay still.

It’s a test. Run and die, run and he’d snap your spine in thirds before you understand what happened your brain would be separated from your cranium no doubt, you swallow and take a step back, slow heavy agonizing steps lead you to the library.

Homelander’s gaze softens as he watches you sit by the unlit fireplace, he follows you soon after leaving the staff to work behind, you lift your head with a stiff neck, your tongue swollen inside your mouth, he smiles gently dropping to your level, carrying a small box.

The pretty bow doesn’t catch your attention in the least.

Not that dashing smile and ever so blue eyes either.

He tickles your nose without touching.

Chamomile and oat, a pale scent, subtle and clean…

As he scoot closer to you urging you to take the meaningless box held by nude hands, he pets your chin, leaving you to catch nutty tones… his hands smell of almond oil and cream.

He’s talking as he guides your hand into opening the present but you aren’t hearing a single word spoken… all you care about is his aroma…it invides you carving an aching hollow chest, making you dizzy and the world is squeezing your whole body with a thousands of pounds of violent force but you’re still held in one piece, wrapping your neck with the necklace he’d got you, touching every exposed inch leaving traces of sweet almond on you, resting his chin on your stiff shoulder so close whispering sweet nothings to you… hair smells so creamy… milky coconut, it makes you ill– You could name every brand he wore if asked.

“You like it?” He asks into your neck.

‘Like’ what? You guessed he meant the necklace.

“Where have you been?” You asked, wanting to think of anything but that bitter scent.

He pushes you down into the carpet, your hair drapes everywhere so he moves it to give himself no chance to pull it, you can’t even argue but your surprise and discomfort still paints your face, before you can say anything he drops his head on your stomach, nuzzling your dress and pulling your hand towards his head.

“I don’t want to talk about it” his muffle words sound angry, he whined into your stomach a quiet order demanding affection.

Obeying orders before he could whined even more for now you wanted silence again.

Staying like this for as long as he needed, leaving you to speculate what brought him such distress that caused him to abandon you as a result, a part of you stared in awe as you realized you how long this man could stay still without making a sound for.

How long did you lay there in a shared repose that your eyes shut? you wondered as the orange glow of afternoon sun warmed your cheeks, his hand cleaned a falling tear off your face as you woke up with a headache.

“Had a nightmare?”

Your hand unconsciously pulled him close to you, burying his face under your chin he’d awkwardly smiled as he adjusted to your demands, talking to you but it was white noise, your kept him still bridging an arm across his neck locking him in position, your other hand buried in blond, closing your eyes as you got high on shampoo.

In your mind much like your dream you hold him so close, he was plump and giddy, his hair more than a thin tuff, you laughed with him, as you dried his back, you swore to never love the scent of coconut, you held back your pain as you held him with all your might.

“I don’t want to talk about it…”

#homelander #homelander x reader #homelander x fem!reader #personal #my fic tag #the boys amazon #i have not proofread this so i die as the dog that i am #will edit for errors tomorrow cuz its almost midnight when am posting this.

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ronearoundblindly · 9 months ago

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Hideout (3.1)

touch-starved!Nomad Steve Rogers x motel employee!Reader

Sensitive Boy, part I (see previous or series)

Summary: Steve surprises you with help at the perfect time.

Warnings for light smut (I have to split this chapter or it's just suddenly twice as long as the last, but really there's just massage and an implied orgasm in this half. You know me: too many feels and too much development...) MINORS DNI. This series is 18+ only. If you are underage or simply enjoy lighter content, there is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this post is not for you! WC 3.2k

With so much on your mind, scaring the crap out of you is not difficult, so his strong hands hold you upright.

“Don’t do that,” you shriek, barely glancing at Steve’s face. You startled so suddenly your housekeeping cart is left rolling away at a snail’s pace.

“Sorry, I—“ long arms abandon you and reach to stop the bin “—it said on your website you were closed for renovations, and…”

You look him up and down. You were sure after he left two months ago that you’d never see him again. You’d gone too far. You’d pushed him too hard. He wasn’t ready.

Steve adjusts the strap over his shoulder. “I thought maybe I could help out…if you want?”

The last guests checked out a half-hour ago, and you readied to spend the whole week meticulously refreshing each room with your parents. The list of what needs done, however, doesn’t only include the motel. There’s a bunch you all had let slide up at the house. Help would…be extremely helpful actually.

Steve pulls a paper bag out of his knapsack. “Or I brought you some lunch if you just want a break or something.”

“It’s okay,” you rush out. “More than okay. Thank you, yes. We’d love—I’d love that.”

No one else can know it’s him-him there though. You’ll have to think of a way to keep your parents and St-‘Grant’ as far apart as possible, and how long you can manage that is…questionable.

If Steve’s not worried though, you’re okay.

Turns out, keeping your family up at the house is easy. Your mom shouts down the phone with relief that she can tackle the fridge, and you hear your dad mumble something about ‘the garage in daylight.’ You can enjoy a sandwich in the office with Steve in peace, explaining what all needs done before the electricians show up Friday afternoon.

The closure hasn’t been planned for a long time—not even before Steve and ‘Tom’s’ last visit—hence why you just painted Room 8, 5, 2, and 1 since March, but doing all those is how you and your parents really noticed that the light fixtures from the ‘90s were not only dated but very worn and that the same color layered over and over again for twenty years was, well, getting old.

Warmer months are better for the work. Pipes won’t freeze while you air out paint fumes, etc. The week after the gigantic, city festivities of Independence Day is notoriously dead. Since there were no reservations this stretch as of April, the family jumped at the chance to fix it all in one big, daunting go.

Saying you’d looked forward to this is a wild overstatement. You’ll be glad when it’s finished, and that’s the bulk of your excitement.

With his assistance though? Hope soars.

Steve will help you take down the sconces, the hanging lamps, and the panels above the vanities, then you both can—

“Where’s the paint?”

He’s very intense with the gameplan. Three guesses why.

“Dad’s gonna pick it up today. Probably. I’ll text him.” You whip out your cell again. “We didn’t think we’d get that far by evening.”

Steve nods.

“We also need to move all the furniture away from the walls and drape plastic to protect the carpet. Oh, and put tape along the trim and doorframes, ya know.”

Steve nods again. He wads up the wrapping from his sandwich and casually asks, “are all the doors open?”

You only just get your finger in the air to point at the desk.

“Master key is—“

But Steve is observant and has clocked everything about his surroundings each time he’s stayed, apparently. He stretches over to the wall beyond the counter, snatches the (correct) unmarked key, and heads out the door.

The service bell rings gently to emphasize the conversation is over.

All furniture in every room is pulled away by the time you finish sanitizing the one guest room he interrupted.

He asks where you keep the ladder, not that he’ll need it, but you will for reaching some of the lights.

You don’t know whether to be in awe of or exhausted by his efficiency.

He’s rigid and militant—go figure—until these few moments he suddenly can’t be.

As you toss plastic over the last bed to move, Steve yanks that sucker across the floor so fast, you roll off. His eyes are saucers as he apologizes, but you get the giggles and pick yourself up.

His fingers can’t separate thin layers of the plastic at one point, and he throws a minor fit until three rip apart together. Steve frowns at you and grumbles that he’s only ever used cloth for this before. It seems to take everything in his power not to say “back in my day,” but you can read between the lines.

Years of crusted paint makes the removal of some fixtures tricky.

Steve rips out one stripped screw with needle nose pliers, squeaks in alarm at the hole left behind, and then quietly asks if you have patch paste.

You call your dad before he’s left to buy paint. He adds spackling to the list.

The closest Steve comes to telling you anything specifically about himself is when you struggle with a stuck bolt.

“Just a little trick I learned when I was—“ Steve wraps his big hand around yours to pull the wrench instead of push from the other direction “—smaller.” He huffs out a laugh, adding, “when I couldn’t, ya know, ‘put my weight into it’ because a feather could’a knocked me over.”

As you relish the simple contact of his fingers, you smile, too.

“Hmm. I heard you got into back alley scrapes.”

“If you heard that I won any of those, you were lied to.” He patiently waits for you to finish removing the bolt before he pries the aged metal and glass away from the old paint it’s stuck in. Steve sighs dramatically.

“Shoddy education these days…”

“I…” You tap his bicep with the claws of the wrench. “I can’t argue with that. We hear only what they tell us about…heroes.”

You should have known he’d shut down at that word, but it’s the truth. Even with him right in front of you, the only things you know about Steve Rogers are from books, newspapers, and the internet. At face value—looking directly into the face of this man—all of what you’ve been told is hogwash. It’s insufficient. It barely covers 1% of who this man is.

He teaches you tricks of the weak man’s trade because it helped him once, too. Today, he’s friendly. Not that he was unfriendly before, but Steve is so reserved he never reference the past, in general, i.e. that there was a past existence of like the planet much less him.

It’s the number one rule of Fight Club: you don’t talk about Fight Club.

If there was ever a real fight club, it’s the Avengers.

You have no official rules for what this is between you. You don’t have to to know that is the most important one. You do not talk about Fight Club. Steve isn’t afraid of silence, that much is clear, but he isn’t a fan. He tries—he is trying—to connect and relate. He can’t be a man of the people, however, if he can’t talk to the people.

It’s important: connection. You know with every fiber of your being that Steve deserves it, but even with unlimited, super-human strength, he cannot get himself out from between this rock and that hard place.

You do not talk about Fight Club, especially when you’ve been kicked out of Fight Club.

Today, though, he’s a little different, a little softer. Perhaps it’s knowing there are no other people in the building, perhaps he is truly more comfortable with you, but either way, Steve is not flat or off-putting.

His organized persona, his focus on the work, his indirect interactions and practical touch; they all fit here while he has a project. It’s the closest he can be to his old self, maybe even his real self, without mentioning the past—the fighting past—at all.

“You’re really good company,” you tell Steve, “even when you make holes in the walls.”

He tilts his head down and blushes. He shrugs as he takes the sconce out to the dumpster. Although he didn’t say it, you hope this is okay.

Either way, you relish it. The help. The touch. The silence. All of it.

You relish Steve.

Your dad brings by the paint, spackling, and a surprise of pizza for dinner while Steve is taping the baseboards in a corner. You introduce ‘Grant’ from afar and haul the cans and boxes from the car to the room, cataloguing all you two have finished to this point and what you’ll do before stopping for the night.

Dad is impressed. He’d suspected the three of you—you, he, and Mom, that is—might settle for slapping some paint up around where the electrician would install the new lights. No one planned on getting this far in one evening.

He won’t stand in the way of progress, so your dad simply calls out, “bit of an artist, are ya?”

Steve looks up, confident with only the side table lamps plugged in, he can barely be seen. “Just want to be useful,” he mutters.

You wink at your dad as he heads back to the still-running car. “Grant is a jack of all trades.”

You’re sure to thank him for the food and let him know all the motel stuff is completely covered for tomorrow, too. You’ll work as late as you can and start as early as possible.

Dad says your friend has gone ‘above and beyond.’ You agree wholeheartedly.

‘Grant’ would more aptly be described as a machine.

All the furniture moved, all the lights taken down, all bordering taped, and now all blemishes in the walls smoothed, your impromptu contractor finally calls it quits when he’s forced to watch stuff dry.

You’ve kept the air conditioning going in one room.

Steve tentatively asks if he should walk you up to the house, but you counter with “it’s not any less dangerous for an average guy alone to return” and a cheeky smirk. Besides, it is very late. You let Captain OCD keep going; you tapped out a while ago.

He puts his hands on his hips, arms akimbo, thinking of a comeback that never manifests. After giving up, Steve takes his tiny bag into the bathroom and brushes his teeth.

You can faintly hear it over the murmur of the TV.

You aren’t really watching. It’s background noise to your general exhaustion.

With only a side lamp and the screen as light, Steve’s bare feet crumple over the discarded plastic sheet on the floor. He falls into one side of the bed, fully-clothed and (finally) tired.

Though productive, the day has been a distant one, working in different rooms for most of it and tiptoeing around real conversation. You want him to feel appreciated, not pressured, so you ask if he’d like the TV on for a while or would rather quiet.

Steve just grunts with his eyes closed.

Gently, you place a hand on his chest to steady you, leaning to kiss his bearded cheek.

“Thank you, Steve,” you say softly. “Good night.”

He hums when you say his name, and before you can lift your hand away, he captures it under his, holding you in place.

His eyes aren’t open. He can’t see you smile wider.

“Okay.” You tuck yourself into his chest as he raises his other arm out of the way. “Okay.”

Your ear sits in the dip beneath his collarbone, listening to his steady heart, his thumb sweeping back and forth over you knuckles.

He smushes you closer to his side. You toss your leg over his.

You forget to turn off the TV.

He’s sanding the spackled spots by the time you wake, so you rub across his back and dismiss yourself to get breakfast up at the house.

Steve makes no effort to go with, which is fine. You assumed as much.

Your dad calls Grant a ‘magician’ over the pop of oil in the skillet and insists you give your friend whatever he needs to keep working so fast. You are only half-joking when you admit the key is staying out of his way.

Bonus: the exchange reinforces your parents simply leaving the two of you alone down the hill, and you proudly tell Steve that when delivering him an enormous plate of scrambled eggs.

He jumps right back into planning-mode and orders you to roll the first coat of paint onto large areas. He’ll follow, completing the edges and corners.

It’s such a domestic thing to do. There is no one in danger, there are no bodies piling up if he makes a wrong move, and he can go faster or take his sweet time. Steve breaks when he wants or needs to. He sits outside and listens to the birds in the sunshine. No one is around to question him, not even you. You are only there to encourage.

You realize he was looking for a project. He’s used to—and likes—being busy, getting his hands dirty, producing results.

It’s a long, messy day where he becomes more serene in spirit the more intensely he works. You reward him with gentle sweeps of your hand down his arms, pats on his shoulders, and brushes at the small of his back.

Despite the almost constant movement, the day is over before you know it, earlier than yesterday, but it’s too hot to go on.

All the windows stay open to air out the fumes.

Though it won’t stop you from sweating, you both shower off as many splatters and flecks of paint as you can. You insist he goes first so there’s plenty of hot water.

He’s sitting on the bed, shirtless, checking his phone when you come out of the bathroom, but he immediately squirrel the device away in his small bag. Not much to carry around. Not much to leave behind. Steve can’t leave a trace of himself anywhere.

Hunched over and fatigued, he flashes a polite smile your way and blinks heavily.

He deserves the world.

You grab the small bottle of lotion from the countertop and playfully jump onto the bed behind him.

“How about a massage, yeah? You much be aching.”

Honestly, you don’t mean for it to sound sexual, but the phrase comes out downright dirty, making Steve awkwardly chuckle.

“You don’t have to,” he placates.

“Nonsense, I want to. It’ll make the air feel cooler.” That’s as good of an excuse as any. Who cares when the rippled expanse of his back flexes wildly in your touch?

His breathes are audible from the beginning.

You dig at his traps, his leg bouncing as he tries to relax. You use your thumbs, the flats of your hands, and your knuckles.

He shoves his fist in his mouth when he starts to moan, covering the move with a cough, but muffling the noise is abandoned in favor of clasping over his lap. He’s intent on hiding his hardness this time. There’s nothing you can say to truly lessen the sting of needing more. You can’t simply tell him he’s allowed to desire this; you have to ignore his misplaced shame.

But you can take pity on him.

“If you lie flat—“ you step off the bed to give him privacy “—I’ll have more leverage.”

You hear him crawl and adjust on the sheets. “Unlike the torque on a wrench,” you add, just to show you’ve been listening to him.

More lotion is needed for the surface area.

You turn up the TV, feining interest in the late night show so any noise he makes is not as obvious. What the speakers can’t cover, however, is Steve’s involuntary thrusts when you rub the heels of you palms up and down the sides of his spine. If you prop up on your knees, he has more range of motion and doesn’t obviously rock you while mindlessly humping the bed.

His sweats are slung low on his hips, two darts of muscle prominent above his ass.

They are irresistible, the perfect grooves to target and roll into, and he immediately mewls long and deep into the mattress, fingers curling and relaxing while his body seizes.

He hasn’t even finished coming, you think, before he taps at your leg and races to the bathroom.

You hope you didn’t push too far. You hope he’d tell you to stop if he needs more space, more time. Mostly, you hope he knows you’d give him every conceivable pleasure, just because he is him.

The water runs a long time, continuous splashing in the sink, and then nothing.

He didn’t bring much because he doesn’t have much. Your heart sinks, realizing you’ve made him soil one of only two pairs of pants he has here.

He cracks open the door, muttering, but you can’t make out the words.

You turn the volume back down. “What?”

“It pretty hot.” He clears his throat. “Would you mind if I sleep…without…?”

“Naked?” you squeak before composing yourself. “That’s fine. Whatever’s comfortable.”

You shuffle up the bed to click off the lamps. This man isn’t the type to strut around in the nude—yet, anyway—so in the faint and ever-shifting glow of the screen across the room very little can be seen.

‘Little,’ however, can’t describe anything that is visible about the man emerging from the bathroom.

You have to make a point not to stare, but no skit or commercial on the channel promises the same level of entertainment.

Steve slides himself beneath the sheet, sitting near the headboard.

You hold up the remote. “On or off?”

“Off,” he says, “please.”

You’ve certainly done enough for one day. You won’t push your luck, so you hit the power button, toss it on table, and snuggle into your half of the bed, facing away.

“If it’s too hot for any covers, that’s okay, too.”

A rustling interrupts the rhythmic whir of crickets in the night until you feel a warm hand lightly mold to your waist.

This should be encouraged. This should be rewarded.

“Hey, Stevie,” you whisper, waiting for his hum, “happy belated birthday.”

At most you expect a grip of notice, but instead, the big hand snakes across you and hauls you into his chest, his long legs bending to match the crook of yours, his nose and forehead tucked against your occipital.

“We did okay today,” Steve mumbles into your shirt.

You walk your hand over your stomach to find his, lacing the fingers together. “Yes. Yes, we did.”

Steve got to be useful today. He had a partner today. He will tomorrow and the day after, for as long as he stays, for as long as you’re alive. Nothing can change that.

Maybe he can’t talk about Fight Club, but he connects with you anyway.

A/N: Whoopsy. Didn't want to make y'all wait for a 6k+ chapter, so here's the first half! I am DEEP in the feels of this one. So, so many notes have been taken. The brainrot is real, and I fucking love it!!!!

[Next: Sensitive Boy, part II]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @rogersbarber @spectre-posts @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @im-a-slut-for-fluff @fangirl-swagg @georgeweaslysgirl @austynparksandpizza @claireelizabeth85 @jamneuromain @rach2602 @royalwritersoftheuniverses @shelbygeek @rogersideup @eyebagsanonymous @trudy-shams @saranghaey @awkwardgiraffe726 @marvelmenwhore @happinessinthebeing @before-we-get-started @sjsmith56 @esposadomd @cjand10 @yearningforsappho @mrsevans90

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lottesreads · 2 months ago

Text

Why Me? - Part 12

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Mitchell! Female Reader (Callsign Mantis)

Warnings: Forbidden relationship, some angst, mentions of nightmares, mentions of PTSD, swearing, mentions of anxiety and panic attacks, therapy (we love), mentions of death/being sick, mentions of limb loss (it'll all make sense),

Word Count: 9500

Summary: Everyone prepares for the storm, and you're left with a lot to think about as some forgotten feelings come back.

A/N: Hiiii guys, I am so sorry this took SO LONG. For some reason it was so hard to write and school started so ya know how that goes. But hopefully this makes up for it?? I love all of you and as always I hope you enjoy. Reblogs and comments feed my life force just btw

p.s. you know I love to hear what you think, so fire away

Masterlist

Bob knows he messed up. He knows that, and as much as he wishes he never put you in this situation to begin with, he can’t undo what he said. Things have just gone completely downhill since he told you how he felt and it just…. feels like it’s all his fault. You’re quiet, secluding yourself, and almost scared at work now. But there’s not much he can do if you refuse to open up to him. He can’t help but worry for you, but it’s up to you now. If you want to talk to him, great. If not, he just hopes you talk to someone else.

The wind has slowly been gaining speed since early this morning when he took Sylvia out for a run. It was his last chance to get her out of the house before the shit hit the fan and he wasn’t gonna keep her cooped up anymore than she had to be. He’s been in a daze since yesterday. Can’t quite seem to focus on anything he puts before him, including the several garden gnomes and pieces of porch furniture belonging to his neighbors.

“You sure all of this will fit in the garage?”, he asks while carrying a chair down from the front steps.

“Oh I’m sure”, Rich replies. His eyes have been more focused on placing their gnome collection inside the house, but he’s been making room for everything else in the garage. He’s skeptical as he eyes the rest of the room, they’ve still got to fit their cars inside, too. He’s sure if he moved a couple of those storage bins to a higher shelf he’d be able to-

“You’ve already done enough for us, why don’t you come inside for some sweet tea, huh?”

“I’m ok”, he tries to brush him off.

“I’m not taking no for an answer Bob”, Rich offers with a raise of his thick eyebrow. Bob gives in, like he does most of the time with these two, and follows Rich inside. Harry sits at the table as he wraps up the rest of their pointy-hat clad lawn ornaments, but pauses at the sight of his husband.

“How’s everything going out there?”

“We’re just about done”, Rich responds from behind the fridge door, “I thought we deserved a water break.” Bob laughs to himself, he really hasn’t done much except move a couple pieces of furniture. He probably could have been finished by now if they didn’t keep offering him water or tea.

“Oh that reminds me”, Harry turns to his husband, “We need to bring the hose from the side of the house in. I forgot when I finished watering the garden yesterday.” Bob isn’t able to take one step in the direction of the door before Rich urges him into the seat across from Harry.

“Don’t you worry about that one young man, I got it.”

“It’s really no trouble-”

“I insist, you take a seat and drink your tea. You can take a turn listening to Harry complain for once.” Rich slides a glass of sweet tea in front of Bob before patting Harry on the shoulder and stepping outside.

“I just wish I could help you boys more”, Harry starts. “But ya know the leg starts acting up whenever a storm is coming.” He emphasizes his point by tapping his metal prosthetic onto the side of the table, shaking it the slightest bit. Bob’s never sure if he’s talking about the actual prosthetic hurting, or what’s left of his leg, but at this point he’s too scared to ask. All he knows is that whenever he gets a call from Harry early in the morning, there’s bound to be a storm before the day’s over. This time however, he got his weather from the news, like a normal person.

“So-”, Harry starts as Bob takes a swig from his glass, “Are we going to be seeing Miss Mitchell anytime soon?” The sweet tea halts in Bob’s throat, sliding down the wrong tube and causing him to choke on the beverage. He does his best to not drop the glass onto the table in order to stop himself from spraying the drink everywhere, but Harry looks like he could care less as his brow raises. Bob clearly was not expecting him to bring you up, and Harry’s squint gives into the fact he’s happy to catch him off guard.

“I’d make an assumption, but I’m not quite sure how to make one out of that kind of reaction.” Bob continues trying to clear his throat by coughing, but Harry waits.

“No”, he chokes, “She uh- she won’t be coming by anytime.” Harry hums to himself as he turns back to the bubble wrap.

“That’s too bad. She was quick, I liked her.” Me too, Bob thinks to himself. He just gives him a slight frown at the news. “Seemed like you were pretty fond of her, too.” Bob’s cheeks heat up at his insinuation, and he tries to make a run for it.

“Ok! I should probably go help-”

“Sit back down”, Harry groans. Bob begrudgingly does as the man says as he begins to toy with the condensation forming on his glass. “All I’m saying is, you both obviously like each other. What gives?” All he can do is shake his head at the thought. There’s too much, but maybe he’ll understand.

“There’s just a lot of other stuff involved.”

“Oh yeah, like what?”

“Well, for starters her title isn’t ‘Miss’... it’s Lieutenant.” Bob’s gaze flicks over to watch Harry’s eyes widen in realization.

“Shit. Is she a WSO, too?”

“Nah, she’s a pilot”, he smiles, “A damn good one.” Harry chuckles as he crosses his arms.

“I shoulda known.” Bob furrows his brows, silently asking him to explain. “She just had this look in her eye…Can’t really explain it.” Bob knows the one. The silent determination he sees whenever you climb into the cockpit. No matter what happens on the ground, once you ascend that ladder… you’re focused. And no one can take that away from you.

“So that’s it then? You're just gonna let her go?” Harry probes as Bob shakes his head. He focuses on a grain of wood in the table, avoiding the man’s gaze.

“It’s against strict rules”, Bob shrugs, “I don’t want to be the reason she gets into trouble. It’s better if we just leave it.”

“Is it?” Bob grabs his glass of sweet tea and takes a sip before Harry leans forward in his seat, “If I know anything about you Bob, it’s that you’ve got a level head on those shoulders. And from what I can tell about Lieutenant Mitchell, it’s that she does, too. But you can’t forget underneath all of that, you have hearts. You can’t leave that out of the equation.” Bob stills as he taps his finger on the rim of his glass. Yeah, Bob has a heart, but you do, too. And who knows if deep down this is what you really want? If he’s what you really want.

His thoughts are interrupted by Harry once again, this time as he finishes wrapping up the last gnome.

“Mitchell, huh?” Bob mindlessly nods. “You don’t happen to know if she’s got any family who served, do ya?”

“Yeah, actually. Her dad just happens to be our captain. Pete Mitchell-”

“Maverick?!”, Harry all but yells. “That cocky motherfucker’s still in service?” The front door slams shut as Rich makes his way back inside.

“What cocky motherfucker are we talking about?”, he asks as if this is a normal topic of conversation for the two of them.

“Pete Mitchell”, Harry tells him as he stares at Bob in awe.

“Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time”, Rich replies as he grabs himself and Harry their own drinks. Bob pivots in his seat as Rich brings both glasses to the counter, eyes wide in shock. “Don’t tell me-” He’s obviously already made the connection as Harry nods at him. He simply shrugs and continues to pour their drinks, brushing off the fact that Harry seems to be stuck on. Something he thought Rich of all people would want to talk about.

“Did you fly with him?” Bob directs the question at Harry. He rolls his eyes.

“For a very brief time. He’s a few years younger than me, but always acted like he was the best of the best. Didn’t even win the goddamn Top Gun trophy.”

“Well”, Rich chimes in as he sets the glass in front of Harry, “That wasn’t entirely his fault.” Bob’s eyes unintentionally squint as he tries to think back on what he actually knows about your dad. There’s very limited information he sought after Hangman revealed he flew with Rooster’s dad, and- then it hits him.

“Wait”, he stops the two men, “Were you guys here when they had the accident?”

“I wasn’t”, Harry responds, “But Rich was. He was actually one of the-” Rich’s hand claps down on his husband’s shoulder, effectively stopping him from finishing the story. He grants Bob a forced smile.

“I was. It was a… a very sad day.” Rich keeps moving, leaving his glass of tea untouched as he moves the box of packed up gnomes to the living room. Bob leaves it at that. If there was more to the story he wouldn’t want to probe where he’s not welcome to.

After helping move the small outdoor coffee table into the garage, he insists on parking their cars himself. Just to make sure he did leave enough room for everything to fit. And with his many years experience with Tetris, he’s able to pack anything that the wind might sweep away into safe hiding spaces for the night.

-----------------------

If the puffy eyes that greet you in the mirror are any indication that you’d been crying, the wad of tissues scattered around your trash can would certainly do the trick. It was an ugly cry, one that you realized was futile to resist against the snot dripping down your nose. You’d cried more in the past couple months than you had in the past five years. Not to mention you haven’t cried to the point where you kept a roll of toilet paper to use as tissues next to your bed since you were a teenager. But even then you had mastered to cry in silence, to not alert anyone or “bother” someone with the noise of your anguish.

It wasn’t a question that was the reason for your headache. You even forgot you got hit in the face until you tried wiping the sleep from your eyes, only to pull your hand away as soon as it brushed near the red and purple bruise.

“Son of a bitch”, you muttered as you made your way to the bathroom. The wind howls outside your room as you splash your face with cold water, hoping to reduce the swelling before inevitably seeing your father. Gently, you wipe your face with a towel, taking a good hard look at the aftermath from the night before. You huff out a breath before tearing your gaze away from the mirror, gathering the tissues you’d thrown half-heartedly in the direction of the trash can the night before.

Your father is already up and moving as you descend the stairs. Granted, you did allow yourself to sleep in today. He’s sitting on the couch, slipping his shoes on when you make eye contact. He immediately smiles with a grimace upon seeing your face.

“Hey sweetheart”, he greets you, “How you feeling this morning?” You simply scoff and turn to the kitchen. The coffee machine is still warm, your dad already having at least his second cup of the day.

“Like I got hit in the face”, you respond. The machine hums while you let it work, and you grab an emblazoned Navy mug from the cabinet. You turn to lean on the counter, watching him finish lacing up his boots. “Where are you going?”

“Well, Penny’s moving everything at the bar and I figured since I took care of our stuff yesterday, I’d go help out. Plus it’ll be my last chance to take the bike for a spin this weekend.”

“And they say chivalry is dead”, you comment as the coffee seeps into your cup. He chuckles and makes his way over to you. You turn, mug in hand as he walks up. He grimaces again at your face, but his shoulders slump as he notes your puffy eyelids. “How’d you sleep”

“Alright”, you mumble.

“I can stay here if-”

“Dad”, you groan as you roll your eyes, “What am I, five?”

“No- but I’m just saying, if you need me I’ll be here for you.”

“I know, but I’ll be fine.” He seems unsure as he glances between you and the front door. “Go”, you urge him, “Be a knight in shining armor.” He laughs again as he bids you goodbye and leaves. The rumble of his motorcycle tapering off as he exits the neighborhood.

Truly, you are fine. You’re not great, but you’ve been worse. In fact, this is probably the most down time you’ve had in a while. If you were still talking to Bob you would probably text him and see what he was up to, but alas. There’s not much to do except waste away for the rest of the day. Which is exactly what you do. You turn the t.v. on and throw your feet up. They almost hit the large box Bradley left yesterday. You guess you could see what’s in there for you, but you’re already so comfortable and it's just so… far away. And soon enough, your eyes are drooping shut again.

-----------------------

The day passes by painlessly as you switch from folding laundry, to eating whatever is left in the fridge. Your headache slowly dissipates with every bite of food and drink of water, but as it gets closer to evening, the noises from outside get louder and louder. A leaf from a palm tree being ripped from its home and hitting the side of the house, ran pattering, and thunder booming in the distance.

Deciding you’ve had enough of scrolling aimlessly through your phone, you move back to the living room and turn on something you can watch without much thought. The cardboard box Bradley brought over still sits on the coffee table, and huffing out a breath you decide to take the lid off. There’s a bundle of old photos, a couple of dirtied up baseballs, and an old envelope you move to look at, but your phone rings before you can inspect it further. Your dad’s face appears on the screen and you swipe to answer.

“Hey dad, what’s up?”

“Hey kiddo, listen, there was a lot that needed to be boarded up and taken care of at the bar, I just barely got back to Penny’s. I know everything’s taken care of at the house, but the wind and rain are picking up. I don’t want to leave you alone, but it might be safer just to spend the night here. Are you gonna be ok?”

“Dad, I'll be fine. I’d feel better knowing you’re at Penny’s rather than driving your bike in the storm.” You can hear him sigh on the other end. Even with your permission you know he still feels guilty leaving you.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“I swear. I’ll be fine.”

“Ok sweetheart. Promise you’ll call me if anything happens or you need me, ok?”

“I promise”, you can’t help but smile through your words at his protectiveness.

“Alright, well I love you, and hopefully things will slow down and I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Love you, too, dad. Bye.” He bids you goodnight, even if it isn’t 8 o’clock yet, it feels like much later with the storm clouds covering up any chance of dying sunlight.

Turning back to the box you pick up the envelope, there’s an unexpected weight to it and you hold your breath at the sight of Carole’s handwriting. There’s one word on the front and it’s simply labeled “Bug”. Your once steady hands shake as you trace the folded edge that has been sealed for almost two decades. You can’t open it fast enough, but at the same time you’re hesitant to see quite possibly what her last words to you could be. Slipping your finger under the seal, you try to minimize the damage as it rips open. As if it were an extension of the woman herself.

Inside sits a lined piece of journal paper, folded neatly into thirds. But your eyes linger on the item weighing it down as you huff out a breath in disbelief. Your fingers reach inside, and once completely taken out of its hiding place, a silver chain with a butterfly pendant hangs from your hand.

With the necklace still wrapped around your fingers, your eyes water as you reach for the note, unfolding it. The paper shakes as your heartbeat quickens. And her voice fills your head while you trace the all familiar cursive with a featherlight touch.

My Darling Bug,

Did you really think I wasn’t going to notice this found its way back into my possession? I don’t know why or when you did this, but I thought I told you it wasn’t mine anymore. I gave this to you for a reason, Bug. I wanted you to know that Bradley, your dad, and I will always be with you. I think you might need it now more than ever. It might be a little different, but I don’t want you to look at it and be sad I’m not with you. I want you to look at it and be happy that I still am, no matter what.

I know I made you promise me to be brave. And you have kept that promise, so if you think you haven’t, you’re wrong. But maybe I should have worded it differently, because you don’t need to be brave like anybody else. I want you to continue being brave like you. Because I know you are. Even so, I want you to remember how I got this necklace in the first place. It all happened because Goose was brave enough to ask. He taught me that being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared anymore. It means that even though you are scared, you do it anyway. You don’t run from it, you face it head on. He always told me I wasn’t born with the fear part of my brain intact, but he was wrong. When we lost him, I knew for a fact that part of my brain was there. I was so scared, but I knew I had to keep going. If not for me, then for Bradley and your dad. Heaven knows your dad was scared out of his mind, but that’s what makes him one of the bravest people I know. He kept flying, and then soon enough, you came along and changed our lives completely. And I know I’m rambling, but I just need you to know how much you mean to me- to all of us.

So I don’t want you to live your life in fear or with regrets, wondering the same things, so please; continue to be the brave girl I know you are. It’s hard to take those first steps. But it is so worth the risk, because you deserve everything good this world has to offer.

And this may or may not make it easier, but I just ask that you take this back and wear it with pride. I will always be with you, bug. And I can’t stand another moment having this sitting in my jewelry box, collecting dust when you can wear it and put it to much better use. You deserve it. I love you very much, don’t forget that.

P.S. I know Bradley’s a big boy and he acts like he can take care of himself, but I know he’ll need you just as much as you need him. Same with your dad. Be there for each other.

-Love, Carole

You move the letter away from under your face as you feel the tears start to fall. You’re just quick enough as they hit your lap instead. The necklace is now safely encased in your grip as you take in a ragged breath. All this time- You can’t stomach the thought. This entire time, these past 16 years you’ve been separated from this last piece of Carole you never even knew existed. And the necklace you thought was lost to time now sits in your palm. You hold on to it. Tight.

You still don’t let go as you gingerly place the letter back in the envelope. Deciding you need to put these two things in a safer spot than your living room, you walk up to your room and go to the shoebox above your closet. Inside, you move the velvet box with your Academy ring to the side, making room for the letter. You almost place the necklace in with it, but you’re not going to disobey Carole by not putting it on the next chance you get.

With the silver chain still wrapped in your hand, you put the shoebox back, just about tripping over your flight suit in the process. In everything that happened yesterday after therapy you must have forgotten to put it in your laundry basket, or hang it up at least. As you pick the jumbled green fabric up, your ears prick up at the sound of something hitting the floor. The gleam of a copper coin catches your eye and you drop your uniform altogether, opting to pick it up instead.

Carole’s words swirl through your head as your heart rate picks up. You stare at the penny in one hand, and open your other to reveal the silver butterfly. The memory of Bob’s crooked smile fills your senses and your heart beats faster again. There’s a phantom ache of his hand cradling yours, gently placing that first penny into your palm on the tiled floor of the locker room. Even before you kissed there was this urge to want to get to know him from deep inside the dark recesses of your heart. From places you thought you blocked off and boarded up after your last boyfriend. You left no room for weakness, no room for anyone to have the upper hand, but yet, you feel safe around Bob. You still do, even after it tore you to shreds resisting that same urge to talk to him, to look at him. It scares you, how after only meeting him a few months ago, it feels like he knows the darkest parts of you, and still wants to learn more. To care for you in a way that you haven’t let someone in a long time. And you want to do the same for him.

That urge sends chills up your spine as thunder booms in the distance, the once small patter of rain picking up as it hails on your roof. Clenching the penny in your fist, you delicately hold the necklace in the other, and you swear the lightning reflects off the silver butterfly, almost winking at you. In the glint, you hear Carole’s voice from when she first gave it to you, and again through her writing. “Be brave”, her whisper echoes. And in that moment, your heart beats louder, anticipating what you know you’re going to do next before your brain has the time to catch up. Placing the necklace on your side table next to your bed, your feet sprint down the stairs the moment the chain leaves your fingers.

You can hardly differentiate the thud of your feet from the thunder that is somehow getting closer by the second. Throwing on the nearest jacket and lacing up your shoes, you grab your keys and head to the garage. Your old faithful Toyota lays dormant as you jump in, and start the engine. Or at least try to. It sputters a couple times as you turn the key again, and again.

“No, no, no. Please”, you plead as you take a deep breath, holding out hope as you try one last time, “C’mon!” With a final twist, the engine roars to life. “Yes! Thank you!” The garage opens and closes with the click of a button as you peel out of the driveway, probably a little too fast, but who would be crazy enough to be on the streets in these conditions?

The rain doesn’t stop on your account, and both hands are white knuckling the steering wheel as you attempt to maintain the little control you have of your vehicle over mother nature. Your windshield wipers are moving as fast as they can, but it’s little to no good as you traverse the streets. You might have been better off with a canoe.

Nonetheless, you’re so close. Your destination is only a couple blocks away, practically in sight as your car lurches forward, sputtering, before ultimately slowing as you pull to the side of the road.

“No, no, no, are you kidding me?!”, you scream as you hit the steering wheel. She was doing so good! What happened? Placing the car in park, you remove the key and try again, but nothing. Squinting through the rain pattered window, you make out the street sign up ahead as it sways in the wind. This is ok. You can do this. Clenching your jaw and ensuring your phone is buried deep in one of your pockets along with your keys, you push against the gusts of wind and open the car door.

Your face is immediately pelted with ice-like bullets, raining down on you without mercy. Even with the hood of your jacket on, it does no good as you run across the sidewalk and turn down the street. A few house lights are on, but you can barely see as the rain washes over you in sheets. A gust of wind almost gets the better of you as you try your hardest to hold the hood to your head, creating any kind of cover you can. You are so close to throwing in the towel. So close to going back to your car and hiding away until the storm is over. But you didn’t come this far just to turn back. You will not give up.

Shining just a bit brighter than every other house on the street, your destination is in sight. Just one block and your feet make the decision for you to move faster. To run like you never have before, because this time you’re not running from anything. You’re running towards something. The rain hits you quicker, but it’s hard to feel it soak through your clothes as your feet pound against the pavement.

Your shoes slip on the step to the front door, and your fist meets the entrance much sooner than you were expecting. It creates a loud knock, but there’s no sign of life behind the door. Gaining your footing back, you knock once more. Nothing. You knock twice again. Damn it. He must not be able to hear you through the storm’s havoc. You don’t care anymore, you weren’t thinking when you hopped in your car, and you aren’t trying to stay out in the rain all night. Your knuckles are knocking repeatedly on the door, and that’s when you hear Sylvia bark. She’s getting louder as she moves closer to the door and you continue your knocking, hoping he’ll hear you over her.

“Please, c’mon”, you mutter to yourself as your teeth chatter against the words. Your knuckles are going raw from the sheer cold and the fact that you’ve been hitting them against the door for what feels like 20 minutes. The door opens with a rush of warm air and you’re greeted with the halo wrapped face of someone who only feels like warmness and comfort. The light shines around his features as they contort at what stands in front of him.

“Mantis, what the hell?!”, he yells through the wind while reaching forward to pull you inside. “Oh my god, are you crazy?!”, he exclaims as he holds your arms in place. Your teeth are chattering as he tells you to stay put before coming back with a towel that he promptly throws over your shoulders. It doesn’t do much good as you’re soaked to the bone, but he’s frantically looking for more before you reach out for him.

“Bob-”

“What are you doing here?!”

“I- I’m being brave”, you explain through the pounding rain and thunder. He pauses just for a moment, then shakes his head as he stares at you in utter confusion.

“Did you.. run here? Mantis, are you ok?”

“Bob I’m fine-”

“Do you know where you are? How did you get here?”

“Bob!”, you finally raise your voice and he meets your gaze instead of your rain-drenched form. “I will explain everything, but please just let me say what I came here to say”, you breathlessly supply. He looks back to you, hesitant, but nodding to let you continue.

“Ok”, he whispers. You can barely feel your fingers, or your toes for that matter, but your shaky hand reaches into your pocket and grasps onto the single penny you came here with. The only thing that you made sure to bring.

“What did you mean by this?”, you ask as you hold it out in front of him. “When you gave this to Phoenix, what did you want me to make of this?” His eyelashes flutter in a series of blinks as he silently takes in a breath. Without meaning to, the coin shakes in your hand, and he rushes an answer before you have to stand there any longer.

“It means what it’s always meant. I know I messed everything up, but I still want you to feel like you can trust me, and talk to me. Because you can. I know how scary it can be, and it’s…rare to find someone you feel so comfortable to be around and talk to about the nitty gritty parts of your life. And I like to believe I was that for you for a little bit, ‘cause… you were that for me.” Your heart melts at his sentiment as you continue to drench the walkway of his home.

“Now can you please tell me why you drove here in the middle of a hurricane?” You swallow, hoping whatever fears you have fall to the back of your throat to make room for what you need to tell him. Because, here you are: Soaking wet, standing in Bob’s home, with nothing but a penny and the knowledge that even if you’re scared, you can do this anyway.

“Bob”, you sigh, “You have not messed anything up. In fact, you did something I was too afraid to do.” Taking another deep breath, you ignore the lines riddled in his forehead and continue.

“I have been scared for most of my life. I know sometimes I act like I’m invincible, but I’m not. But I am also sick of being scared. I am sick of pretending. Life is too damn short, and for once instead of just acting like I am, I am trying to be brave. I can’t let this be another ‘what if’. I won’t let you be that. You deserve to at least know how I feel.”

“Mantis, you don’t have to-”

“No, but I want to”, you nod with authority, solidifying to Bob that this is a risk you want to take. You take in another deep breath as it fills you with courage. “Bob, it’s hard to explain, but- you make me feel brave. But at the same time you also scare the shit out of me”, you can’t help but laugh as the crease in his forward melts a little bit. “You scare me because you care so deeply for the people around you, and you’re so generous, and kind, and I can’t help but want to be around you all the time. And- and I’m rambling aren’t I?”, you ask as he breathes out a miniscule laugh. And then you’re gifted with the slightest uptick of his mouth. Just enough for you to know that he’s still listening. But when is he not?

“Anyway. I just- it kills me that you think so lowly of yourself, and I need you to know that I care about you. A lot. And if it hasn’t been blatantly obvious by how I’ve kissed you”, he blushes and looks down at his feet as if he didn’t kiss you with just as much passion, “I like you beyond the point of being friends. And- I feel like you see me. Not just as an aviator, not just as a woman, but as a person. But that’s also scary in itself because you’ve seen my flaws, and each time you didn’t look away. You stayed. You stayed and made sure I didn’t stay down.”

“You didn’t need me for that”, he shakes his head. And you smile through your shaky breath. “You don’t stay down long.”

“Maybe not, but it’s easier to get up when someone lends you a hand.” He stills at your words and your mind tracks back to find the courage you came here with. It’s not hard when Bob’s standing right in front of you with Carole’s voice running through the back of your mind.

“I’ve tried brushing these feelings off, and staying away from you, thinking I was doing what was best for the both of us. And… I don’t know about you, but it’s only been like two days without talking to you- and I miss being around you.” The tell you’re about to cry starts with your throat straining, and at this point you’re trying everything to talk through it. “I don’t want to mourn you while you’re still here-”, you choke out as you clench your jaw to stop your teeth from chattering any louder than they already are.

“Hey”, Bob whispers as he moves closer to you, “It’s ok-”

“I don’t want to lose you when I’ve never even had you”, you breathe a shaky breath as he places his hands on your shoulders, the warmth permeating through your jacket and towel.

“Whoa, where is all this coming from?” Your breathing is rapidly increasing, as he stares down into your eyes, concern painted through the way he looks at you. That and something else you’re too hyped up on adrenaline to identify at this moment.

“It’s ok, just breathe for me. Can you do that?” You nod as you stare back at him, his hands reaching out to grasp your own, placing one on his chest. Just like he did in the locker room. God, it feels like it was ages ago.

“Jesus Christ, you’re freezing”, he mutters as he puts both of his hands atop your own. Your fingers thrum over the soft cotton of his shirt, and you’re almost certain his heart is beating just as fast as your own.

“Your heart’s beating really fast”, you comment as you watch your fingers underneath his.

“Are you sure that’s not your own?” You exhale a laugh, but continue to feel that familiar thump from his chest.

“No, that’s definitely you.”

“Yeah”, he manages a nervous smile, “That usually happens when I’m around you.” Your hand is slowly gaining feeling back under the protection of his own, and your eyes meet his. He whispers your name softly, and this time you don’t flinch. You don’t break away, you don’t blink. Your teeth are still chattering, the noise distracting him from whatever he was going to say.

“Let’s get you into some dry clothes, yeah?” Silently you nod as he gives you a brief smile. He’s seemingly already accustomed to the idea of you staying the night, something you didn’t think of before running out of your own house. Taking your hand in his own, he leads you to the bottom of his stairs before jogging up to what you presume to be his bedroom. You wait as you attempt to clench your jaw to stop chattering your teeth, but that’s when you spot a shiny black nose poking out from the corner of the living room.

“Hey Syl”, you whisper while bending down. She retreats almost immediately at the sight of you, but reappears at the familiar voice. You realize you must look kind of scary with your jacket hood plastered to your face. In an attempt to get her to come closer, you peel your hood off of your head and tempt her again with your outreached hand. “It’s just me sweet girl”, you whisper as she moves forward to sniff your hand. Her tail starts a wag at the appearance of your face and you smile as she gets close enough for you to pet her head.

You’re scratching her ears as Bob returns from upstairs, now carrying clothes for you to change into.

“Ok, I’ve got some sweat pants and a t-shirt”, he explains as he sorts through them, “But I do have a sweatshirt in case you’re still cold.” He shifts his attention back to you as you stand and accept the clothes with a quiet ‘thank you’. Without the hood obstructing his view of your entire face, his brow immediately furrows at the shadow just to the side of your eye. He doesn’t get a good look at it before you’re turning to change in the bathroom. He must be seeing things. A shadow from your hair, the dim lighting, it just can’t be what he thinks it is.

Peeling your wet clothes off your body was something you didn’t think about while sprinting full speed down Bob’s street. But here you are, in his downstairs bathroom, admiring the softness of both the shirt and sweatpants he’s offered you. You’re soaked right down to your underwear, and rather than sitting uncomfortably in a wet bra and underpants, you decide to go commando. If you get cold enough Bob did offer you a sweatshirt. Tossing your wet clothes over the shower curtain, you slowly walk out of the bathroom. It’s quiet. Other than the occasional rumble of thunder, or whip of wind and rain against the windows, the only thing you’re aware of is your own breathing. Until you get into the living room and find Bob picking at his thumbs on the couch. He doesn’t notice you, and for the first time tonight, you hesitate. You run your fingers over the bottom of Bob’s shirt, holding it out slightly in front of your body. Just admiring how quickly he offered his own clothes to you. Your hair is slightly damp, but not dripping like it was moments ago, thanks to the towel he gave you when you first came in.

He must hear you shift on your feet, because soon enough his eyes follow your form in his clothes, the pants tight in some places, loose in others, but the large t-shirt does its job. He stops on your face as you give him a nervous smile and make your way over to the other end of the couch.

“Oh my god, what happened?”, he all but rushes out as you sit. His eyes are frantic with worry as you trace his concerned gaze to your cheek.

“Oh that”, you try to laugh, “It was an accident.” He swallows while he stiffens in his seat. Bridging the gap you left between the two of you, he catches your gaze as you look down at his hand.

“Mantis”, his voice darkens, “I need you to be completely honest with me.” He’s staring so intently into your eyes you feel like you’re center stage in a show you weren’t given the lines to. A kind of intensity you’ve never seen directed toward you from the man. “Did somebody hurt you?” You’re stuck in your spot, and without hesitating you answer him.

“No”, you breathe as you softly shake your head, “Bob, I promise you it was a complete accident. I was playing catch and wasn’t paying attention.” He eyes it one more time, and you see his hand twitch in his lap before it slowly makes its way to cup your face, turning it to take a better look. You hold your breath at the movement, but once his thumb strokes lightly over your skin you melt into his warmth.

“Well whoever you were playing catch with knows how to throw a pretty wicked fastball”, he mutters as he takes in the bruising along with the indent of the stitching.

“Yeah”, you sigh, not able to say much as he holds the weight of your face and much more in his gentle hand. “Rooster was a pitcher on his high school team.”

“You were playing catch with Rooster?” You let out a breathy laugh, knowing how confusing this must be.

“It’s a long story”, you tell him. “I just wasn’t paying attention.”

“And he still threw it at you?”

“I try not to make sense of Rooster’s actions anymore.”

“Next time you wanna play catch, you come to me. Ok?” His eyes are still on the bruise, analyzing it from every angle.

“Are you saying you won’t throw the ball at my face?”

“No. I’ll make sure you’re ready first.” His smile fades the tiniest bit, but his hand has yet to move. It’s quiet again until a particularly loud burst of thunder has him dropping his hold on you.

“Um, let me get you some ice.”

“I’m fine. My face, feet, and hands are pretty much still numb.”

“May I?”, he asks, reaching for your hands. You’re facing him now, and he turns to mirror your own crossed legs as his hands clasp your own. Slowly, without looking back at you, he brings them closer to his face and before you have the good sense to realize what’s going on, his warm breath fans over your dead fingers. Something flips in your stomach as he starts rubbing his thumbs over the back of your palms after each slow and agonizing breath.

The contrast in temperature hurts your fingers down to the bone, but you can’t seem to take them away from Bob. He stops the breaths just for a second as he rubs your hands in contemplation.

“Mantis… Why are you here?” You’re almost certain your swallow is audible as you stare down at your joint hands. He doesn’t push you when you don’t immediately answer. He only continues to soothe your aching extremities. But when he starts breathing on them again and his glasses fog up slightly, that’s when you truly start to feel the discomfort seep from your fingers. And that’s when you know you have your answer for him. Because he will truly put your needs before his own. His clothes on your back, his sight for your warmth, his happiness for your own. But he doesn’t quite know the true extent of your own unhappiness without him in your every day.

Your answer sits on the tip of your tongue, but truly, your brain speaks before you can formulate the words you need him to hear.

“I went to therapy”, you blurt out as you stare at him. God, why can’t your mouth just say what it needs to? Why is this so hard? Bob looks at your face at your admission, blinking away his shock at the volume at which you spoke them.

“That’s- that’s great.” He goes back to rubbing your fingers, ruminating on your words, then stopping suddenly. “It wasn’t ‘cause of me, was it?”

“No!”, you’re quick to correct him. “Not at all.. I mean it wasn’t your fault, but I did talk about you a little bit”, you admit bashfully. He nods, seemingly drawing his own conclusions. “It wasn’t anything bad. Just-”. You’re hesitant to tell him about your dreams, about why your dad called him that day. Why you were so fidgety and couldn’t even look him in the eye. But then you look back at him, and you know everything will be ok. He won’t run, or look at you with pity. He might be concerned, sure, but he’ll still be there for you.

“After Nat’s party, I had a nightmare. I haven’t had one in years, and it kind of rattled me. And then I had another one. They usually happen after I feel like I’ve done something I shouldn’t have. Something that would- make my mother mad at me.” He stiffens at your words, brows drawing up once more. He knows. And you don’t want him to blame himself. “But yeah, I got back in touch with my therapist. Gonna make it a regular thing now… but after my session she asked me to list three people who make me feel wanted. And it was very clear to me you’re on that list. And I hope I make you feel important, too. I know I haven’t this past week- and I’m sorry-”

“Hey”, he tugs your hands toward him just enough to get your attention, “You had enough going on, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“But I do. I can’t help it.” He whispers your name and averts his gaze from your face like he can't even bear to look at you right now. You didn’t think this was news, last time you were here he told you essentially the same thing.

“What?”, you whisper back.

-----------------------

Bob did not imagine even in his wildest dreams you would run to him in the middle of a storm. But here you are, pouring your heart out to him, your hands in his, his old t-shirt draped over your shivering body, but there’s still that tiny part of his brain telling him it’s too good to be true. And in reality, it is. Because what is he supposed to do now? What did you hope to achieve by coming over here? Your feelings don’t change the fact that this is still wildly against rules in place.

It might have been easier for him to deal with it on his own not knowing exactly how you felt, but now? He can’t put you in a position for someone to take your dream away from you. Especially after how much you’ve had to sacrifice to get to where you are. And there’s still so much for you to do.

“What do you want me to do with these feelings?” He finally asks and you’re caught off guard.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean- a few days ago when you came to me you were so sure this wasn’t a good idea. And now?” He searches your face for an answer in your silence. “What changed?”

“I found a letter from Carole. It was meant for 12-year-old me, " you can’t help but release a watery laugh, “but she just reminded me that some things are worth the risk.” You pause for a moment, squeezing his hands for reassurance before continuing.

“Our jobs are dangerous, and even if they weren’t, life is so precious. And I don’t want to continue breathing if I’m only half-living. I already did that, and I refuse to do it again. And I’m not asking you to do anything with what I’ve told you, I just had to let you know. And that might be selfish, but I know running from what I’m feeling isn’t fair. To you or me.”

It’s quiet again, you’re not sure if Bob is looking at you anymore, but your eyes are drawn back to his hands. One of the single greatest comforts you can’t help but indulge yourself in. A flash of lighting pierces the corner of your eye and the boom of thunder follows shortly after. It almost bleeds into the rasp in his voice as he speaks.

“Is it selfish if we both want it?”. Your eyes snap to meet his and you’re hit with that intensity again. It’s slightly masked by insecurity, but you can see how much this means to him. You’re so sure he can hear you release a sharp breath.

“What do you want-” Your thought is cut off by a deep rumble of thunder, almost shaking the structure of the house. You flinch as if the roof were about to collapse on the two of you, but you’re not catching a break as the remaining kitchen lights click off.

“Damn it”, he mutters under his breath. Bathing you and Bob in total darkness, you instinctively squeeze his hands and he squeezes right back.

“It’s ok”, his voice echoes as he tries to see anything around the darkened room. Sylvia whines from beneath her hiding spot as he blindly searches the coffee table for his phone, petting her in the process to calm her nerves. With his phone located, he turns the flashlight on and you wince at the harsh white light. Sylvia continues to whine even as she scurries out from under the table and runs up the stairs. He runs a hand through his hair as he stands and you’re left in his absence. Goosebumps crawling up your arms and legs force you to shiver and Bob sees it out of the corner of his eye.

“Here- you can take my bed. It’ll be way too cold down here.”

“Bob, no. I’ll crash on the couch”, his mouth opens to protest but you stop him before he even starts, “Plus, I think your daughter might need you up there.” He moves his hands to his hips, deliberating his choices until he eyes you.

“I mean- we could always, ya know…”

“What?”

“We could share my bed. It’s not like we haven’t already slept in the same bed together- Not that I’m assuming you want to! But it’ll keep you extra warm if we’re both there, and that way we’re in the same room and-” With a soft smile you cut off his rambling.

“I think that’s a great idea.” That crooked smile graces his face for the first time in what feels like forever, and your nerves are put at ease. You want to be the reason he smiles like that for as long as you’re able.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He silently leads you up the stairs and offers to let you use the bathroom first while he tries to tidy up the mess you hopefully didn’t see through the lens of your phone’s flashlight.

There’s not much, just a couple of dirty shirts he didn’t have the time or energy to throw into his laundry basket. And then there’s the laundry basket of clothes he was going to fold today, but got distracted at Rich and Harry’s. Shoving the basket in the corner of the room, his eyes catch on the rain-pattered window. Palm trees sway in the wind, and thanks to a flash of lightning, he watches the street run like a river. He squints, trying to find where you parked your car, hoping the damage won’t be too bad.

The click of the door opening has him turning to you, brows still furrowed.

“Hey, where’d you park your car?”

“Oh, that. Funny story”, you laugh, “It stopped running about a block that way-”, you point up the street, “And I kinda ran the rest of the way.” His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as you stand there chuckling.

“Mantis”, he sighs, “Why did you think any of this was a good idea?”

“I wasn’t really thinking, I just knew I had to talk to you”, you bashfully admit. A flash of lightning reflects in his glasses, and you’re brought back to your conversation downstairs. Your unfinished conversation. The hairs on your arms raise before Sylvia whines from underneath Bob’s bed.

The two of you glance back and spot her nose peeking out from under the frame. You’re on your knees, petting her head as Bob stands at the window.

“It’s ok sweet girl”, you coo. With the two of you distracted, he takes a minute to finish getting ready for bed. God, he just can’t believe you’re actually here. Granted, he wishes it was under better circumstances, but still. Stepping back into his bedroom, he’s pleased to find you already underneath the covers, your back facing him. His heart speeds up at you already so comfortable in his bed, but he gathers himself quickly before turning to close the door to the room. The bedroom the two of you are currently sharing… with his dog lying on his side of the bed.

“Before you say anything”, you rush out as you sit up, “She got up here all by herself, and I don’t have the heart to tell her to get down. So you’re just gonna have to look into those big brown eyes and be the bad guy here.” He bites down a smile as he pretends to deliberate on what he should do. Not giving in and telling you that she normally sleeps on the bed with him.

“Plus, I don’t think she’ll be as scared if she’s up here with us”, you add. With us. Yes, that word just came out of your mouth. And it might not be a big deal, but you just used that word and Bob is having a hard time not pinching himself to make sure this is all real and not another dream. Clearing his throat, he manages to cough out a “yeah”. Or something akin to agreement.

He starts to settle onto his side of the bed, and you scooch as far away from the middle as you can. Sylvia moves down the bed in between the two of you and you finally lie back on your respective pillows. You can hear his glasses hit his bedside table as his hand falls to Sylvia. There’s an unspoken tension in the room, and you’re not sure if you can wait until morning to break through it. But neither of you say anything. You just lie there like a lifeless body whose heart is also about to burst through her chest.

Another flash of lightning slices through the curtain, followed almost immediately by a horribly loud boom. Sylvia whines again and your hand falls to her. You knew his hand was there, but it doesn’t stop the shock at the feeling of your fingers brushing his. As your hand swoops over Sylvia’s fur he almost moves back as you stop. But that single touch in the dark makes you want more. So with a clear mission, you bring your hand back over her fur and start to slowly trace his knuckles and fingers. His hand turns over, inviting you to do the same to his palm before he halts your motions and instead intertwines your fingers. He’s still so much warmer than you are, and your hand melts in his. It makes you feel safe.

You don’t say anything as his thumb rubs your hand. The two of you lay in the backdrop of rain and thunder, staring at the ceiling as if it had some kind of hidden message you have to decode. Bob must find what his side says because he clears his throat before speaking.

“What you asked earlier, about what I want- I want you to be happy. Above anything else.” Your heart turns over as you face him.

“I want that for you, too… But you should know you make me really happy”, you whisper into the night. His hand flexes as his pillow rustles to your right.

“You mean that?”, his voice is clearer as he turns his head, and although you’re having a hard time seeing through the dark, you can imagine the look of fear and insecurity in his eyes.

“Of course I do.”

“Cause you make me happy, too”, he rasps, his voice somehow even deeper. And you just can’t help the way you move closer to him. Reaching with your free hand, you hold onto his bicep and rest your head on his shoulder. He welcomes it with a relaxed sigh as you get comfortable. Sylvia doesn’t seem to mind being squished in between your legs, and you’re happy for the warmth these two provide you.

There’s still a lot to talk about. A lot to figure out as to what happens next, but right now? You can’t seem to care what happens tomorrow because you’re content to hold onto Bob tonight. And as you feel him kiss the top of your head, you get that deep butterfly feeling in your stomach. The good kind this time. No overwhelming urge of anxiety or doom washes over you and you know everything is going to be ok. It has to be.

-----------------------

Hey Siri, play Fearless by Taylor Swift

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#why me?#top gun maverick #bob floyd fanfiction #top gun fanfiction #bob floyd fic #bob floyd x reader #mavdad #robert bob floyd x female reader

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do-androids-dream-ao3acc · 3 months ago

Note

Hi! For the ficlet prompts: For Tarlos: 🫶🏻 Breakfast date For BuckTommy: 🛏️ There's only one bed, and it's… a single (or broken? Like sunken down in the center or something. Whichever option sparks joy. 😂)

There's only one bed, and it's a single

A few weeks into their relationship, Buck wonders why Tommy still hasn't invited him over to his house. Somehow, they always seem to end up in the loft, apart form that one memorable date that ended in the 118's locker room – he’s still proud of himself for keeping his mouth shut about it the next day, even though his face probably screamed „ask me what happened last night“. Anyway, Tommy often just turns up at his door or picks him up from work and drives to the loft as a matter of course, and for a while Buck thinks it's just because he likes his place so much. It's tastefully furnished, right? And since he owns a couch again, Star Wars movie nights with Tommy next to him are much nicer.

It's just... Eddie had been so enthusiastic about Tommy's house, the garage, the dōjō; and Buck – Tommy’s boyfriend, mind you – hasn’t even seen a glimpse of all that. There are, of course, many possible explanations for this. Maybe Tommy’s a slob and it's always untidy (Eddie didn't mention this), or he's ashamed of his furniture (Eddie didn't mention this) or he's currently renovating (nope, not a word about that from Eddie). Either these made-up motives are as silly as they sound in Buck's head, or the real reason is him. Both could be true.

One evening, after a very good dinner (it's perfectly acceptable to praise yourself, Buck thinks, especially after receiving top cooking honors from Bobby), it's time to grab the bull by the horns.

“We're gonna sleep at your house tonight,” he says.

Tommy sets his glass down, blinks and replies, “We’ve basically just arrived at your place, Evan.”

"Right, but you’re staying overnight at my place about three times a week.“

“Didn't have the feeling that it was too much,” says Tommy with a wink.

Buck is melting away. This man has such a magnetic effect... But not this time, he swears to himself. He's let this slide long enough. If there's one thing he's learned, it's that problems should be addressed. This one isn't necessarily a problem, but it's a little oddity that has piqued his curiosity. And perhaps it also scratches his ego a little.

“No, I love it when you're here,” he says, feeling his cheeks flush. “But Eddie keeps telling me about your house and...”

“What is Eddie doing in this conversation now?”

Tommy sounds genuinely confused, and he can't blame him. Buck takes a deep breath.

“I want to see how you live.”

That's not quite the right approach, but at least Tommy smiles his adorable smile, which makes his face go all scrunchy. His answer, however, is not an exuberant “okay, let's get going”. Instead, he says, “That's sweet, but I'm rarely at home. It’s actually not that exciting.”

Somehow, it is, at least it starts getting annoying; Buck's curiosity is hard to tame when he believes he's discovered some kind of riddle. While it’s certainly exciting to see that there still are some things about Tommy that remain mysterious to him, his house shouldn't be on the top list of sweet secrets he holds.

“I’m getting a vibe that you don't want me there, Tommy.”

“It's not like that.”

“Then what is it? Do you have any porn magazines lying around? Don't you want me to see your underwear drawer?”

“Evan...”

“Are there pictures of your ex-boyfriends on the walls?” Now Buck is on a roll. “Do you collect tasteless art? Is your house just too small for two people to be comfortable?”

“Evan,” Tommy groans. Wide-eyed, Buck glares at him, until Tommy finally exhales loudly and adds, “Yeah, it's too small. You're not going to give it a rest, are you?“

“My therapist says I should talk about my feelings. And there's no one I'd rather do that with than you, Tommy, and right now... well. Honestly, it's driving me crazy.”

“All right,” goes Tommy, getting up and taking his hand, ”there's no point in delaying it any longer anyway. Come with me. We're going to my place – but whether you want to sleep there remains to be seen.”

That, of course, was an even more mysterious answer, but Buck jumps to his feet immediately.

From the outside, Tommy's house looked neither particularly small nor large. The most remarkable thing about the single-storey, flat-roofed building was probably that it stood in the middle of a terraced housing estate in the suburbs. It wasn't an area Buck would have associated with Tommy, and there was probably a story behind it that he was eager to hear one day.

Inside, it was just as unremarkable. This was the house of a single man who often did 24-hours-shifts and also had very excessive hobbies that made him leave the house quite often. In other words, a comparatively interchangeable place. Eddie hadn't mentioned anything about that either, he'd probably been blinded by the flights to Vegas and the garage. There were no photos of ex-boyfriends on the walls, no obvious porn movies in the impressive DVD collection, no tasteless art; there weren't even any potted plants, “I just don't have a green thumb,” says Tommy.

“I don't understand why you didn't already show me your house,” Buck says, a little disappointed that he still couldn't solve the puzzle.

“Hm,” Tommy utters, and it sounds almost apologetic. He wraps his arms around Buck and adds, “You're here now.”

„Yes, and I forgot a change of clothes. You’re gonna have to lend me some tomorrow.“

“You're really determined to spend the night here?”

“You bet,” Buck says, his eyes roaming the room, ”show me your bedroom and I'll show you how determined I am.”

“Then get ready for a cold shower,” Tommy returns, taking Buck's hand and leading him further into his house.

The door opened to another plain, rather functionally furnished room with a built-in wardrobe, a second door that probably led to the bathroom, a large window without any curtains and virtually no accessories. Then Buck’s gaze falls on the bed, and his jaw drops.

“Well, I told you it was small...”

“I thought you meant your house.”

It was the bed. A narrow, single bed. It wasn't an unusual place to sleep, of course; millions of bedrooms were furnished like this. Buck just couldn't understand why anyone would voluntarily give up the comfort of a kingsize when they were tall and beefy like his adorable boyfriend with the very embarrassed look on his face.

“W-wait a minute. Is that why we always spent the night at my place? Because you’re sleeping in... this crib?”

“Hey, I like this bed,” Tommy replies, grimacing. “It's just not a good place for two. Hold on, what were you thinking, Evan?“

“Well, for a while I thought you just liked my shower...”

“... it's an excellent shower, I must say.”

"Well, to be honest, I thought it’s not that important to you."

Tommy looks intently at his face, shaking his head.

“Did you seriously think you weren't important enough for me? I thought we had clarified that point by now. And for once, I'm not talking about the excellent sex, honey.“

"Which would be … not that comfortable in that bed," Buck says when the penny finally drops. “Adorable, Tommy. As if the kitchen table wasn't enough for us.”

“But would you want to sleep on it?”

“Good point,” Buck mutters. “We really can't both fit in the bed.”

“Gonna be tough. And… actually, I really prefer your shower.“

“I'll probably have to talk to the landlord about the water consumption.”

"Well, we don’t need to move together so soon," Tommy argues. “But you could help me buy a bigger bed, how about that?”

“Excellent,” says Buck. “But we have to be sure it’s too small for the things I’d love to do with you.”

He pushes the surprised Tommy onto the bed with a casual nudge.

“Fine,” Tommy replies with a grin before closing Buck's mouth with a kiss, ”but we're sleeping at your place tonight.”

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

Thank you for the adorable prompt, @herrmannhalsteadproduction. I'm gonna need to skip the Tarlos one because I'm running out of spare time, but this was fun 😂❤️

#writing #fanfiction #my fics #BuckTommy #BuckTommy fanfic #tevan #911 fanfic #dailykinley

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mustainegf · 5 months ago

Note

Valentines day with Metallica! They all ask you out on a date- but you can only choose one!

(would be cool if it ended on a cliffhanger and there was a poll at the end- whoever wins the poll is who you go on a date with :D)

THIS IS SUCH A COOL REQ!?!? I LOVE THE POLL IDEA THIS IS GONNA BE SO FUN

𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐘 ¹⁹⁸⁴

There were posters everywhere of Iron Maiden, Diamond Head, and Motörhead, amplifiers stacked in corners, and guitars strewn about, literally everywhere, like they were a part of the furniture. The year was 1984, and this band was about to hit the big time, I just knew it.

Me? I was just a small part of that world then, living with in their basement, but I’d grown to love these guys.

Valentine's Day was drawing close, and the house was charged. I was a friend to all of them: James, Kirk, Lars, and Cliff. But on this particular Valentine's Day, things turned a little differently than I thought they might.

Well, February 14th started like any other morning. The ringing in my ears was from James’ guitar. His bedroom was just above mine, and he had developed a habit of early morning fiddling. Today, though, there was something soft about his playing.

I went and began making my way downstairs to the kitchen. As I did, I could smell freshly brewed coffee waiting for me. There was James, standing at the counter now, looking more frazzled than I had ever seen him. His usually confident air was replaced by a sort of shy, somewhat boyish bashfulness.

I mean, it wasn’t like he wasn’t always shy, because he was, but this time it was different.

"Morning, James," I said, trying to sound nonchalant despite the tickling butterflies in my stomach.

"Hey," he replied, cracking a little. "I just made some coffee for you, so…”

"Thanks," I said, taking the mug. "What's up?"

James took a deep breath, his hands trembled a bit as he leaned back on the old creaky linoleum counter. "I know this might sound kinda crazy, but, um, I was wondering if you'd maybe wanna go out with me sometime. I mean, it's Valentine's Day and all, and I thought- um, I don’t know it doesn’t have to be serious or-” He seemed to be backpedaling as his cheeks burned red. “Just you and me."

His eyes were earnest, full of vulnerability, leaving him open, more open than I’d ever seen the boy. It was the sweetest thing I'd ever seen, and it made my heart speed up.

"I'd love to, James," I said, "but I have to think about it. Can I let you know later?"

He nodded a little, his eyes showing he was a little disappointed, but he could muster up a small smile. "Yeah, sure. Take your time."

Afternoon, I lay on the living room couch just flipping through a magazine when Kirk came bounding in. He was his usual giggly self, but today there was an added element of excitement to the feel about him. His curly hair bounced as he moved and his eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Hey," he said, plopping down on the couch next to me. "Horror fan, cool magazine. I��ve got that one.”

"I know, I took it from your room," I teased, setting it aside to face him. "What's up?"

He leaned back on the old seat, still grinning, and the giggles began to spread. "So, I was thinking. It's Valentine's Day, right? And, well, I was just sort of wondering if you'd like to go out with me, maybe tomorrow? You know, we could go see a movie, or something... They’ve got a new horror one out that could be cool, if you wanted to…"

He was so excited that I couldn't help but smile. "That does sound like fun. But, um, I have to think about it. Can I get back to you?"

"Yeah, yeah… Of course!" he said, just about bouncing off the couch. "Take all the time in the world." He said happily, his cheeks going maroon.

The day dragged by. The atmosphere in the house was tight, for I knew Lars would eventually make his move. Never had he shied away, even though, admittedly, it fazed him a little.

Later in the afternoon, I found Lars in the garage working on his kit. His usual cockiness was shadowed by something.

"Hey, Lars," I said, walking up to him.

He startled, then dropped one of his drumsticks. "Oh, hey.. Didn't see you there."

"Someone’s on edge. Can find a valentine?" I joked, picking up the other drumstick and handing it to him.

"No, no, everything's fine," he said, though by his eyes, he was nervous. "If you’re so adamant on teasing me, why don’t you just be my valentine." He blurted out, the realization then washing over his face as he took in his own words.

I paused with a grin. Lars swallowed hard and then blurted out, "Do you want to go out with me sometime? For Valentine's Day? But.. I mean like, it doesn’t have to be today..." He cleared his throat, looking away.

His words came out in a tumble, and I could see he was bracing himself for rejection. I smiled at him sympathetically. "That sounds awesome, Lars. But I need some time to think. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, trying to hide his disappointment. "Just uh.. just let me know."

Evening dropped over the house, and the sky outside deepened into a rich, velvety blue. I stepped out into the yard for some fresh air, needing a break from the emotional whirlwind swirling about. There I found Cliff sitting on the porch, cradling a joint between his fingers. He was the calmest of them all.

"Hi, Cliff," I said, sitting down beside him.

"Hey," he responded, his voice as calm as ever as he blew the smoke in the opposite of my direction. "How's it going?"

"Busy day," I admitted, leaning back and staring up at the stars that were beginning to peek through.

"I bet," he said softly. A second or so of comfortable silence before he turned back to me.

"So, I was thinking. Valentine's Day. I thought maybe you'd want to hang out sometime. Nothing fancy, just the two of us. We could just chill, go on a walk. What do you say?"

He was refreshing in his directness, and it brought an ache to my heart in a much different way. "That sounds really nice, Cliff. Let me think on it. Can I tell you later?"

"Sure thing," he said with a reassuring smile. "No rush, I’ll always be here."

Night fell, and I retreated to my room. My mind was blurry. They all asked me out in such a different but sweet way that I feel like my heart pulled in four ways at once. James with his vulnerability, Kirk with his dorky joy, Lars with his rare nervousness, and Cliff with his calm charm.

I could hardly believe that ALL of them asked me out on the same day, and none of them knew about it.

I lay down on my bed. I looked up at the ceiling, thinking of what to do and feel. How was I to choose just one of them? They all meant a lot to me in different ways. Really, the thought of knowing I would hurt 3 of them sickened my stomach.

Or even all 4 of them if I decided not to go through with it.

Who would I choose?

Click here to read the first date!

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bigtreefest · 10 months ago

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Chapter 2: Ouch, That Stings

From: You Catch More Bees With Honey Series

Pairing: Mob! Bucky x Farmer! Reader

Summary: Bucky’s first day on the farm is long. Very long.

Word Count: 3,680

Content/Warnings: light mob themes, alcohol consumption, mention of brass knuckles/ bruising, bee sting, Bucky being an absolute oaf, secondhand embarrassment, minor injuries, light mutual pining?, Y/N is used once, minimal afab reader descriptions

A/N: I just finished an exam, so obviously when I should’ve been studying, I had so much motivation that went straight into this chapter. Sorry if there’s minimal dialogue, I think the next will be mostly conversational interaction. And thank you guys so much for all the support already on ch. 1. You have no idea how much it means to me. Likes, comments, reblogs, and asks are sooooo appreciated. Literally, ask me anything. Even if it’s what I ate for dinner. Anyway, thank you for reading

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

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Bucky returned to the car with his head held high. If he had to agree to this term of yours, he was going to do it with as much defiance as he could. He opened the door to the car, just to be greeted by Steve and Sam’s knowing smiles.

“I take it that went well,” Sam said to Bucky through the rear view mirror as he put the car in drive.

“I don’t wanna talk about it” Bucky grumbled as he hit the button to raise the partition.

Steve quickly shifted upwards in his seat to give the last word before the screen closed “We knew it was gonna come to this, boss!”

Throughout the hours-long drive back to the city, Bucky got lost in his thoughts. How could he fold to you so quickly? If he had to personally work on this farm, he was going to do his worst. He wasn’t going to give into the pull he could already feel in his heart by just talking with you once. He’d keep his head down and do the work, he wouldn’t show his interest, if anything, he’d act distinterested, grasping for the ability to appear as though he had the power in this deal.

Sam pulled into the parking garage of Bucky’s penthouse apartment and the three of them took the elevator all the way up. When they arrived, Sam and Steve plopped themselves down on the couch while Bucky poured himself a tall glass of whiskey.

“So do we get some, or??” Sam asked as he leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.

Bucky tossed him back a glare that most definitely said no while Steve laughed, putting his arms behind his head and kicking his feet up to rest on the ornate glass coffee table.

Bucky walked over to one of the luxury chairs that sat across from the pair and set his glass on a coaster on the table.

“Steven. Feet. Down.” If Bucky was still in this mood after having hours to calm down, no one was going to be having a good time.

“Sorry, Buck. You know you didn’t have to get this fancy furniture. You could’ve gotten a wooden table like mine, and a couch that’s actually comfortable.” Steve lowered his feet and got up to pour a small glass of whiskey for Sam and himself.

Bucky rolled his eyes “I like the finer things, and I think all of this works just fine. It’s not like we’re in here much anyway. We’re always in the office or the mansion for meetings. I just wanted to see this place one more time before I abandon it for a month. And if this is any indication on how you’re going to treat my things and my operation, I’m concerned”

“So does that mean we’re really in charge?” Sam nodded to Steve as he grabbed the glass out of his hands.

“Well, technically, Steve’s in charge. He’s the new me. And you’re the new Steve”

Steve chuckled at this and looked over at Sam. “Well, Stevie, we better help Y/N’s new errand boy get packed then.”

Bucky had wanted to make the drive back out to your farm on his own, but you had insisted you’d pick him up. It’s not like one of his luxury cars had a place on dirt roads. And where was he going to go, anyway? This had to be an uninterrupted month. So he conceded.

That’s how he found himself in this situation, looking out at the land as you grabbed one of his bags out of your truck bed and tossed it at him while you grabbed the other two.

The sun was setting over the rolling hills and his distracted glance caused him to stumble backwards as his duffel hit his arms. Man, you were strong. “Keep up, James, time for a house tour.”

Bucky scrambled to the steps and followed you inside. You went straight up the stairs with his bags and he followed as you turned at the top and went to the end of the hall.

“Here’s your room for the month, bathroom is just next door and I’m across the hall if you need anything. There’s plenty of dresser and closet space for your clothes. Let’s get you unpacked, I wanna see if you’ve got proper farm attire, otherwise you’re gonna have to borrow some.”

Bucky hadn’t even realized he hadn’t spoken since the small talk the two of you had made on the drive here. He just nodded and put his bags on the bed to open them up. Suddenly, he snapped out of his trance and threw them open, proudly showing clothes that were very much not for working. You walked towards the bed and looked through the pairs of dress pants and button-up shirts that filled two of the three bags, with only a couple Henleys and one pair of jeans in the duffel.

“Is this seriously what you brought? This is a farm, not a yacht club.”

Bucky let out a small chuckle at that one. She’s fiery and funny. “In my defense, these pieces of clothing are dressed down for me. I don’t really own anything not nice. Work attire for me is strictly suits. You’re lucky I own a pair of jeans.”

You had a playful smirk on your face. What did you really expect? You were prepared for this anyway, but it didn’t mean you’d let him off easily. “What, you saying my overalls aren’t nice? Wow James, that’s low. You just earned yourself dinner duty. I’ll grab you some actual work clothes while you familiarize yourself with the kitchen. Hope my apron down there is good enough to keep your designer clothes clean.”

Bucky smiled as you turned on your heel and left the room. An actual, genuine smile. You weren’t even being sweet to him, you were being challenging and strong-headed and he loved it. He reflected on the past few years of business. Everything had come more easily once he had built his reputation in the city. People feared the name Barnes, making business effortless. Bucky hadn’t been challenged like this in years. He missed it, which made him think he made the right decision, but thinking about being challenged and actually having to do the work were two very different things. The smile was just starting to naturally slide off Bucky’s face as you called from the hallway “You’ve already seen pretty much all there is to the first floor. Meet you down there” as you disappeared into the other guest bedroom.

Although Bucky had walked through the first story of your home, it had only been in passing before. Now that he got to look closer, he saw the way you decorated your house. Your couch and chairs in the living room were worn and showed some we, but they were definitely taken care of, just like the kitchen appliances. Photos of friends and family and souvenirs from travels that he couldn’t decipher were your own or not lined the walls and shelves next to a small book collection.

He made his was to the pantry on the edge of your kitchen and looked through the ingredients. He wanted to keep it simple, but impressive, but also, not something too close to his heart. He liked you as a person, but he didn’t know you like that. Whatever he made, you were going to ask questions. You were so perceptive, and he couldn’t let himself be that vulnerable. Not yet. After grabbing some pasta, he went and looked through the fridge and found the ingredients for chicken parm. Perfect, who doesn’t love that?

Once you made your way downstairs from putting the folded clothes on Bucky’s bed, you started to smell basil wafting through the house. You made your way down to see Bucky in your apron. “Wheres a scotch or a good wine to pair with this amazing meal I’m making for you. Man, this is shaping up to be real easy”

You laughed, a deep, shoulder bouncing laugh and Bucky looked at you with furrowed brown and confusion in his eyes. Oh, he has no idea what he’s in for. “Good one, Barnes. I forgot to tell you a few rules we’ve got around here. First off, no alcohol until the weekends. We’ve got some early mornings ahead, plus you gotta earn it. Second, when we do drink, it’s almost strictly bourbon and beer. Good luck finding your high-end liquor out here without getting funny looks.”

Bucky’s shoulders fell some, but you could tell he was trying not to show a reaction. His cocky smirk was fading slowly. You knew how different your lives were, but only time and work would tell how steep this learning curve would be for him. That’s why you wanted him out here in the first place, to see the vast differences between your worlds and the effects that would come from his attempt to shove his into your space. Or more realistically, for him to attempt to hijack your land and mine tunnels with his heavy operations.

He turned away from you to finish cooking while you set the table for him, putting out tall glasses of water. “Thank you for making this, James. It’ll be good to be hydrated and carb-loaded for tomorrow. I swear you’ve never seen work like this in your life.”

Bucky woke up with a jolt to screeching outside his window. What on Earth? The sound came again and he could tell it was a rooster crowing. He thought that sound was just a cliché, and even if it did happen, it would’ve been with the sunrise. But the rooster was up, and so were you, based on the smell of eggs cooking that wafted under Bucky’s door. And now, begrudgingly, Bucky was awake, too. He tried to pull the covers back over his head. Bucky was used to not getting much sleep, with the late nights and early mornings his job demanded, but for some reason the warm bed was sucking him back in, in juxtaposition to the cool early morning air. Just as he began to feel the pull of sleep again, that rooster cawed and he tossed the covers off in frustration, just as you knocked on his door.

“James? Time for breakfast. How do you want your eggs? You’ve got until I make them to be dressed and have your heinie downstairs.” You opened the door, letting in a stream of light that blinded Bucky, causing him to groan throw and arm over his eyes. How did he like his eggs? Served hours later to him in bed, where he wished he could stay right now.

“Over easy” he mumbled

“Oh good, you’re up.” You left the door open while you walked back downstairs. Of course you were already dressed. Bucky didn’t want to know what the implied ‘or else’ of your previous statement was. He hoped it didn’t have to do with scooping poop for your many animals, and he didn’t want to risk it, so he pulled on his clothes and made his way to the bathroom to finish getting ready. Little did he know, poop scooping was already in your plans for him, punishment or not.

During breakfast, you walked Bucky through the agenda for the day. He was only half-listening, still dazed by the way he was ripped out of his slumber by your darn rooster. He had picked up bits and pieces, though. Blah, blah, blah, ‘cows,’ blah, blah, blah ‘tractor,’ blah, blah, blah, ‘farmer’s market.’ It had to be easy enough, essentially he was following you all day.

By the time you two had finished breakfast and went outside, it was first light. Bucky checked the old, leather-banded watch you had given him on top of his pile last night to see the time. 5:14 am. Ugh, he’d been up for at least 20 minutes by now. How long had you been up?

“Ok, we’re already running a little bit behind schedule and that’s only gonna happen more since I’ve got to show you around and teach everything from the beginning. No worries, though. Today’s gonna be an easy day.”

A dozen heavy wheel barrow trips to feed the pigs, chickens, two kinds of cows, horses, goats, and sheep, four dozen dairy cow milkings, and three failed attempts at riding a horse later, Bucky looked up at you from his place sprawled on the ground. This was an easy day? Absolutely not. Despite the fact that he had to fall off the horse to end up in the middle of your field, laying like this was the best part of his day so far.

Who knew there were so many kinds of animal feed? Why were they all different? And why were they so heavy? Why did your one goat love head butting him so much? Bucky swore he was going to have permanent horn marks in his stomach, not unlike the ones left in his enemies from brass knuckles. And why were his clothes now covered in unpasteurized milk? Well, he knew why on that one, but it was still crusty. What had he signed up for? His body was so sore and he hadn’t sat down in six hours, so yeah, he was going to lay here on the ground. Maybe he could pretend to be dead. Maybe then this misery would end and you’d let him out of this deal. But that was wishful thinking as he cracked an eye open to see if he’d convinced you yet. Bad timing. Bucky was greeted with the sight of you leaning over him, hand reached out in an offer to get him up. Dang, every angle was your good angle.

“Alright, cowboy, one more thing, and then lunch.”

Bucky reached for your hand as you effortlessly lifted him up. You grabbed the reins of the horses, guiding them back to the barn. “I think that’s enough of that for you right now. I’ve honestly never seen anyone have that much trouble riding Ace before.”

At that, Bucky looked down, hiding his eyes from you and felt his face get hot as he rubbed his neck in embarrassment. Bucky hadn’t been embarrassed in years. He was good at his job, it came as second nature, so doing something new and failing at it was a foreign concept he didn’t love. You were being so kind with him learning, but he could tell you were just as exasperated as him. Although, you were hiding it better. If you had tried to make Bucky ride that horse one more time, he probably would’ve told you off and lost his precious deal. He couldn’t afford that.

You were trying so hard to be patient with Bucky, but was hard when you watched him do everything wrong. He very evidently had not listened to you at breakfast this morning. He had a long way to go, but luckily he had a month to figure it out. And you guys were heading to your favorite task, you couldn’t even call it a chore. Surely, this would be an easy one for Bucky.

After dropping off the horses, the two of you started walking through your native wildflower prairies towards the beehives. Every time you went through it, you were taken back by the beauty, and by the look on Bucky’s face, he was, too. Had you been looking at him this whole time? You had to admit he looked good in the old farm clothes you lent him, left behind by your old farmhand. It was all about half a size too small, though, but you’d never complain about seeing his bulging muscles stretch the fabric. Thank goodness for muscle memory as your legs carried you in the right direction, because you realized your mind had been solely occupied by Bucky as you made your way South within the property to reach the beehives.

You walked right up to the shed as you walked Bucky through all of the safety precautions of what you were doing and how exactly the honey was harvested. You explained the history of your family’s beekeeping and how the town went crazy for them at the farmer’s market you two were hosting at the end of the week. You went into the shed to get Bucky and yourself the proper protective gear.

“Now it may be a little difficult to see through the veil at first, but that’s ok. We’re not in a rush, so take your time. Plus, the bees will be calm as long as we keep pumping smoke into the hive.”

With this final warning, you and Bucky each started tending your own beehives, identifying which sections contained honey or not and setting them aside. This took a lot of multitasking and patience, which Bucky hadn’t seemed to have mastered yet, but you hoped he’d be ok. After all, this was something you’d done since you could drive a tractor, which was a young age around here. Rookie mistake on making that assumption.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a quick flash of movement. You turned your head to see Bucky swat the air. Followed by another one sooner, and then once again, until his arms were turning into a flailing mess. He’d forgotten to blow smoke and calm the bees down.

You were glad you’d sprung and made him put on the suit, despite his claims that ‘people on the internet do this without all this bulky equipment all the time. Bet it’s easy.’ Just as you thought back to that, though, in his frantic retreat from the hive, Bucky tripped over his own foot and fell flat on his face, veil flying forward off his head and several feet from the momentum he’d picked up. You both watched as a single bee fluttered down to his hairline.

“James, Bucky, I’m serious right now. Don’t move. You’re not allergic to bees, are you?”

This made Bucky stop and think for a little. Wait a minute, you didn’t know he wasn’t allergic to bees? And you let him do this task when it could’ve been fatal? He whipped his head around to tell you he wasn’t, completely forgetting that you’d told him not to move. The sudden jerk startled the bee, triggering it to sting Bucky in the temple.

“OW. Ouch, ouch, ouch, that stings!!”

You rushed over to Bucky and crouched beside him, putting the veil back on his head. You helped him up for what seemed like the thousandth time today and brushed off his shoulder.

“So you’re not allergic, right?” Your eyes were urgently looking him over for more stings and symptoms, as well as other injuries.

Bucky was fired up in his hangry and fed-up state, shooting back, “NO. But I can’t believe you let me do this without that knowledge.”

He stomped back to the shed while you cleaned up both of your stations. There wasn’t a response you could give him that would really make it better. You understood he was trying and this was all a lot. Your stomach grumbled, and rather than start a fight in your own hangry state, you decided to not respond. Plus, yeah, maybe you should’ve asked about allergies sooner. You made a mental note to do that tonight. You both just needed to eat. You could come back to this later, plus, you’d already grabbed most of the honey comb from yours. That should be enough for the market.

Just as you had prepared the honey comb to take back towards the house, you heard movement in the shed. It was the small thunks made by Bucky ripping off his gloves, veil, and the rest of the suit and throwing it back on the shelves. That was followed by a loud crash and metal clang. You could tell things had tumbled down off the wall. Bucky must’ve thrown one of the pieces a little too hard in a fit of rage.

You peeked through the door of the shed, not wanting to crowd Bucky too much, checking if he was okay. The doorway, though, was filled with a pair of old boots, attached to long legs, attached to a broad body propped up against a wall opposite the shelves. You began to snicker, unable to hold in your obvious amusement. Bucky moved his head a little to figure out where the sound was coming from, but you weren’t greeted by his eyes. No, a metal bucket had landed on Bucky’s head, entirely engulfing it. And in his fit of frustration and how done he was with the day, he just left it. Your snicker morphed into a giggle, then grew into full, guttural, hysterical laughter. You couldn’t stop. This was such a perfect moment that you had to capture it.

“Bucky Barnes? …. More like…. BUCKET BARNES!” you wheezed out in between gasps for air. Bucky sat there, bucket still on his head, but shoulders bouncing with his own laughter now. How could he not, yours was contagious, plus, that was a really clever one.

Once you caught your breath again. Bucky finally took the bucket off his head and looked up at you with a meek glance and red cheeks. “Ha ha ha, very funny. I think you’ve had your fill now in indulging in my bee-related misfortunes. But speaking about fill, is it time for lunch yet?”

The two of you headed back to the house and ate in a comfortable, exhausted silence, you writing out a simple to-do list that was more Bucky’s speed for after lunch, while he ate, using a fork in one hand, his other pressing an ice pack to his temple as his elbow rested on the table.

He sat there thinking about the fact that it hadn’t even been a day yet, let alone a month. Really, Buck, what have you gotten yourself into?

Next >

Series Taglist:

@scuzmunkie

@openup-yourmind

#bucky barnes #mob! bucky x farmer! reader #mob bucky x reader #mob bucky barnes #mafia! bucky x farmer! reader #mafia bucky x farmer reader #mob bucky x farmer reader #bucket Barnes #you catch more bees with honey #ouch that stings #sebastian stan #steve rogers #sam wilson

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familyvideostevie · 1 year ago

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october first

day one: steve harrington after the events of august, steve and bee girl (you) wake up in your new house | no good at waiting one-shot, fluff | 1.1k

You wake up with a shiver. The morning sun bathes one wall of your bedroom in pink light. Your sheer curtains flutter in the wind and you snuggle deeper into your bed, tugging on the covers.

“Hey!” someone next to you grumbles. “S’cold in here, give it back.”

Steve tugs on the duvet but you don’t relinquish your hold, instead rolling with it until you’re pressed against his back.

“I know,” you mumble, eyes fluttering. Your bedroom isn’t really decorated yet but you’ve got the basics. Mattress, bed frame, dresser. Mismatched bedside tables you found at an antique sale two towns over and a rug Joyce gave you from the Byers garage. The rest of the house is coming together slowly. You have yet to get a dining table but you do have a couch and lots of kitchen utensils. Bob gave you an old bookshelf and the kids pooled money together to buy you a welcome mat. The good people of Hawkins have treated you and Steve moving into the little farmhouse as an invitation to get rid of all of their junk.

You love it.

Steve groans and shifts, releasing the duvet and turning so that he’s facing you, nose to nose. You can barely see the eyes you love so much through his lashes. “Morning,” he says. “We’re going to have to buy more blankets if you’re going to steal them every morning.”

“You’re the one who left the window open last night,” you remind him. He scoots even closer to you and shoves his face into your neck.

“Because you like fall air,” he says. His lips are warm on your skin. “Never say I don’t do anything for you.”

Living with Steve is pretty much a dream. Even when he leaves his shoes in the way, even when he doesn’t clean his toothpaste from the sink. Even when you forget to do the dishes or don’t put your laundry away. It’s fun. It’s like every day is a dream come true.

“No one says that,” you laugh. You twine your fingers in his hair. “Especially not me.”

Steve makes a pleased sound. “What are we doing today?” he asks. The last two months have been nonstop. Finishing the house, finding furniture, moving out of Bob’s for you and the farm loft for him. You haven’t had time for a proper housewarming yet.

“Nothing,” you say. He pulls back to look at you, eyebrows raised.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Hell yeah,” he says, running the pad of his finger over your top lip. “Finally a day off we don’t have to spend running around town.”

“We have to go see about that table tomorrow, though. After work.”

Steve flops back on his pillow. “It never ends,” he says.

“Nope,” you say, popping the p. “But it’ll be worth it.”

“Well, duh.” He raises his arms above his head and stretches. “We need a table so we can play beer pong at our housewarming.”

“And so we can eat at it, Steve.”

He smirks. “Oh, yeah. That too. And so we can do all sorts of nasty things on it—”

You place your hand over his mouth. “That’s enough from you, Harrington.” He licks your palm but you don’t pull it away. “Behave.”

His expression morphs into what you think he thinks are puppy dog eyes but really he just looks like he ate something sour unexpectedly. He mumbles against your hand and you remove it. “Christ, honey,” he says. “I was gonna suffocate.”

“What a way to go,” you deadpan. He laughs and turns away from you, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and stretching again. You admire the freckled expanse of his bare back.

“You hungry?” he asks. “We could do pancakes.” He stands and wanders to the closet where he pulls out two sweatshirts. One he throws to you and the other he drags over his head.

“When we get a dog are you going to make it breakfast, too?”

Steve’s head pops out of the hoodie — one of yours, you’re pretty sure — and scoffs. “You think you’re funny with this dog-dad shit,” he says. “You watch. I’m going to be so normal. Nothing like Dustin’s mom and their cat. Nothing.”

“Sure, Steve,” you coo. You sit up in bed and pull on your own sweatshirt, borderline giddy with the sheer serenity of the morning.

Here you are, in your home with the person you love most in the world, talking about getting a dog.

This time last year you weren’t even friends yet. You remind him.

Steve snorts and crosses his arms, leaning on the dresser. “I was half in love with you already.”

“Was not,” you gasp. “We’d only been mean to each other!” You hadn’t really liked Steve until you both sat soaking wet in your car. You’d been curious about him before that. Interested. A little obsessed. But it warms you from head to toe to know you’d had him captivated from moment one.

He grins his most boyish grin, the one he usually sends you before he’s about to do something that will make your face hot. “Exactly. I had a dream about you the first day we met.”

“Really?”

He nods and rubs the back of his neck like he’s suddenly embarrassed. “Yeah,” he says. “I don’t think I told anyone, though.”

“What was it about?”

Yeah, he’s totally blushing. “Uh.” he says. “It wasn’t anything big. Just you buying apples from me, I think.”

You can’t help it. You laugh. You laugh so hard your stomach aches. “Oh my god, Steve,” you gasp. “I told you to fuck off and you had a dream about me.” You’ve almost been together a whole year and he still surprises you. You hope it’s going to be like this for the rest of your lives.

He’s scowling. “Yeah, whatever.” Even as he grumbles he makes his way back to the bed and sits on the edge of it. He puts his hand on your leg through the duvet and squeezes gently. “Okay, funny girl, do you want apples or chocolate chips?”

“I’ll help,” you say. “Both, obviously.”

“But first…” Steve says, leaning in. Your eyes flutter shut and he pauses a breath away from your lips. “Your breath stinks,” he whispers.

“Speak for yourself,” you whisper back. He snickers and then leans in, hand framing your face. His lips are a little chapped but his kiss is as sweet as always, tender and loving. He kisses you once, twice, then trails his lips along your cheek.

“Morning,” he says, as if you’d just woken up. “Love you, bee girl.”

You sigh with happiness. “Love you back.”

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here! promptober masterlist, find all fics under #fvspromptober23

#fvspromptober23 #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x fem!reader #no good at waiting #steve harrington x

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lottienatsgf · 1 year ago

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*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 🏠 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 - 𝐞. 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐬

“ and it feels good to be known so well

i can’t hide from you like i hide from myself ”

ellie x reader

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ synopsis : inspired by the boygenius song / you and ellie spend the day painting her bedroom walls together

⋆｡𖦹 ° notes : this is heavily inspired by boygenius’ “true blue” music video! i’m a huge fan of them so this fic was super fun to write :) established relationship, living in jackson, sfw, literally just fluff, i need to write longer fics but like… this is still cute right??? :’)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ wc : 1032

“god, FUCK.” ellie grunts, her voice thick with exhaustion and annoyance as another can of paint tumbles out of her arms, making a loud thunking noise on the floor of jackson’s hardware store.

“shit,” you mutter under your breath, carefully bending down to pick it up without dropping the cans already in your arms. “do you think we really need this many?”

“pssh, i dunno,” ellie responds, making her way to the front of the store to pay. “i’m just gonna be so fuckin happy when we get this over with,” she balances the remaining paint cans in her arms, finally reaching the check out clerk. robert, the chubby man with a thick beard who owns the hardware store, accepts her cash and bags up the paint for you in thick, sturdy bags, making it a lot easier to carry. you thank him with a smile on your face, while ellie, clearly annoyed, barely mutters a reply. splitting the bags between the two of you, you walk side by side back to ellie’s house. the air is cold and crisp, making the walk back agonizing… not to mention the fact that your hands are weighed down with paint for ellie’s room.

“finally,” ellie breaths a sigh of relief once she pushes her door open. immediately setting down her bags, she plops down on the floor, spreading out her limbs. chuckling to yourself, you start the preparation. you unpack all the paints, pry open the lids, and start getting the paint brushes and rollers out of the garage.

“ready?” you ask her, holding up a thick brush with excitement.

ellie, trying to look pissed, can’t even hold back a small grin at the look of your toothy smile. “alright…” she gets up, brushing off her hands on her legs. “let’s fuckin do it!”

꩜

two hours later, you and ellie have only finished one wall of her bedroom. between moving her furniture, priming the walls, and putting all the coats of paint on…. no wonder it’s taken so long. the two of you stand back, slightly exhausted, backs aching, looking at your creation so far. the dark blue paint stands out drastically from the eggshell white color on the other three walls, but it does look pretty. even though ellie had said multiple times while painting, “this looks so good,” she now stands hunched over, a defeated look on her face.

you frown. “what’s wrong, els?”

“takin too long,” she replies, eyes scanning over her room. “it’s almost nighttime, and all my furniture is… not in here.”

“you can always stay at my place,” you tell her as if it was obvious.

her eyes perk up, her frown turning up a little bit. “yeah?”

“of course.”

“thanks, baby,” she says, her raspy voice making your head spin. “c’mere.”

you walk over to ellie, who’s holding out her arms for you. falling into them, ellie places a hand on your face, kissing your lips gently. pulling away, she giggles abruptly, staring at something just a little lower than your eyes.

“sorry, i…uh… i got a little something on your face,” she laughs. you gasp lightly, reaching your hand up to your cheek, finding a small blob of wet blue paint.

“ellie!” you squeal.

“relaxxxxx, it’s just paint,” she beams at you.

“just paint, my ass,” you snort, dipping your pointer finger in the bucket of paint and thrusting it at your girlfriend. she moves away a second too late, ending up with a blue smear across her cheek.

“oh, i’m gonna fuckin get you for that!” ellie yells, sticking her entire hand into the bucket and flinging it at you. your entire shirt (luckily an old one you had borrowed from your older brother) gets splattered in blue, a few droplets hitting your face. you scream out, scrambling back to the paint bucket for more paint. ellie beats you to it, playfully shoving you out of the way and covering you in more paint.

“ellie, i’m gonna-“ you collect more paint, splashing it onto her. now her shirt is covered as well, along with the blue streak on her face.

ellie gasps, racing back to the bucket for more paint. hands full of the blue liquid, she chases you from wall to wall, the paint dripping onto the covered floor. finally, she reaches you, tackling you and pinning you down onto the ground. her hands stain your clothes blue and her fingertips drag the remained of the paint up your neck and onto your face. she straddles you, making it impossible to get up.

“ellie!” you cry out, but her adorable grin makes you roll your eyes, giggling.

she takes a glob of the paint on her pointer finger, drawing a heart over your cheek with it. “there, y’look so cute.”

you take this moment, the one of her admiring you, to flip her over, scrambling onto your feet and rushing to the paint bucket. ellie, faster than you, crashes into you, sending you both back onto the floor. you stretch your arm out to the bucket, grabbing a handful of paint and smearing it across ellie’s forehead.

“i’m gonna fucking-“ you cut her off with another load of paint on her shoulders. “okay, truce, please!” she cries, giggling and completely covered in sticky blue paint.

you smirk, considering it. ellie’s eyes across from yours look so pleading and innocent, so you finally collapse underneath her, surrendering. she loosens her body on top of yours, her fingers pressing into your paint covered skin and dragging the color around.

“you’re blue,” she grins.

you tilt your head up, surprising her with a kiss. her lips connect with yours, her chapped lower lip rubbing over yours and her hands traveling to your hair, surely bringing a bit of paint into it.

“you’re the worst,” you whisper.

“i know, just terrible,” ellie fake pouts, fingers pushing your hair out of your face. you kiss her again, then sit up, examining the mess that you’ve both made.

“fuck,” she breathlessly laughs, scanning the room. “finish the rest tomorrow?”

you gaze up into her eyes, biting your lip and stifling a laugh. “we’ll probably need to buy more paint.”

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cauli-is-awake · 7 days ago

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gem and the scott's band au in my brain rent free

Just them being not in a death game being a local band is so yippie. All the members just live in one town and all know each other and get up to shenanigans.

Gem came back to town after a couple years and immediately grabbed Scott and Impulse to start a band. Everyone was so excited for her to be back but she was just hyped to have freetime and be creative.

"are you gonna start unpackin-"

"GRAB YOUR GUITAR SCOTT I FINALLY WROTE A SONG."

"i have a shift Gem-"

"TELL LIZZIE THE CATS WILL LIVE WITHOUT YOU FOR ONE DAY"

Impulse just sitting at home when At Any Given Moment A Wild Gem May Appear. She might just, teleport and whisk him away for "mandatory super important band practice" and Skizz just gives them a thumbs up and a grin before going back to his coffee.

Scott making connections except he knows *literally everyone*. He is welcome in anyone's house for dinner and will show up with a gift and some gossip before disappearing into the night. Half the men in town are his ex, but simultaneously his bestie. Scott being involved in every event:

need live music? his band has got it!

redecorating? he can help move furniture AND he has the *perfect* rug to go with your new wallpaper

the theatre needs costumes but doesn't have the funds? done. he has a sewing machine

someone wants to host a party? he will send out the invites and make sure the catering is sorted

Scott being that reliable guy you can always lean on. :DD

Gem bringing Scott and Impulse over to her garage to rehearse and her neighbour's, the roommates, cheering at them from a window. Cleo is sending live pic updates on the three G's groupchat so Pearl can see aswell. Grian half-heartedly telling them they are too loud. Etho humming along as he cooks dinner that they will probably share with the band later anyway.

Lizzie has a cat cafe and everyone loves hanging out with her but are also slightly intimidated - there is no *proof* she is anything but an upstanding citizen... yet

Her cafe is *the hangout spot* and the walls are adorned with paintings the townsfolk did of the cats, she makes limited time specials when someone brings her a new ingredient, if anyone is having a tough time she forces them into a chair with a hot chocolate and a cat.

Joel is bragging about his epic wife at Mounder's HQ™ (a random old building that they don't think anyone owns, hopefully) while Bdubs is raging at a monopoly game, as Mumbo and Pearl try to actually hold a business meeting.

Joel swears he hates Scott but also has all the bands merch and shows up to every concert. He can be found walking around the town playing Pokemon Go atleast once a week.

Pearl somehow got added to the band groupchat and just,,, never left. (Her and Gem spam it with memes at 3am) She probably should be banned from atleast one establishment for silly-lil-guy-ing too close to the sun.

The whole town is 100% committed to telling Bdubs he is short, Not A Single Person will tell him he is not. They have official town photos where someone photoshopped him shorter.

Mumbo has a (not so) secret bunker to do science in but people just come into it and yap at him while he is revolutionising the towns power source. They do feed him, so he hasn't locked them out yet.

The heart foundation is always holding events, fundraisers, bake sales, etc. Everyone loves them and when they open auditions for a theatre production in the community building, EVERYONE shows up either to participate or just support. Lizzie and Bigb are giving out snacks whilst asking minutely creepy questions. Martyn is pleading with Ren to move back so they can be in the show together.

Martyn and Jimmy do something??? No one can figure out what it is but they have Good Vibes so they let it slide. They get a bit too silly every once in a while and someone (usually Grian) has to put them in their place.

They host DnD or Improv sessions in the community building while a threatre production isn't on.

Scar is like the local cryptid who everyone is talking about when they "know a guy". He is liable to show up to events an hour late with a tale and tub of cookies. Scar is mostly friendly but a little unpredictable, if you want a strange adventure, show up to his door with something shiny and you will be on your way.

I could yap about this au for ever they make me so unwell. Might draw all of their designs but idk yet. Anyway wildlife session 5 tmr yay :DDD

#life series #trafficblr #secret life #gem and the scotts #secret life modern au #the blorbos #i will eat them all

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eiightysixbaby · 1 year ago

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silver springs: part one

You Make Loving Fun

i never did believe in miracles, but i’ve a feeling it’s time to try

word count: 7.7k

pairing: rockstar!eddie x rockstar!fem!reader

summary: you and your boyfriend eddie’s band gets the offer of a lifetime, sending you on a spiral into international fame. this is everything the five of you have ever wanted - producing an album, going on tour. what could go wrong?

cw: 18+ ONLY. this chapter does contain SMUT - although brief, there are depictions of unprotected sex. i try to keep use of y/n to a minimum - reader’s nickname is dove/dovey and this will be used frequently throughout the fic. drug and alcohol mentions, reader and the band drink & get high, and i think that’s it, really. the rest of this chapter is pretty tame!

authors note: ah here it is! the first chapter of my 1970s band au! please remember that future chapters of this fic will contain some heavier subject matter (cheating, drug/alcohol abuse, detailed depictions of sex). if this bothers you, DO NOT READ. i’m very happy to finally put chapter one out into the world and i hope you all enjoy! listen to the series playlist here!

May 17th, 1972. Hawkins, Indiana

You and your bandmates sit sprawled across the furniture in Steve’s living room, bouncing around song ideas. Warm spring air wafts in through an open window, birdsong lilting softly in the trees outside. A clock ticks methodically from the wall by the front door. Robin dangles upside down off of a chair, taking a puff of a cigarette, her hair dangling to the floor.

“What?” She catches you staring at her, “I can focus better like this, I’m serious.”

You huff a laugh, writing and rewriting a lyric in your song book, then scratching it out altogether. She softly sings to herself, trying to will the lyrics to come to her.

“Sweet, wonderful youuu….. you are, no- you make… you make me…”

The four of you - you, Steve, Robin, and your drummer Gareth - had been sitting for what felt like hours. Trying, and ultimately failing to get some new songs brewing. Your fellow frontman and boyfriend, Eddie, was off doing god-knows-what. He wouldn’t tell you guys, just said he was gonna be showing up to Steve’s late. Steve mindlessly plucks at his bass, frowning as he starts to get the hang of a riff but then loses it.

The five of you started your band, The Rumors, about a year ago, had humble beginnings in Gareth’s garage - much to his neighbors’ dismay. You would spend hours upon hours toiling away in that garage, writing, rewriting, perfecting your songs. And really, there was a lot of talent there, even from the very beginning. You knew how to lift each other up, encourage one another to be better musicians, and it was a great dynamic to be coming up in. You’d been extremely fortunate in your close-knit hometown, being offered slots to perform at local bars, and word would get out and occasionally you’d travel to bars and clubs on the outskirts of Hawkins. Small crowds, and hardly any of them were paid gigs, but it sure as hell got word around.

As for you and Eddie, the two of you were high school sweethearts, formed a bond over your love of music and the rest was history. Two fools in love, you started writing songs together for fun, Eddie would play his acoustic as you would sing. His uncle Wayne picked up on the talent you two had, always saying things like ‘You kids should start a band or somethin’. Bet you’d make it real far.’ At first the two of you just brushed it off, figured he was just being nice. But after you’d both graduated, and neither of you had a clue what you wanted to do with your lives now, the thought of starting a band lingered, bounced around in your brain until you couldn’t think of anything else. It consumed Eddie’s thoughts as much as it consumed yours. He knew Gareth from middle school, knew he played drums and ended up pitching the idea to him - and he was on board immediately. You knew Steve, who was learning bass at the time, and your mutual friend Nancy was dating Robin, who was wicked good on the keys and had a stellar voice.

Everything fell into place just like that. Your group started practicing together, and became pretty much inseparable. You all really fell into a groove, taking on different roles in the band as you learned each other’s personalities. Robin was quick-witted and smart, always there to listen to your problems or offer advice, and man - she’s a chatterbox. She’s great at songwriting and always brings strong ideas to the table. She’s loyal to her loved ones, and she’s a huge softie when it comes to you guys, and especially Nancy. Steve is basically the mom of the band, yelling at Eddie when he shows up to practice late, giving Robin rides everywhere, keeping you all in line and making sure no one ends up dead on a night at the bars. He tends to come across as very serious - business oriented. All about the music and perfecting his craft. But when you get to know him, he’s a sweetheart. He just wants to make sure everything goes according to plan, is all. Gareth is the comedic relief, a phenomenal drummer, and he knows how to party. He’s kind, always welcoming, and all in all just happy to be here. He’s always willing to let Eddie bounce ideas off him, and you can count on him to give you his genuine opinions. Eddie is the showstopper, truly. He can be a little disorganized and scattered at times but he’s passionate about what he does. A social butterfly, a sweet-talker, excellent at getting his way. He’s also just downright pretty (but you were definitely biased). He’s determined and never lets a setback stop him. The perfect frontman, confident and loud. And as for you, you’re typically the peacekeeper, the sweet one. You have a soft heart, you love fiercely, trust willingly, and are willing to give your all for this band. You’re the other side of Eddie’s coin, and you’re happy to follow him on your shared dream.

You guys were in the process of trying to write an album, trying to get some bigger shows, get an ‘in’ with someone who had connections in the music scene. As frustrating as it could be at times, none of you were willing to give up. Eddie would always talk about how you guys were going to be the biggest rock band in the world someday, like it was a sure thing, and god how you all hoped he was right.

“Seriously, what should come after this line- ‘Sweet wonderful you, you make me…’ you make me what!?” Robin sighs dramatically, sitting upright and putting her cigarette out in the ashtray.

“How about, ‘You make me happy with the things you do’?” you offer, lighting up when Robin’s eyes go wide.

“Yes! That’s it, oh my god. Thank you thank you,” she scribbles it in her notebook, humming the tune to herself.

“That’s going somewhere, Rob. Seriously, don’t give up on that one,” Steve encourages, moving to stand behind her chair and give her shoulders a squeeze.

Just as Robin’s about to throw more lyrics out, the front door swings open, and Eddie comes barreling in. He’s biting on his bottom lip, like he’s trying to hold his smile back from breaking free.

“Eddie… what’s that face? What’re you up to?” Gareth asks, narrowing his eyes at the other man.

“Oh, nothing…. just, y’know, got us a gig at The Corner in Indianapolis, where Scott Pierce may or may not be watching us play,” Eddie’s lips twist into a smirk as he talks.

The Corner was an insanely popular club in the city, plenty of bands playing there, getting their start. Scott Pierce was a huge name in the music industry, well-known manager for many different bands and artists and had as many connections as a small band from Hawkins could possibly ask for. How Eddie had pulled this off, you had no idea.

“What!? Eddie, are you fucking serious, man!?” Steve shouts, shaking Robin as he does, her head bobbling around slightly.

You and Gareth jump out of your seats, badgering Eddie for more context.

“I was just on the phone with someone at Scott’s office - I sent them that demo tape we made of Don’t Stop, they dug it - pulled some strings, got us a gig. He’s gonna attend and if he likes us, which he will of course, we could have a bigger offer in store. We could finally make an album!” Eddie’s beaming, his hands shaking with excitement.

The four of you rush to him, everyone hugging and cheering. Eddie picks you up and spins you around, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips.

“This is it, baby. This could really be it for us,” he whispers to you, your foreheads pressed together.

You’re grateful Eddie’s holding onto you because your whole body feels like jello, your knees almost weak with excitement.

“Celebratory beer, anyone?” Steve asks, pulling a six-pack from the fridge.

You each take a bottle and cheers to ‘making an album’. Robin scurries off to ring Nancy, practically tripping over her feet on the way to the phone. You and the guys hover around the kitchen counter in content silence, just smiling at each other like idiots. This could really be the start of everything.

Robin enters the room once more after hanging up the phone, sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter and laughing to herself, spinning on the rotating seat.

“I just told Nance the news, oh my god, I hope I didn’t jinx our luck or something. This is like, totally a miracle and I usually don’t believe in miracles but maybe I should start,” Robin rambles nervously, all flailing hands as she talks. “Oh my god, wait! I’m gonna turn that into a line for my song…..” she trails off as she walks to the living room to grab her lyric book.

The rest of the group exchanges knowing glances at each other, because yeah, this certainly was a miracle - and you were going to take a chance on it.

May 24th, 1972. Indianapolis, Indiana.

It’s an unusually hot day for May in Indiana when the band pulls up to The Corner that Friday night, your skin prickling with sweat beneath your crochet top. You open the passenger door to Eddie’s vehicle, a burnt orange VW bus that he saved up for for years, the perfect size for carting around the whole band and your equipment. You step out onto the street, the hustle and bustle of the city whirring around you. Car horns honking, kids whizzing by on bicycles, music playing from somewhere you couldn’t detect. You were taking in the sights, looking up at the sign above the entrance to the club, where your band name sat in big black letters across the white board. Eddie sidled up beside you, snaking an arm around your waist and kissing the top of your head.

“I can’t fucking believe it, Eds. That’s our band listed up there. I just… wow,” you shake your head, laughing giddily as you do.

“Believe it, baby. We’re movin’ up in the world,” he grins at you.

He presses a kiss to your lips before walking around to the back of the van, helping the others unload your gear. The group heads inside and you’re all instantly greeted by the owner of the establishment, a big burly man with a handlebar mustache.

“Ah! You must be The Rumors, am I right?” he asks, grinning widely at the bunch of you.

“Yep, that’s us, pleasure to meet you,” Steve stretches out a hand for him to shake, and the rest of you follow suit.

He introduces himself as Mitch before he shows you to the stage and tells you where the bathrooms are in case you need to spruce yourselves up before your set time later. He wishes you all luck and with that, he heads back to his post at the bar.

Time passes quickly as you work to set up the small stage, plugging in amps, tuning guitars, making sure you don’t trip over any cords in the process. Robin brought Nancy along with her so she could take photos of the gig tonight. Nancy had basically become the band’s personal photographer, taking photos at practices and every gig you’ve played so far, collecting tangible memories of your time together. It was sweet, really, and she loved having an excuse to follow Robin around. You and Eddie sing bits and pieces of a couple different songs to make sure the mics are sounding right, before the full band joins for a quick run-through of the five songs you’ll be playing this evening. It sounds great, you have to admit, but only time will tell if it’s good enough to get you an album deal.

Later that evening, you find yourself peeking out from behind the heavy velvet curtain, scanning the scattered tables on the floor. When your eyes land on none other than Scott Pierce, you feel yourself swallow a lump in your throat. He sits at a table alone, talking to a thin blonde woman and sipping on a beer. Robin comes up behind you and puts a hand on your shoulder.

“Is he out there?” She asks in a whisper, even though no one would be able to hear the two of you anyways.

“Yeah… yeah he is. Are you ready for this?” you glance over your shoulder at her, eyeing her nervously.

“Honestly, I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been. But I’m also excited. Optimistic. This is our moment,” she smiles warmly at you and you can’t help but ease up. “All we gotta do is play our little hearts out like it doesn’t matter who’s watching.”

“You’re right. This is our moment. Let’s fucking do this,” you grin back, squeezing her in a tight hug.

The rest of the band is bustling in the small backstage area, Steve fixing his hair in a handheld mirror he brought, Gareth asking Eddie for his opinion on which shirt he should wear tonight (and Eddie getting incredibly frustrated because ‘it’s the same fucking shirt man, that one’s just a slightly lighter denim’). And he’s right, Gareth is holding up two almost identical denim button ups, one being a slightly lighter wash than the other - barely noticeable at a glance.

“Fifteen minutes till we’re on, guys, let’s get the show on the road,” you say as you head to the bathroom to fix your makeup.

You look at yourself in the mirror, pleased with your appearance. You wear an off-white long sleeve top that stops just above your belly button, exposing some skin but not too much, and the sleeves billow out at your wrists. An olive green suede skirt embroidered with flowers rests on your hips, and on your feet you wear short white boots with a chunky heel. Gold hoop earrings rest in your ears and a few different necklaces dangle low on your chest. You smudge some black eyeliner around your eyes and apply a generous layer of mascara to your lashes. Satisfied with the look, you ruffle your hair and put the makeup back in your bag. You take a deep breath in, grounding yourself, hyping yourself up for what you’re about to do.

You step out of the bathroom and run into Eddie, looking gorgeous in his dark denim bell bottoms and a red button up shirt, the top three buttons undone, exposing his pale chest and the gold chain he wears around his neck.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he smiles at you, grabbing your waist and pulling you in to kiss you all over.

“Hi handsome, you ready to play?” you smile back, cupping his face in your hands.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, sweets. Let’s rock n roll,” and with that, he’s pulling you backstage, eager and buzzing to start the show.

You hear Mitch speaking into the microphone on the stage, greeting everyone that’s gathered and thanking them for bringing business in. He keeps his speech short before announcing that there’d be a live band playing this evening for everyone.

“Ladies and gents, let’s give a warm welcome to The Rumors!” he steps off the stage, clapping with the rest of the club’s patrons.

And with that, you’re walking out onto the tiny stage, staring out at the startlingly large crowd packed in such a small space. Your eyes fall on Scott in the crowd once again, and this time his eyes meet yours. You feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest. Everyone positions themselves accordingly on stage, and you all exchange glances, giving one another encouraging nods and smiles. Nancy sits close to the stage with her camera and gives you all a thumbs up. The lights over the floor dim, focusing all of the attention on the five twenty-something year olds that stand eager behind their instruments and microphones.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Robin’s starting the show off on the keys. The first song of the night is Don’t Stop. You all deemed that to be the appropriate first track seeing as that was the song Eddie sent over to Scott’s office. Eddie sings the first lines into the microphone, taking charge like a natural. He’s always been like this, always had a knack for commanding attention onto him, enthralling an entire room with his energy. It’s no different when he’s on stage - in fact it’s even more powerful. Robin and Eddie sing together on this song, you don’t have any vocals on this one, so you flounce around on stage with your tambourine, grooving to the beat and letting the music flow through you.

You don’t realize it, but you captivate the audience just as much as Eddie does, if not more. Strikingly beautiful up on the stage as you dance around, the lights making your jewelry sparkle. Eddie watches the way you move, loves seeing you in your element like this. He hopes he’ll get to see you up on stage every night, selling out stadiums together.

By the end of the first song you feel your nerves washing away, your body freeing up gradually and letting you just flow. Next song up is an upbeat, folky little number that Eddie wrote, titled Second Hand News. Once again, you aren’t supposed to sing on this one, but you end up walking over to Eddie’s mic and singing harmony on the chorus with him. If anyone thought you two were captivating on your own, your energy together is electric, so much power behind both of your voices combined. Scott notes this as he watches you from the audience, can’t tear his eyes away from you and Eddie. You have something special, and he can tell.

Finally, as the third song starts, it’s your time to sing. You’ve been working on a song, Rhiannon, and you don’t feel like it’s quite complete but the rough version works for now. It’s slower than the first two numbers, your voice crooning into the microphone as you sing of the fictional woman you’ve dreamed up in your head. You’re expressive while you sing, arms extending and moving freely, the fabric of your shirt sleeves draping down and flowing with every movement. The band does minimal backing vocals in the chorus, but otherwise this song is your moment. Eddie watches you absolutely awestruck, and he swears the crowd has collectively leaned forward, craning to hear every word that leaves your lips.

The final two songs are covers, and when your set is over the audience claps and cheers, a much more rowdy applause than you expected. Eddie thanks everyone for listening tonight and the five of you take a big bow, arm in arm, before exiting the stage. Backstage, everyone is chatting excitedly, congratulating each other on a job well done. Eddie’s standing behind you, long arms wrapped around you as you blush at Robin’s praise over your Rhiannon performance. The chatter stops when Mitch comes to the back, bringing Scott Pierce with him.

“Well, you guys had one hell of a show tonight,” Scott says, way friendlier than you expected him to be.

“Mr. Pierce, thank you so much for coming tonight. I’m Eddie, this is Y/N, Steve, Robin, and Gareth,” Eddie introduces each of you, and Scott greets you all warmly.

“It’s my pleasure, really. I’m very pleasantly surprised by the talent you guys have, that was some serious stuff up there,” he praises you, and you catch Steve’s eye as he grins at you from over Scott’s shoulder, mouthing ‘He likes us!’.

“That means so much to us, really,” you reply. “We love making music, it’s a dream to be here tonight.”

“I can tell you all have a lot of passion for this band. Eddie, you were the one who spoke with Linda at my office, right? What do you say we chit chat for a little, privately?” Eddie nods, motioning for Scott to lead the way to a table.

He turns around and gives you all a quick thumbs up, and the rest of you all jump around like hyper children. The time that Eddie’s gone feels like an eternity, and you’re waiting with baited breath to hear what Scott pitched to your boyfriend. What if it’s not the offer you want? You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t gotten your hopes up, dreaming of releasing an album and going on tour, playing sold out shows with your best friends every single night since Eddie told you all that he got you a gig. Not hearing what you want from Scott would feel like a punch to the gut.

“Relax darlin’, you look all tense over here,” Gareth places a hand on your shoulder, giving you a lopsided smile. “We’re gonna be fine, he really liked us.”

You don’t get a chance to respond before the curtain is ripped open and Eddie is running over to you, picking you up and spinning you around.

“Guess who’s making a fucking record!?” he hollers, setting you down and holding your hands in his.

“No way, Eddie! No way, are you serious?” you’re yelling back at him, Gareth, Steve, Robin, and now Nancy all gathering around you.

“We’re making an album! He fucking loved us, we got an offer to start recording at Sound City in California, a meeting with a big label. If all goes well, we’ll be touring, topping the fucking charts,” Eddie is beaming, talking a mile a minute.

The room fills with a chorus of excited cheering and shouting, the whole bunch of you having a group hug. You feel your eyes well up with happy tears as you look around at your friends, all smiles. Robin pulls Nancy into a kiss, Eddie ruffles Gareth’s hair, and you’re hugging Steve tight, probably staining his shirt with your watery eyes.

After you’ve all thanked Scott profusely and made loose plans to be in California within the next few weeks, the band packs up their gear and you all hit the road back to Hawkins. The energy in the van is different on the ride home, all of you singing loudly along to whatever comes on the radio, each of you dreaming up the wildest ideas of superstardom.

Later that night, back at home, you’re in bed with Eddie. Riding him slowly, holding a joint to your lips as you take a hit before passing it back to him. A window is open, night air warm with the promise of the approaching summer as it wafts in through the screen. Eddie hums blissfully beneath you, dark curls sprawled across the pillow under his head. You love intimate moments like this with Eddie, but as much as you want to focus on him right now, your mind wanders. He catches this, unsurprisingly. He can always sense a shift in your mood.

“What’s on that mind of yours, dove?” he asks, putting the joint in the ashtray on the nightstand.

“I dunno…. it’s silly,” you sigh, not meeting his gaze as those big brown eyes stare up at you.

“Baby, nothing is silly if it’s bothering you. Talk to me,” he coos, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You stop the slow rocking of your hips and tilt your cheek into his touch. “I’m just…. scared, Ed. I’m so happy we got this offer, it’s everything you and I have wanted since high school. But - I don’t know,” you stop yourself, chewing on your lip. Eddie rubs his thumb along your cheek, silently encouraging you to keep talking. “What if this changes everything, babe? What if fame is too much for us, what if it destroys us… comes between us….” you trail off, eyes searching his for an answer.

“My little dove, nothing is going to come between us,” Eddie says, voice soft but serious. “I love you more than words - you’re my world, baby, and I’m so excited to do all of these big things with you by my side,” his hands run up and down the sides of your body, relaxing you. “This is a big change for us, moving out to the West Coast, starting a new life. But I’ll be with you every step of the way. I love you so much.”

You giggle, leaning down to kiss him as he beckons you with a curling finger. His words always have a way of soothing you, his voice sweet like honey as it coaxes you out of your anxious headspace.

“I love you, too. I really can’t wait to have this life with you, Eddie.”

The next couple hours are spent with you two tangled up between the sheets, Eddie making passionate love to you, as you come undone again and again for him. You reassure yourself that while taking the next step into fame might be intimidating, you’ve got Eddie, and your best friends, and you’re gonna be fine.

June 18th, 1972. Los Angeles, California.

The band has arrived on the West Coast. The last couple weeks since your show at The Corner were full of packing your essential belongings, spending time with friends and family as much as possible before you left, writing snippets of songs together here and there so you have something to work off of when it’s time to start recording. The day your road trip to California started, you were misty-eyed saying goodbye to your loved ones. Eddie’s Uncle Wayne even shed a few tears himself, which never happens, and he laughed as Eddie teased him about it - “You getting soft on me, old man?”.

As the five of you drove out of Hawkins, you looked out the back window of the vehicle, saying a silent ‘thank you’ to the town that gave you your start - the town that brought your band together. A bittersweet feeling coursed through you as you cruised past the sign that read ‘Leaving Hawkins. Come Back Soon!’.

The trip to LA didn’t feel as long as it really was, Eddie and Steve taking turns driving the van as you, Robin, and Gareth played cards in the back to pass time, or sang obnoxiously to the radio. Some nights the rumble of the van’s tires on pavement lulled you to sleep as the drive continued on through the darkness. Sometimes you’d take the passenger seat and stay up late with Eddie as he drove under the glow of streetlights. Other nights were filled with the squeaky mattresses and peeling wallpaper of rundown motels that would house you when the task of driving overnight seemed impossible, the electric glow of vacancy signs flashing softly in through the window as you slept in Eddie’s arms, dreaming of world tours and screaming fans.

You documented bits of every single day in your journal, finding comfort in writing things down, your thoughts and feelings throughout the process of a drastic lifestyle change. Robin made sure to pick up various postcards from rest stops along the way to send to Nancy, who wouldn’t be joining you guys in Cali for another 2 weeks. Many quarters were used on payphone calls, each of you calling one person or another back home to let them know how things were going, what state you were in now, and so on. You made sure to take photos whenever you could on your disposable camera - catching Robin and Steve at a rest stop in Nevada, frozen in ridiculous poses as they stretched their sore limbs. There’s one of Gareth asleep in the back of the van, with a mustache drawn on his face in marker - courtesy of Eddie, of course. One taken by Steve of Eddie giving you a piggyback ride through a gas station parking lot, you laughing wildly. All in all, you had a blast on your road trip, as tiring as it was at times. You knew it was leading you to bigger and better things, and that made it more than worth it.

When you arrive to Los Angeles at long last, the evening glow washing over the landscape, Steve pulls the van into the gravelly driveway of the house you guys were renting for the time being, nestled in Laurel Canyon. There was plenty of unpacking to be done, and a meeting with Scott and some producers and label executives at Sound City tomorrow. But before any of it, you needed to sleep in a real bed. You claim a room to serve as yours and Eddie’s, and immediately flop yourself down on the soft mattress. Before long you feel Eddie climb in beside you as you drift to sleep, his long arm wrapping around your waist, and his soft breathing lulling you into peaceful slumber.

The following morning, the house is off the walls with energy. Everyone is excited and also nervous to get the show on the road, eager to start recording some songs. You all scramble to get ready, making yourselves presentable and each downing enough coffee to kill a horse. You have to practically drag Eddie out of the bathroom when it’s time to leave, insisting that yes his hair looked good and yes you liked his outfit and you had to go like right now or you were going to be late and make a horrible impression. Tires peel out of the driveway after loading everyone into the vehicle, and you watch out the windows as you drive down roads unfamiliar to you. You gaze up at the palm trees and white puffy clouds, smiling and waving at people on street corners who caught your eye. The whole city seemed to welcome you, opening up before you and inviting you in.

When you pull into the studio parking lot, you notice Scott waiting by the door, smiling warmly at you all. He shakes everyone’s hands in greeting as he welcomes you to LA, asking about your drive out and making pleasant conversation. He leads you in through the large doors and into the lobby, where a handful of presumably important people are waiting for you, dressed in suits and polished dress shoes. You suddenly feel out of place, standing there in your crochet halter top and a pair of denim shorts, flimsy ankle boots on your feet. No one seems to pay any mind, though, and you’re greeted brightly by all of the new faces. Scott introduces all of them, and wastes no time delving into the business aspect of it all. A couple hours go by answering questions about what your band is looking for, what direction you’d like to head in, going over potential contract info, so on and so forth.

By early afternoon you’re officially signed to a label, set to release an album and go on tour for it. It all felt so surreal, your head spinning as you’d signed your name to the contract, sloping cursive letters beneath finely printed details. The label representatives had asked if you had any songs that were ready to record as single material, wanting to get your band name out there as soon as possible. You’d all agreed that Don’t Stop made the most sense to release as the first single, given that it was really the song that got you here in the first place. It was upbeat and catchy, got stuck in your head, and it wasn’t too long but wasn’t too short. You’d agreed to record it that very day and, if you got a good take, you’d send it off to the label. In the meantime, Scott informed you he’d gotten you some gigs on the Sunset Strip and other nearby sites, playing the Whiskey a Go-Go, the Troubadour, the hot spots. He thought it would be a great way to spread the word about you guys before your first single hit the radio, to really get the anticipation brewing.

Things were a whirlwind after that.

Nancy joined you guys in California, dead set on working as the band’s official photographer, unwilling to let some pompous Hollywood asshole take her place. You began playing the gigs Scott had lined up for you as promised, gathering genuinely large crowds - at least large in your eyes - and by the end of July, Don’t Stop was released as The Rumors’ first single. Everywhere you went, you’d find yourself catching your song on the radio. Your boyfriend’s voice, playing over the speakers of local diners, grocery stores, blasting from the speakers of convertibles that drove down the city streets. It performed well, for a debut single from a previously never-heard-of band. People enjoyed it, they wanted more. The summer was filled with song writing, meetings with more and more important people who’d be working on your team, interviews with magazines and newspapers. And, notably, from the very beginning people took an interest in you and Eddie’s relationship. They thought it was sweet that you two were living out your shared dream, saw potential for the romance to bring good lyrical content.

The album was set to be completed and released by the end of the year, which meant many long nights writing and recording and re-recording. You had a decent track list planned out, an album of ten songs, perfect for a debut record. Don’t Stop would, of course, be on there. Robin’s You Make Loving Fun and your Rhiannon, which you’d been working hard to get polished to your liking. Second Hand News, and a new song Steve wrote for Robin to sing, called Say You Love Me. You and Eddie wrote a sweet duet titled Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around, an angsty love song that you knew would get crowds riled up as you sang it to each other. Monday Morning, I’m so Afraid, and Landslide would join the rest, the latter being written by you after having a sentimental late night talk with Robin, thinking about change and how scary growing up can be, much inspired by your recent lifestyle change, of course. Everywhere was the last song added to the track list, ultimately pushing some others off the table for the time being. You and Robin wrote Everywhere together, very much with your respective partners in mind, the lyric ‘I wanna be with you everywhere’ serving as an ode to your devotion to travel anywhere work takes you with Eddie, and Nancy’s willingness to follow Robin.

Eddie’s favorite nights were the ones where you and him stayed up practicing your songs, trying to record the perfect take even if it meant being in the studio till four in the morning. You’d share cheap wine and get high, roaming hands and stolen kisses on exposed skin eventually leading the two of you to get in the bus and go home, stumbling into bed and immersing yourselves in one another. One particular night found you bent over the arm of the couch in the studio, Eddie’s fingers sinking into the skin of your hips as he drove into you from behind. He was so eager to have you he couldn’t even wait until he got you home. He had you right where he wanted you, listening to your pretty noises as he watched his cock sink into you.

“Mmph, Eddie, what if someone comes in here?” you ask, voice staggered as your body lurched with every thrust he gave you.

“It’s late at night, baby, no one’s gonna walk in. Everyone else is probably out at the bars,” he reassures you, leaning down to press kisses up your spine. “Love having you like this, little dove, pussy’s so greedy for me.”

You babble incoherently for him as he works you to climax, pulling out of you after he’d filled you with his spend. You redressed your bottom half, adjusting your skirt as you sat down on the worn fabric of the couch, Eddie’s cum dripping down onto it.

“Christ, babe, I’m gonna get hard every time we walk in here now,” Eddie murmured, stealing a kiss from you as you tried to get back to work.

You ended up writing a song that night, inspiration striking you randomly. You titled it Leather and Lace, a love song very much inspired by the man that had you head over heels for him. You sang it to Eddie softly in the dim light of your bedroom after arriving back home that night, and he ended up adding another verse, making it into a duet. And for now, it stayed just between the two of you, a private declaration of the love between both of you.

When you guys weren’t in the studio or busy with other band tasks, you were indulging in the California night scene, going to bars and dancing at clubs. You’d often drink till the room was spinning and your skin was tingling, laughing with Eddie at every little thing, just to barely remember the evening’s events the following morning.

Come September, your label was pushing to release a second single, leaving it up to the five of you to decide which song you wanted to push through. You knew that everyone else wanted Rhiannon as the next single, but you were admittedly nervous to put the song out into the world as a stand-alone. That song is one you regarded as being your baby, and so you sit chewing on your fingernails as the rest of your band tries to persuade you that this is the song.

“Come on, Dove. It’s a great song, and you know it,” Gareth says, sitting across from you with his elbows on his knees, leaning forward to try and level with you.

“The world needs to hear that beautiful voice of yours before this album comes out,” Robin chimes in. “What’re you afraid of, love?”

“I just- I love this song,” you say. “And I know that the whole ‘being famous’ thing is going to invite criticism, and negative opinions, and all of it. But I just don’t know if I’m ready to deal with hearing slander for this song if people don’t end up liking it,” you lean into Eddie who’s sat beside you, his big hand rubbing your arm reassuringly.

“They’re gonna love it, baby, because you’re phenomenal in everything you do,” he encourages. “You know I’ve been saying since the day you wrote it that I just have a feeling this song will be pivotal for us,” and the rest of the group nods in agreement.

You ponder this, chewing your lip and picking at the frayed edges of your denim shorts.

“Fine. Rhiannon it is.”

It turns out that Eddie was right, and Rhiannon performed insanely well, coming out at #10 on the charts. People at your gigs on The Strip had heard this song performed, and had clearly been eagerly awaiting its hopeful release. Naturally, Eddie wouldn’t let you live it down. You’re sitting in the kitchen a few days after the song’s release, eating breakfast when Eddie comes barreling in. He immediately turns on the radio with clumsy fingers as he pops a piece of bread into the toaster. Sure enough, Rhiannon was playing on the station, and Eddie starts singing along.

“Gee, I wonder who sings this song?” he asks around a mouthful of banana.

You look over at him and roll your eyes, chuckling at how he’s dancing across the floor.

“Man, I sure would love to be the guy who gets to sleep next to her every night, she’s got the voice of an angel,” he swoons dramatically, making you laugh even further when he accidentally drops his banana.

“Whoops,” he shrugs, taking his toast out of the toaster and applying an obscene amount of chunky peanut butter on it, before sitting across from you at the table.

He grabs your hand as the song finishes, squeezing it as if to say ‘I’m so proud of you’. You couldn’t help but smile. He’s always been your number one supporter, it’s no surprise he’s acting this way now.

The song was big then and it only got bigger, people couldn’t get enough. In the coming weeks it was played even more frequently and in even more places than Don’t Stop had been. People started recognizing the band out in public, specifically you and Eddie, and you got to sign your first autographs to some giddy girls who stopped you outside of a record shop.

To say the months after that were a blur is an understatement, the five of you being whipped into newfound fame faster than you could comprehend. Your album, simply titled with your band name, was released in November. It was performing extremely well, Rhiannon really being the catalyst that made people excited to hear more from you. Talks of tour were near constant, deciding on dates, cities, the setlist. It was set to begin in March, rehearsals set to start in January. Ultimately, you all decided it made the most sense to play the entire album on tour, given that it was only ten songs. You’d throw in a few covers for good measure, ones that really showcased the flare you guys could bring to music.

The world was loving The Rumors, and you guys were absolutely enjoying the fame. It seemed as though everywhere you went now, somebody wanted your autograph, or simply came up to say they love the record. The five of you adjusted to your new lives slowly yet rather confidently, letting your hard work be praised by the masses. It felt good to finally be more than a band playing bars with a crowd of ten drunk patrons, and you’d tell that to any interviewer who would listen. As exciting as it all was, you were looking forward to having a little bit of a break before the chaos of tour and rehearsals would begin. Scott had told you guys to take a couple of weeks off for the holidays, insisting that you all absolutely deserved to relax. The band would pick back up in the new year, but for now, you could spend some time laying low.

December 20th, 1972. Hawkins, Indiana.

You and Eddie had flown back home to Hawkins to celebrate Christmas. You were eager to snuggle into the coziness of home, enjoy the snow and the colorful lights and the nostalgia of the season. Steve and Gareth had stayed in California, Steve not really having a reason to come home what with his parents always being gone, and Gareth having invited his family out to the West Coast for a warm and sunny holiday. Robin and Nancy were coming back to Hawkins as well, but a couple days after your and Eddie’s arrival. You step out of the rental car Eddie had snagged for your time at home, the cold chill of the air whipping your face. You wrap your coat tighter around your frame, realizing just how accustomed you’d grown to the warm and sunny California weather. Eddie walks around to the back of the car, his thick jacket lined with Sherpa keeping him insulated as he grabs your suitcases from the trunk. His nose is red from the chill of the air as he quickly walks the suitcases up to the front door of your family home, where your parents and Wayne should be waiting on your arrival. The front door opens before you can even grab the doorknob, your dad welcoming you into the warmth of your home.

“There’s our favorite rockstars!” he jokes, making you roll your eyes as you hug him in greeting.

Your mom rushes to the door, pulling you into a hug and then Eddie after the suitcases are handed off to your dad. Wayne gives you one of his signature tight hugs and a kiss on the side of your head, just like he always used to, before pulling Eddie into a bear hug that seems to last minutes. You head up to your old room once the greetings are over, and you find yourself overwhelmed with nostalgia. You hadn’t even been in California a year, and yet coming home felt like something you’d hadn’t done in decades. You squeeze the teddy bear that sits on your bed, your childhood friend that you’d ultimately decided to leave here during the move. You inhale the scent of home within the bear, your body feeling warm and you can’t help but smile.

“You okay, Dove?” Eddie asks, stepping into your room and wrapping his arms around you from behind.

“Yeah. Just happy to be home,” you smile, tilting your head back to look up at him.

He gives you an understanding smile back. It’s good to be home.

Not much has changed in the sleepy town of Hawkins, other than the fact that posters of your band are plastered just about everywhere. Your town has always had your back, so it’s no surprise they’re proudly showing off and saying ‘Hey, look! We’re that town where The Rumors are from!’. You even run into some girls from high school, begging for autographs from you and Eddie. Eddie doesn’t even give them the time of day before he’s pulling you away just as you’d uncapped your marker, mumbling something about ‘they hated me in high school, what do they deserve an autograph for?’.

The holidays come and go quite quickly, Christmas being spent wrapped in Eddie’s arms in cozy matching sweaters, singing carols for family while Eddie played his acoustic. The new year rolled in with Eddie pressing a sloppy kiss to your lips, the taste of sweet wine on his tongue, and whispered promises of making this year a fantastic one. Being back at home made you feel comfortably small again, a stark contrast to the ever growing spotlight that’s been placed on you in California. Of course, you’re over the moon to be getting such success, but being surrounded with family in your childhood home brings you a different kind of peace. You’re inevitably teary when it comes time for you and Eddie to fly back to LA, hugging your parents and Wayne goodbye, sniffling into a tissue. You hold Eddie’s hand almost the entire flight back, letting him reassure you in the way his thumb rubs over your hand. Getting back to Cali meant you’d be hitting the ground running, a short couple of months until tour was set to start. If only you’d known that this would be the calm before the storm.

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