#but really neon and eye bleed | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inkykeiji · 1 year ago

Text

you can always take more than nothing

character: bonten!mikey x fem!reader

genre: smut

notes: here’s my halloween piece, only half a month late! still, i hope you can enjoy it! as always, please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title cred: alice in wonderland

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, public sex/exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, size difference, biting/marking, blood, minimal prep, rough sex, teasing, begging, dacryphilia, humiliation, a lil bit of degradation, drugs, toxic relationship

words: 8.6k

synopsis:

Those few remaining scraps of decency you’d both been clinging to have been devoured by Mikey’s growing selfishness, no longer caring about what others might see or think or say—it’s not like anyone’s dumb enough to do anything about it anyway; it’s not like anyone has enough of a death-wish to try. He’s the motherfucking Boss. And the Boss gets what he wants, where he wants, when he wants, always.

The music is loud, so loud the walls seem to be breathing with it, bleeding with it, flashes of neon pouring over the frosted mosaics of glass and marble.

A party, thinly veiled as a corporate event.

There are people everywhere, scattered across every surface, crystal glasses filled with expensive liqour and cocktail concoctions glittering in their palms. You barely know any of them.

They’re all supposed business partners, allies and associates, ‘friends’ of your Daddy. Not that it matters all that much to you; they aren’t allowed to say a word to you anyway.

Your eyes scan the expanse of the club, on the hunt for a familiar face. Takeomi is in the corner, obnoxiously blowing smoke into some of the higher end girls’ faces. He’s really taking his role of The Caterpillar earnestly.

Good. You told him it suited him.

At your request (AKA at Mikey’s demand), the top members of Bonten have dressed up as Alice in Wonderland characters, donning an impressive group costume. You’ve been taking the whole thing pretty seriously—beginning your extensive planning in August, drafting up designs and taking everyone’s precise measurements to have each outfit custom made to their exact frames—which means the rest of Bonten has been taking the whole thing pretty seriously, too.

Not that any of them mind.

What Mikey’s little angel wants, Mikey’s little angel gets. It’s standard protocol, really; you’re merely an extension of the Boss and thus must be treated as an extension of the Boss, and Mikey’s best men have no issues complying.

Sighing, you rest your chin in your palms, sombreness souring your features. An ache, dull and dense, settles in the pit of your chest. It’s a desolate sort of longing, a gentle but constant gnawing that cannot be sated by anyone or anything other than it’s creator, something that weights your lungs and heavies your heart and stalls your breath, a vital part missing.

You miss Mikey.

You miss Mikey, but you know this ‘event’ really does have some sort of business significance; that, while it’s mostly an excuse to get drunk and high on Halloween night, it also serves as the grounds for some sort of meeting or negotiation or proposition—you can never be sure which, with Bonten.

You aren’t allowed to know. You’re lucky to be here at all.

But you miss Mikey.

You shouldn’t be selfish. You know you shouldn’t be selfish; he’s already stretched so thin between so many obligations and obituaries, and you shouldn’t add to that strain. You won’t add to that strain. You’ll sit here, pretty and perfect like his precious little princess should be, and you’ll wait, patiently, until Daddy has a moment to spare you.

He always finds a moment to spare, no matter how many duties and commitments he has. He always finds a space for you in his day, even if he has to carve it out with his bare hands.

So you mustn’t be greedy. You will be good. For him, you’ll do anything, no matter how difficult.

“No frowning, miss Alice,” Sanzu chastises through a stretched grin, wide and carved into his cheeks—a smile so sharp, so sinister it puts the true Cheshire Cat to disgrace.

He swims into your vision, teeth glinting with teals and fuchsias, an intricately wrapped box in his palms. Tugging on the ribbon a little, he unboxes it to reveal a wealth of small confections, individually wrapped in colourful foils.

“Look, your favourite kitty brought you some chocolate.”

That brightens your mood a little—a sugar fiend, just like your Daddy is—and your mouth drops open expectantly, cute tongue unfurling in invitation.

Sanzu rolls his eyes but places a truffle on your tongue anyway, pressing it down on the slick muscle and forcing your lips to close around his first knuckle to suck the treat free from him, laughing at the way your face twists.

Pervert.

His nails taste like blood—not that you’ve come to expect any less—but the rusty copper is quickly eradicated by sugar, a content little hum vibrating around the melting chocolate.

“Good, huh?” Sanzu asks around his own chocolate, shuffling a gold box of expensive Italian truffles in his palm as he picks through them, confections jumping perilously with the motion, shimmering wrappers catching in the flashing neon strobes. “They’re imported.”

“Where’d you get those?” you ask through strings of caramel and cocoa, welding to your molars.

“A little Halloween treat courtesy of Mikey,” he says dutifully, jostling the box in emphasis. “And an apology, for taking longer than expected.”

Warmth blooms in your chest, swelling with your heart and stretching your ribs. The last few remnants of displeasure fade from your face, giving way to a small smile.

How very Mikey of him, to send his second in command armed with artisan chocolates and a short, sweet explanation; something he knew would make you smile, something he knew would alleviate some of your impatience, a reassurance that he misses you too, that he’ll be back soon, that he’s thinking of you.

“There’s our pretty girl,” Sanzu teases, but his own grin has softened a little, the glint in his eyes dulled to a twinkle. “No more pouting, ‘kay? Your trusty Cheshire Cat will be by your side until your Hatter returns.”

Ah. A polite way of saying that you’re stuck with him until Mikey’s finished his work, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

That takes longer than either of you expect, though, Sanzu’s plan of entertaining you by leading you, hand-in-hand, around the club to assess each Bonten member’s costume not nearly as lengthy as he had anticipated.

Because it only takes a mere twenty minutes or so to examine all of them, with you near instantaneously deciding that the Haitanis have won the make-believe costume contest you and Sanzu had been holding between yourselves.

Sanzu had agreed—everyone looks impeccable in their custom-made costumes, tailored specifically to them at your behest, but no one had any hope of eclipsing the Haitanis in their form-fitted pinstriped suits, each stitch and thread molded flawlessly to their frames, perfectly pressed collars embroidered with Dee and Dum in shimmery purple thread, powder blue bowties immaculately symmetrical around their tattooed necks.

Now you’re back at the bar, Sanzu’s shaky fingers sifting through the box of truffles as he searches for something, anything, to distract him from the way the blood in his veins is beginning to dry up, the way his capillaries are withering, brittle and thirsty, the way his skin is beginning to itch.

Because he can’t do a goddamn thing about it. Not yet, anyway.

No narcotics when he’s chaperoning you; that’s a hard rule. That’s a rule that’s been sewn into the tissues of his brain so tightly it’s interwoven with his synapses. That’s an execution rule; a one time only rule—breaking that rule will get him fucking killed.

But you’re both starting to become a little bit restless.

“Come on,” you’re begging, word dragged across your tongue in a petulant whine. “Just one more chocolate?”

“I said no,” Sanzu snaps, eyes hard. “Mikey said three. Mikey’s the Boss. Whatever Mikey says goes; Mikey’s girl, Mikey’s rules!”

“You’re no fun,” you huff, forehead scrunching with a pout.

“Yeah, and that’s why he sticks me with you,” Sanzu says, though he sounds almost proud, as if it’s an honour to babysit you, a title of high esteem. “Because I can resist your tricks.”

“My charms,” you correct.

“Whatever,” he waves a hand. “It’s all semantics. Point is, I know how to say no to you, unlike a few certain someones.”

Unimpressed ice blue eyes sweep across the venue, hovering pointedly on the faces of his colleagues—Kakucho, the Dormouse; Kokonoi, the White Rabbit; Rindou, Tweedle-Dum.

Your eyes follow his, and you smirk to yourself. Kakucho is the easiest out of those three; Kokonoi sometimes deceives you, allowing you to do as you please only to tattle to Mikey later, and Rindou always demands some sort of payment, claiming it’s only fair that you give him something he wants in return.

Turning back, you’re about to respond, something bratty and bitter simmering on your tongue, when a pair of hands and a smooth voice cuts you off.

You’d know that touch, that tone, anywhere.

“Pray, tell me, Miss Alice,” Mikey murmurs in your ear as he slinks up behind you, palms curling around your hips and pulling you back toward his chest. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

“Because it can produce a few notes,” you answer dutifully, head tipping back against his shoulder to glance at him through the corner of your eye. “Though they are very flat.”

“Correct,” he responds. “My, what a smart little girl you are.”

It’s soaked in condescension, compliment drawled out through a supercilious smirk, breath wafting across your face sweltering and saccharine.

“Do I get a reward, Mister Hatter?” you ask, sweeter than sugarcane, batting eyelashes framing hopeful, dewy eyes.

A hum vibrates on his tongue, onyx gaze apathetic and appraising as it glides across your features slowly, thoroughly, pulling each of your thoughts apart and putting them back together again.

Your head rolls to the side, over his protruding collarbone, to stare at him more resolutely. And God, it’s the way you’re looking up at him, eyes glazed with dedication, with devoutness, like you want to fucking devour him.

Like you want him to devour you.

Hips pushing back, you rub your ass into his cock in inconspicuous little motions, lashes fluttering a little, back arched in a perfect curve and tits on full display.

From this angle, there’s no way he can’t see right down your dress; there’s no way he can’t see the red lace of your bra straining against supple skin as your chest rises and falls with gentle breaths, no way he doesn’t notice the very tips of your nipples, cheekily peeking out from beneath the delicate material with each swell of your breasts.

Bony fingers flex on your waist, and he huffs out a smirk.

His ebony pupils are enormous, blown wide and gaping, gnawing away at the whites of his eyes.

He’s high.

It’s evident in the milky film of artificial ecstasy lacquering his gaze, doped up and hazy, but it does nothing to dilute the potent love he has for you, melting his stare to something soft and sticky, pouring past his lashes.

He’s feeling good tonight.

“I think I know what my little girl wants,” one hand flattens against your stomach, holding you flush to his body as the other slides up your ribs to cup your breast, filling his palm with it and kneading, slow and deliberate, simply enjoying the feeling of you. “And it is very naughty of her.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mm,” he hums, head drooping to nose along the curve of your neck. “Really.”

His lips brush along your skin as he speaks, his voice barely more than a gentle vibration along the column of your throat, and you whimper a little, fingers curling around his wrist and pressing him closer.

“A-And what’s that?”

“Aw, can’t you guess?” he tuts his tongue. “And I thought you were smart. Must’ve been mistaken. Where’s my smart little girl gone now?”

Grip firm on your waist, his hips rut forward, hard cock prodding at you through the layers of tulle. A discontented little sound vibrates in your throat as you squirm a little—and oh, he knows what you’re whining about, greedy girl, knows that you can barely feel his cock through the thick petticoat, knows you want more—and he presses his hips further forward, grinding harder into your ass.

“Daddy—Da-Daddy, it’s—”

“What?” he shoves again, stronger this time, teeth nipping at the skin below your ear. “Hm?”

“Your cock is hard,” you nearly whine, pushing back against him in a pitiful little wiggle, desperate for more friction.

“And who’s fault is that, huh?”

The hand massaging your breast gives a final squeeze before his fingers find your nipple, pinching it through the material of your dress and bra, then rubbing the heel of his thumb over it in hard, rhythmic motions.

“Is your pussy wet?” he huffs the question into your ear, his hot breath procuring shivers. “I bet it is, naughty girl. Daddy wants to feel it.”

“Please, please,” your hips buck a little, punctuating your pleads, chest pressing into his touch.

“Please? Please what?”

“Touch me, Daddy, touch me, touch me.”

Slender hands slip beneath the puffy layers of lace, calloused fingertips rough as they skim up your smooth thighs, outlining the silk ruffles of the bloomers he bought you specifically for this costume.

Your hips twitch slightly, legs spreading instinctively as his fingers trail along the scrunched hem to the apex of your thighs, pressing two into the rapidly dampening material. Pensively, they caress your slit through the material, prodding your hole just a little before rubbing two slow, hard circles into your clit.

“Christ,” he breathes out, curse splintering at the end. “You’re so fucking wet baby, and I’ve barely done anything yet.”

His palm flattens against you, all four fingers dipping into your core nearly to the first knuckle and then curling, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit, and your pelvis cants reflexively, almost as if you’re attempting to draw his fingertips further in.

“How are you this wet already, huh?” he keens, voice straining beneath his own desire. “Been thinking naughty thoughts?”

“Jus’want your cock,” you slur out honestly, hips gyrating in pathetic little circles, an embarrassing attempt to follow his touch.

“Oh, yeah? That’s all it takes, eh?” he rolls your clit between his thumb and his forefinger, nonchalantly toying with it as he mulls. “Just my cock?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod blearily. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

“Cute,” Mikey spits, the compliment sheathed in venom, “how utterly stupid just the thought of my cock makes you.”

His fingers clamp down on the swollen nub and tug, your whole body jolting with the pain, a yelp hitching in your chest.

The arm wrapped around your waist tightens in response, holding you close, holding you still as he humps away at you, sloppy and uneven.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, fingers tweaking your clit in rhythmic motions, sparks of pleasure chased by shocks of pain. “You’re so fucking easy for your Daddy, aren’t you? So quick to get soaked for him, so quick to get ready for him, such a good little slut for him, yeah?”

His voice is gravelly, letters wispy around the edges despite fact that he’s nearly shouting over music. Another rush of heat surges between your thighs, and he laughs, dark and dangerous.

Your clit throbs in his touch, the silk of your panties drenched all the way through, aiding his fingers in their slippery motions—several small, fast S gestures, followed by a few firm strokes of your slit, fingertips gliding over your folds with ease. You’re so soaked, whole cunt now outlined by the shimmery material, molding to your folds and enabling him to feel every dip, every bump, every crevice, another chuckle dripping from his lips as your little hole clenches around nothing.

“Daddy,” you whimper, thighs squeezing together tightly as you attempt to fuck his fingers. “Daddy, I—I can’t—I need—”

“Shh,” he hushes you, lips caressing the curve of your ear. “I know, baby. Daddy knows what you need.”

A palm wraps around your wrist as Mikey mutters something about going somewhere a little more private, pulling you along behind him and leading you toward those purple velvet VIP couches, empty and roped off in a darkened corner.

“What are we—” you begin as Mikey collapses heavily on the couch, knees spread wide open, hips shifting up slightly as he forces his feet even further apart, getting comfortable.

C’mere, his lips mime, voice drowning in heavy bass, his chin jutting in the general direction of his straining cock, yearning against pin-striped pants.

Strong hands curl around your hips and yank you backward, the abrupt motion punching a sound of surprise from your chest as you tumble into his lap, spine pressed tight to his sternum.

The hinges of his jaw hook over your shoulder, a crude way of keeping you from squirming as he manhandles you into straddling his thighs, hard cock pressing into your core.

“Holy fuck,” he pants out, the curse damp against your skin. “You’re so wet I can feel you leaking through my pants.”

“Daddy,” you say, and although it’s meant to be a warning, it comes out as a whine, stringy and petulant.

Because it already feels so good, and he’s already so hard, and you just can’t help but rock your hips back, slow and firm, whimpering a bit as the head of his cock glides over your clit, teasing as the slick, swollen little nub jumps beneath the dull pressure.

He laughs a little, nothing more than a deep, dark rumbling within his ribs, reverberating against your back.

“You’re so fucking nasty, baby,” he chides lowly, though you can hear the self-satisfied smirk sewn into his voice, tinged with sadism, as he rolls his hips up twice, grinding his cock into your drenched core. “You’re so fucking needy, baby, trying to get yourself off in the middle of this crowded club.”

You are, you are, another little sound escaping your lips as you rut back against him, already beginning to speed up, rubbing the head of his cock over your clit in quick little strokes.

“It’s really precious, y’know, how pathetically eager you are for me,” he murmurs, notes of fondness negating the sting the insult should bring, words gone melty and sweet. “But you gotta stop humping Daddy for a moment, so he can get his cock out and give you what you really want.”

A disgruntled little whine sounds in your throat, motions stuttering a little as you attempt to stop moving. But it all feels so incredible, greedily unable to quell your hips completely as they rotate in messy little circles, tummy starting to ripple with each graze of his blunt head against your clit.

“Hey,” he warns, sharp and stern, a palm colliding with your bare thigh and leaving a burning handprint seared in its wake, the impact of the slap loud enough to draw a few pairs of eyes. “Don’t get bratty with me, or you won’t get anything at all, you understand?”

Your head’s nodding before the words are even finished leaving his lips—yes, Daddy, of course, Daddy, brats don’t deserve to be filled by Daddy’s cock—desperate to be good for him, to be the best for him.

Because you know he isn’t fucking around; Mikey’s threats are never empty threats, each and every word plucked from his brain with superlative care, heavy and infused with meaning.

It’s terrifying and tantilizing, how easily and instantly he can switch from one mode to the other: from playful to imposing, from Daddy to Leader, a pleasant shiver skittering up your spine, your hole clenching and pulsing as your stomach plummets, gut weighted with a tingling pressure.

It’s a bit of a task, freeing his cock and manoeuvring yourself as you try to inconspicuously sink down on it, but you both manage, your fluffy petticoat of crinoline and tulle providing a decent amount of privacy.

A hiss slips through the gaps of your gritted teeth as it begins to tear you in two, cute little hole stinging as it strains around his cock, struggling to accommodate his girth, delicate skin splitting itself open for him.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he breathes lowly, voice vibrating against your ear. “There you go, good girl.”

An airy little moan spills from your lips as he bottoms out, cockhead pressed snug to your cervix, and you melt back into him, skull knocking against his shoulder, eyes slipped shut.

“Feel better, princess?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you mumble out dreamily. “S’good, S’right.”

“It feels right, huh?” he chuckles a little, thumbs rubbing fond circles into your hips, his hands all the way up your skirt, slipped beneath the frills and fluff, forearms buried in your dress. “You like it when Daddy fills you up?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “Stretches me out real good, makes me feel all stuffed ‘n full.”

Whole, complete, one. Like everything feels as it’s supposed to again.

And it hurts, because it always hurts, because he’s too thick and you’re never prepped enough, never patient enough, core split open on his cock and little hole aching as it attempts to adjust to him, but it’s so fucking perfect, too. Your cunt spasms around him, hips twitching a little in desperation—like you’re trying to suck him in further, like you’re trying to bury him deeper—and he groans, fingers flexing as he holds you still, nails gorging on your flesh.

“Eager, are we?”

“S’not my fault,” you mewl, back arching a little as you attempt to push your hips back, squirming a bit in his strong grip. “Need you, Daddy.”

“Is that so?”

Grasp tightening, his hips thrust up, grinding the head of his cock into your cervix in slow, hard motions—back and forth, back and forth, inspiring a dull pang throbbing in your gut.

Gasping sharply, your hips jerk back in response, automatic and instinctual, pulling a hoarse groan from his chest.

His clutch turns to near bone crushing, a fractured little cry sticking in your throat, and he forces you to hold still for a moment, muscles in his thighs gone rigid and stiff as his hips press up further and tug you down, frozen, revelling in the way your cunt pulses around him, as if it’s whining for him.

“M-Mikey,” you echo its sentiments, his name a sulky plead on your tongue, brows knit together and lips jutted in a pout.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“You know,” you huff out, wriggling a little in his palms, feebly trying to fuck yourself on him.

“Tell me anyway,” he demands.

Scalding embarrassment pricks your cheeks and you whimper, fidgeting in his grasp again, head shaking in defiance.

“Come on,” he chides, but there are notes of amusement infusing his tone. “Daddy can’t give you what you want if you don’t ask for it.”

Sharp teeth sink into your shoulder suddenly, your half-formed response strangled by a gasp, Mikey’s jaw tensing as he burrows his teeth further into your flesh, piercing through tissues and snapping capillaries until copper explodes in his mouth.

He holds it for a moment, all thirty-two of his teeth latched in your skin, ensuring he leaves a full, detailed outline of his mouth etched into you—a signature of sorts—before his tongue flattens against the wound, dragging over it in a single wide lick and sealing it with blood-tinged saliva. A gentle exhale wafts over the bite, cool against the searing pain, and you shudder, chills erupting across your flesh.

“You’re a big girl,” he coaxes over your whimpering, the encouragement steeped in condescension. “I know you can do it. Use your big girl words and tell Daddy what you want.”

Your eyes squeeze shut against the burn of humiliation, lids crinkling at the corners, the softest hiccup catching in your throat, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you.

“I—I wanna ride your cock, Daddy,” you push the stubborn words from your tongue, trembling and breathy.

“Yeah?” he asks, bloodied tongue tracing along the shell of your ear. “How bad?”

“So bad,” you bleat out, striving to bounce on his cock under the firm restraint of his hands, dewdrops of annoyance clinging to your lashes, glittering in the beams of magenta and teal as you blink rapidly.

“Hm,” he muses to himself, nonchalant as he readjusts his grip, hands constringing, completely halting your pathetic little movements. “It doesn’t seem like you want it all that badly.”

“Daddy,” the word leaves your lips in a whine, scrunched and petulant through your pout, body thrashing beneath his strong grip. “Come on—”

“Are you sure you wanna be such a naughty little whore in front of all of these people?”

Your body stops its writhing, his words like a slap to the face.

It’s a bit of a shock, to hear it spoken aloud so bluntly, cut and dry and honest, and it sends a torrent of sparks fizzing through your chest to collect dense and tight in your tummy.

Shame and revulsion sets your skin aflame, the cinders in your gut flaring in response, an intoxicating combination.

“Yes—”

“Huh? What was that?” he shouts theatrically in your ear. “I couldn’t really hear you over the music.”

“Y-Yes,” you repeat, trying to steady your hiccuping voice, to be stern and resolute, even as tears begin to stream down your cheeks.

“Really?” he breathes, and he sounds astonished, he sounds appalled. “You’re so fucking sleazy, baby. I wonder what all these people would think, if they knew how truly filthy my little girl is...”

“Manjirou,” you weep out his birth name, whole face saturated in frustration.

“Oh-ho-ho,” he chuckles out the word, and it’s vicious. “Graduated to using my full name, now, have you?” he licks at the steadily oozing bite, mopping up more blood with his tongue. “Christ, you do really want it.”

“I do!” you cry out, struggling against his grasp again, hips bucking in wild, erratic motions. “I do, I do, please, let me ride your cock, please.”

“What if I made you sit, still and straight like the good little girl I know you want to be, on my hard cock for the rest of the night? Do you think you’d be able to handle it?”

You know he won’t, know he’d never be able to, because he’s just as addicted to you as you are to him, just as desperate, just as eager, just as needy; because even as he holds you motionless, he can’t quite halt the delicate jerk of his hips, rolling up into your core; because you know he wants this just as badly as you do, gets off on the depravity just as much as you do.

Even so, the mere thought of being teased like this, of being forced to hold such a degrading position, is still enough to inspire a rush of agitated tears to flood your eyes, vision gone bleary with despairing desire and rendering the club a bleary haze of glowing neons.

“No, Daddy, no, I—I just want to ride you, please, Daddy, I c-can’t—”

You’re nearly wailing now, head thrown back dramatically as your neck twists into an uncomfortable knot, anguished as you try to bury your face in his throat, looking for solace. Your chest stutters as you stammer out half-finished pleads, gone garbled with spit, and Mikey smiles.

You’re starting to cause a scene.

It’s exactly what he wanted.

“Okay, baby, okay, okay,” he’s pacifying as he feels hot tears soak into his neck, a choked sob catching painfully in your chest. “Daddy’s here, Daddy’s gonna make it all better.”

And finally, finally his grasp loosens, stiff fingers gone lax, massaging lopsided circles into the rapidly developing bruises left in the shape of their prints.

“Go ahead, angel,” he urges, nuzzling into the junction of your shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss to the congealing bite. “Ride Daddy’s cock.”

Then he’s slumping back, settling into the couch cushions and spreading his thighs a little wider, pressing the soles of his boots into the waxed floor for stability and leverage.

His hands stay on your waist, a gentle guidance, but he allows you to set the pace—a rare occurrence—patient as your hips work up a steady rhythm of quick, shallow gyrations, each swivel dragging his cock against your favourite spot.

And God, you’re so cute when you use his cock to make yourself feel good. It’s a shame that he can’t see your face in this position, can’t see the way your lashes flutter and frame the rolling whites of your eyes or the way your features scrunch so delicately; a shame he can’t hear your gorgeous noises, all your sweet little gasps and pitiful little whines consumed by the blaring music.

But he can see how your back is bowing, spine forced into a near perfect arc by your building pleasure, bending just a hint more with each brush of his cock; he can feel your palms clutching his knees, nails digging little crescents into his shins and using them for support as your movements accelerate, as you fuck yourself harder, faster, better.

And he lets you have your fun for a little, lays back all languid and lazy and watches through lidded eyes as you play with yourself and use his cock like it’s your favourite toy—because, well, it is—but eventually it just isn’t enough and you need Daddy’s help.

Just like he knew it wouldn’t be. Just like you always do.

Not that he minds one bit.

Yes, it isn’t enough, because it never is, because you can never manage anything more than teasing yourself when left entirely to your own devices, spritzing kerosene on the dull smouldering in the pit of your stomach as the head of his cock brushes up against that engorged spot inside of you, not nearly hard enough or fast enough to have you anywhere close to creaming on him, merely enough to have your clit throbbing, swollen and neglected.

He knows you’re beginning to get restless when your hips turn sloppy, tempo starting to falter as your motions stutter, and then you’re looking over your shoulder at him with a beseeching pout, glazed eyes begging him to do something!

So he does.

He’s straightening up in a split second, hands around your waist tightening as he yanks you back toward his chest, chin hooking over your clavicle again and grinding the sharp bone into your skin.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs against your jaw, mocking and mean. “Can’t even get herself off without her Daddy’s help.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” you wail over the roar of EDM, head shaking in accentuation. “Need you, need you to do it for me.”

“Of course you do, angel,” he says, as if it’s obvious, as if it’s common knowledge. “But that’s okay—Daddy will make it feel good.”

That’s the only warning you’re given before his hips are ramming up, rapid and rough and downright ruthless, the abrupt motion slamming a high-pitched yelp from your throat, so pure and genuine and full of lust that it rises above the music, breaks through the heavy bass beat, gathering a handful of glances from a few nearby party-goers.

So much for being inconspicuous.

You should’ve known that that just isn’t Mikey’s style.

They lose interest just as quickly as they gained it, though, going back to their drinks and their drugs, unconcerned. What the Boss does at his own club is none of their business, even if it is on display for the whole venue to see.

Still, it’s enough for Mikey.

“Everyone can see you, you know,” voracious black eyes scan the balcony space. “Everyone can see you being such a good little whore for your Daddy.”

The thought of being watched, of being caught, inspires a whole flock of butterflies to flit around in your tummy, another surge of heat gushing between your thighs, and Mikey laughs. Oh, he felt that.

Because he’s right; if anyone dared to look a little closer, a little longer, cared to paid a smidge of more attention to the two of you, hidden on one of the velvet couches wedged in the corner of the VIP section with your hips rocking and Mikey’s hands buried in the lace and tulle of your skirt, they’d know exactly what the two of you are doing.

But it doesn’t matter; you don’t care. Neither does he. Why should either of you?

“Do you—Do you think they like it?” you question, and Christ, it’s so precious, that pathetic hope ringing high and clear in your voice. “Do you think they like watching me bounce on their Boss’s cock?”

“Fuck,” the curse fragments in his throat, sharp and pitchy, and he coughs on the shards. “I know they do, sweetheart.”

“Do you think they’re g-gonna go home and touch themselves to the thought of me—of us?”

“Aw,” Mikey coos out in a chuckle, breathless and condescending. “It’s cute that you think they aren’t already jerking off to you on a regular basis.”

Of course they are, you silly little stupid thing; how could they not be? With all the sweet, short little dresses he buys you to prance and twirl around in—the ones with the sweetheart necklines that dip just a hint too low, teasing the swell of your breasts with each of your gentle inhales; the ones with the rippling hems that end just a touch too high, swishing and swaying and flashing with each of your movements, riding up and fanning out to gift them with teasing little glimpses of the lace and satin underneath.

“You think I don’t know what my—ah, Christ—what my men think of you? How my men think of you?” He tongues a little at the bite, using his front teeth to scrape off a few half-formed scabs, blood rushing to pool in their place. “You think I don’t see the way they look at you?”

A whine stammers in your throat, your back arching a little more as your cunt quivers around his cock, that drove of butterflies sending your stomach swooping, the organ tensing, tying itself into thick knots pulled tight and taut with each plunge of his cock.

Mikey laughs again, the sound nothing more than a deep, dense vibration rumbling within his ribs, seeping into your back and sending tingles up your spine.

“Would you like to see the way they look at you?”

“H-Huh?”

Oh, how adorably fucked out you already are, mind gone dumb and numb to everything but him, but his voice and his touch and his steadily driving cock; oh, how adorably easy it is to make you this fucking idiotic.

“Look over there,” he presses his cheek into yours, forcing your head to turn and follow his gaze.

Across the club, Rindou sits with an elbow resting on the edge of the bar, a glass dangling from his fingertips. His eyes are cavernous, carnivorous, a smirk smearing across his face as your stare meets his, heavy lids framing a leering look.

Using a shoulder, he nudges his brother’s stomach, jutting his chin toward you and his Boss in indication when Ran looks down in question, redirecting his attention.

Now they’re both watching you, with doped up violet eyes and identical sleazy smiles, toothless and worming.

It makes you want to scrub and scratch at your skin, their gazes painting you in a thick coat of grime, body soiled by their lust and left feeling dirty, feeling gross, a strong shiver crawling across your flesh.

Your head jerks reflexively, desperate to hide from their lechery, skull knocking against Mikey’s hard enough to send thorns of pain searing through your temple.

A yelp cracks in your throat, and Mikey snorts, seemingly unfazed.

“Aw,” Mikey tuts in false admonishment. “Don’t get shy now. Look at them. Look at them while you ride my cock.”

“M-Mikey—” your eyes shut tightly, a pitiful attempt to escape their invasive eyes, head shaking in little judders.

“C’mon,” he goads, forcing you to face their stare. “You want them all to see, right? How good my little girl is? How pretty my little girl is?”

Peeking through your lashes, you squint at the Haitanis, features teetering on the verge of a wince, as if you’re expecting them to physically strike you.

They’re still looking at you, wide and unblinking, speaking out of the side of their mouths in laughs and murmurs to one another.

Dressed in matching pin-striped suits and thick suspenders, Rindou has discarded his jacket, shirtsleeves rolled haphazardly up his forearms to his elbows, first few buttons of his shirt popped undone, revealing a defined collarbone.

Predictably, Ran is still the perfect picture of poise and elegance, not a single hair out of place, suit jacket square on his shoulders and flawlessly tailored to his body, each stitch outlining his edges.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee respectively, and just as treacherous.

Whatever it is they’re saying to each other, they’re clearly enjoying themselves, amusement playing in glassy irises as Ran rests a hand around Rindou’s neck, slim fingers pressing into plush muscle. His younger brother instantly relaxes into his touch, mollifying back against his stomach and hooking an arm around his thigh, hugging it to his ribs.

And it’s the way they’re looking at you, as if they’re peeling the clothes from your body and the skin from your bones and peering into the depths of your soul to dance with your demons and devour your secrets; as if they’re singeing your expression into their minds, the sight of your features saturated in perturbation and pleasure branded into the tissues of their brains, carved into the walls of their skulls, ensuring they’ll never forget.

Everything feels overexposed as they pry you apart bit by bit, heady mix of hedonism and humiliation hazing over your brain.

Mikey’s hips slow to a drag, thighs tensing and soles of his boots skidding across marble as he expertly angles his hips and presses up, rubbing the head of his cock over your g-spot in slow, controlled motions—back and forth, back and forth, over and over and over again.

And the moan that claws at your throat is almost obnoxious, is definitely embarrassing, which means Mikey needs to fuck at least three more from your chest, grunting a little with the effort as his cockhead jabs against that plush spot, hard and precise.

A whine that sounds suspiciously like his title, tangled in spit and weighted with shame, spills from your lips, and you nestle your face against his own even as your hips jolt, desperate for comfort, desperate for cover.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” he nuzzles your damp cheek. “I know you do. I can feel it.”

It’s true, he can—you’re sure he can, with the way your straining little hole keeps pulsing around his length, another stream of heat cascading down his shaft, viscous and wet and so, so much, to pool in the folds of his balls, to stain the waistband of his pants and the velvet of the couch.

But you know he likes it just as much as you do.

Because you’re both so fucking naughty, so fucking nasty, but the depravity just works to heighten it all, makes it that much better, amplifying every touch and brush and tease and fondle and making it all feel so fucking good, even as Mikey’s pace eases into something unhurried, his thrusts turned languid but powerful.

So you join in, you rise to his challenge, a sick little game the two of you play, a sick little game you force others to participate in—because you’re fucking untouchable.

“Do you think their cocks are hard, Daddy?” you ask, the question dripping with syrup as you roll your hips backwards, slow and purposeful, returning the Haitanis’ smouldering stare through fanned lashes, unblinking and tenacious.

“Ah, f-fuck,” Mikey’s cock jolts, rhythm stammering for a moment before he regains his composure. “Yeah, baby, I bet they’re wishing they were me right now.”

You bet they are, too, mouths stopped moving and gazes gleaming with want, lips parted with uneven exhales pushed from their heaving chests, entirely enchanted by your movements.

It’s the most affected and authentic you’ve ever seen them before, and it sends a thrill of power shooting through your body, blood left fizzing in its wake.

One of them reaches into their pocket, groping around blindly for their phone, not daring to spare a second of their attention away from you, and Mikey snarls, nose scrunched in disgust and lip curled in a sneer, baring gritted teeth.

Because that’s too much, that’s crossing a line, and Mikey swiftly redirects your face, effectively hiding your expression from the Haitanis’ hungry eyes.

Mikey’s always liked to show off. Mikey’s never liked to share.

He swaps shoulders quickly, the defined hinges of his jaw clasped firmly over your collarbone, and smushes his face flush to yours again, skin clammy with sweat.

“And look over there,” he steers your gaze toward the other side of the club, where Kokonoi sits with a smattering of men surrounding a tall cocktail table, littered with crystal glasses and white lines.

The men around the table are laughing about something, sloshing liquor and cutting powder into thick, fat stripes, but Kokonoi isn’t paying attention to any of it.

No. Kokonoi is looking at you.

His eyes snap away when they meet your own, head whipping forward with such speed and such force it’s a marvel he doesn’t instantly give himself whiplash. A deep laugh rumbles in Mikey’s throat in response, something dark, something decadent.

“He’s gonna go home and touch himself to you, too,” he says. “He might not even make it before he goes home; might end up jerking his cock in a bathroom stall or the front seat of his car.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well, look at him,” Mikey snorts. “He’s so hard he’s about to burst outta his pants.”

Following the line of Kokonoi’s body, your gaze travels downward, to the straining lump in his white pants. His hips shift a little uncomfortably as his thighs tense, hands curled into fists on his knees as he steadily trains his stare forward at the wall opposite of him, throat bobbing with a thick swallow.

Mikey’s right—Koko’s about to burst.

The thought of Koko rushing to his car to collapse in the driver’s seat, head tipped back against the headrest and hand shoved down his pants as his palm rubs frantically at his hard cock, or hastening to the washroom to lock himself in a stall, forehead pressed tightly to the rickety door and panting out stuttered, half-stifled whimpers hotly against his upper lip as he hurriedly relieves the problem you’ve created, is almost too much to bear, stomach clenching in time with the throbbing of your cunt, a torrid pressure building and burning in your gut.

The sudden acceleration of Mikey’s thrusts snaps you out of that tangle of thoughts, effectively drawing every ounce of your attention back to him.

A mewl pries past your lips, sharp and high and cracking at the end, whole spine arching as Mikey resumes his assault on your favourite spot, cockhead driving hard and fast against plush flesh.

“They can look all they want, but you’re mine.” His fingers tighten, his grasp rigid and unbreakable, the words nothing more than a snarl spit in your ear, wet and harsh. “I won’t fuckin’ share.”

“Never, never, never,” you babble in time with the bouncing on his lap, head nodding in sloppy motions with each repetition of the word.

“Never,” he growls, teeth sinking into the flesh of your shoulder sloppily, excess spit dribbling from the corners of his mouth as he breaks the skin for the second time tonight and sucks hard, drawing blood from the string of tiny wounds.

It has another cry escaping your throat, whole face crinkling in a sordid mixture of pleasure and pain, head instinctually thrown back against your Daddy, automatically giving him more room to work. Drops of watered down blood drool down your back and Mikey takes a moment to admire them, mesmerised by the way they shimmer in the strobing lights of the club, before he licks at them with the tip of his tongue, leaving crude strokes of fresh spit in their wake.

He’s the motherfucking Boss.

And the Boss gets what he wants, where he wants, when he wants, always.

He’s really fucking you now, vicious and vigorous, your entire body juddering in his lap as his hips piston up, cockhead pounding against that sensitive mound of tissue buried deep within you.

Each thrust shoves another shattered sound from your tongue, splintered moans of his name and his title pouring past your lips in a jagged stream.

The knot your stomach has twisted itself into strains under the building pressure, growing heavier and heavier with each jackhammer into you, stretched taut and stiff and ready to snap.

It’s all so much, the ogling eyes and the ramming of his cock and the tightening in your belly, every muscle in your body coiled and aching for the ecstasy that comes with release. Your breath mangles with the mewls shoved from your lips with every slam up, sticking to your throat and you cough, wheezing past the splinters. It’s all too much, and—!

“M’gonna, m’gonna cum, Daddy!” you gasp, tears dotting the corners of your eyes, sparkling in spidery lashes.

“Yeah, baby?” he breathes, voice dropping to a ragged rasp. “You gonna cream all over Daddy’s cock? Huh? Make a mess on my cock surrounded by all of Daddy’s closest and most esteemed colleagues?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you nearly sob out, palms curling over his wrists, nails clawing at the delicate skin, desperate for an anchor.

“My dirty fucking girl,” he hisses out, sharp breath stinging your cheek. “Such a good—Ah—good little slut for me, aren’t you?”

You can no longer respond, rendered stupid from the ardor, potent pleasure corroding your brain and gnawing through your synapses. It’s downright intoxicating, it’s fucking insatiable, it’s simultaneously immense and insufficient, way too much yet not nearly enough, because you need more, you need more, unintelligible pleads shattering on your tongue.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, baby, gush all over Daddy, make a pretty mess on his lap for him. Show everyone in this Goddamn club how gorgeous you look cumming for me.”

And so you do, ever your Daddy’s best girl, body eager to obey its owner as your cunt convulses around him, copious amounts of slick cascading down his shaft to drench his thighs, sticky and sharp and so fucking sick as he continues to bounce you in his lap.

The spasming of your cute little hole draws the sweetest whine from the back of his throat, panted out against the curve of your ear, and another bout of warmth rushes to the apex of your thighs, earning you a shuddered little curse, the exhale sweltering against your sweaty skin.

You sound so pretty right before you cum, Daddy.

Three more pumps of his hips and he’s following, thrusts stuttering as he fucks up messily into you, cock throbbing almost violently and stuffing you to the brim with thick, hot cum. Strong hands hold you firmly in place, cockhead pressed flush to your cervix as he spills himself into you, as he forces you to take every fucking ounce of what he’s giving you.

And you love it, you love it, you love it, you’re telling him, sentiments pouring from your mouth in a jumbled stream, singular and continuous until your lungs run out of air, voice cutting off with a squeak.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Mikey’s murmuring into your skin in response, lips leaving smears of sugary saliva just below your earlobe.

He allows you to sit on him for a moment, chest heaving against your back with ragged breaths, sweaty forehead pressed tightly to your shoulder. Tilting your head, your rest your cheek on the back of his skull, eyes slipping shut as your own heart begins to calm, cunt still pulsating irregularly around his shaft, almost as if it’s attempting to squeeze a few more drops out of him, his cock acting as a crude plug, keeping most of his cum buried inside of you.

Finally, his head lifts, pressing a tender kiss to the blood-encrusted bite glittering on your shoulder.

“Go get cleaned up in the washroom,” he mutters gently, pressing another string of kisses along your jaw. “Don’t wipe away any of Daddy’s cum; let it soak into your panties real nice and good, let them get really wet, and then snap a few pictures and send them to me. Can you do that for me, angel?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you slur out, nodding in loose, liquid movements.

“Good,” he pats your thigh twice. “Now, go.”

A small noise of affirmation sounds in your throat, head still nodding as Mikey helps you stand between his spread thighs, hands on your waist keeping you upright while you wobble on unsteady legs.

And the noise that you make as his cum and your slick surges out of you—something caught somewhere between a mewl and a whine, turned on and disappointed simultaneously—is the cutest thing he’s ever heard, a muted coo slipping from his own lips as your hands wrap around his, using them to further stable yourself.

He holds you for a moment or two longer, making sure you’re sturdy and your knees won’t suddenly give out, before giving you one final squeeze and releasing you, smirking a little as he watches you teeter away on rickety feet.

Initially, his plan was to have you capture a few naughty photos for him—pretty little things to stash away in his phone for later use, during the nights he’s forced to spend away from you, sitting in expensive cars or laying in lush hotel beds—and force you to wear the gluey, cum-drenched undies for the remainder of the party.

But then his phone is buzzing, and he’s unlocking it to find your cunt perfectly outlined by thin silk as it sticks to your folds, little clit and hole contoured and accentuated by the slick, shining fabric, soiled by a large, irregular patch of wetness, and oh, there’s no way he’ll be able to wait until you arrive home to fuck you again.

No, he needs to fuck you now, a sudden burst of adrenaline buzzing through his veins, little sparks and minuscule explosions that have him up and moving in under a second, cock already beginning to fill with life again.

Sheer, potent power permeates the atmosphere around him, trembling off his body in sharp bolts; dense, heavy, cracking with electricity.

The way the crowd instantly parts for him is awe-inspiring, their gleaming eyes full of terror and worship, hastily tripping over their own toes and ankles to move from his path as he strides toward the washroom, desperate to not be stung by his brilliance, desperate to get as close to the currents as possible without being scathed.

You’re just exiting the restroom by the time he reaches you, breath punched from your lungs as he backs you into a tiled corner, trapped between the cold wall and his scorching form, his hands splayed wide on either side of your shoulders.

“We gotta go,” he’s nearly panting out as he shoves his forehead against yours, eyes closed and noses nudging, straining cock grinding unceremoniously into your hip. “We gotta go, now.”

And, well, Daddy always gets what Daddy wants.

#mikey sano x reader #mikey sano smut #mikey x reader #mikey smut #bonten mikey smut #bonten mikey x reader #bonten x reader #bonten mikey x you #sano manjiro x reader #sano manjiro smut #mikey x you #bonten smut #tokyo revengers smut #SORRY ITS SO LATE HAHA PLS ENJOYYY #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers x you

2K notes · View notes

softshuji · 3 months ago

Text

𝟖:𝟑𝟎𝐏𝐌 | 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐑𝐎

Title: August Rain

Summary: Mikey tends not to celebrate his birthday, and on the one day he allows himself to, he gets more than he bargained for. Happy birthday to my prince! Reblogs appreciated as always.

cw: fem!reader, all of Bonten make an appearance, Sanzu being insane, mentions of marriage and divorce, explicit violence and bad language, use of guns, both suggestive and explicit mentions of sex, some painful angst because Mikey is a sad boy :(

Mikey lets the others take him on his birthday. He knows they enjoy it, whatever remains of this ragtag group of men, the Haitani’s and Sanzu, Kakucho driving, and him in the passenger seat. There’s been a lot of fuss, he knows. Venues decided and paid for, Ran preparing the evening for the few of them, smiles all around because they want him to feel like for one day, maybe everything else matters less.

It's a cold August all things considered, the kind that has them taking out coats rather than jackets, hoods and collars pulled up to their ears.

They chatter, and Ran elbows Rindou in the ribs, to which he hisses and Sanzu laughs, genuinely this time, the fine striped waistcoat bulging from where the gun presses against the linen inside. Mikey’s lips twitch, the frame of white hair falling against the window and the evening’s first rain trickling towards the mattified black metal of Kakucho’s expensive car.

‘Can you keep it down? I need to concentrate,’ he says and shifts into gear, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbow and a lean on the seat as he reverses out and into the open city.

But they bicker, incessantly, and Mikey, maybe this time, isn’t perturbed by the sound of their voices permeating the wind whistling through the open windows, Ran’s baritone voice that’s deep underneath the music.

He chances a glance back, as if he’s watching the trees disappear and whiz past the sunroof, the orange flare of evening sun bleeding through the green and Rindou catches his eyes, softens, just a bit, and smiles before turning to his Brother.

And Mikey almost feels something as the moment passes quietly.

He thinks of all of them as they drive, coming out on a day off to enjoy the day, a request he never asked for, but appreciates anyway. Rindou and his Brother, Sanzu too, whose Wife is expecting their first child, the others and their lives marred by the weight of their loyalty to him. It should be easy, to not care for them in some way, when he knows what they’ve done, both of their own volition, and for him, all the blood that has led them here, bones and lives added to the pile underneath his feet. Koko, whose Wife is sick and still needs him, juggling the responsibilities of Fatherhood alongside it all, Rindou and the messy and complicated divorce with the Woman he still loves despite what she’s done to him and Kakucho, still grieving for a love that never really ended.

‘Boss?’

Mikey twitches, his cheek leaning against his open palm, a quick pull from his reverie as they turn onto the highway. ‘Hm, yeah?’

Kakucho spares a glance, his eyes flashing as they flit to the side, one hand braced on the wheel. ‘You okay?’

He deliberates, and turns to the window, where the shadow of the trees has the buttery sunlight falling over the ivory of his skin, and behind it, a greying cloud encroaching over the trees. The window is open from the top and the evenings first few specks of rain fall on his forehead, an icy chill that calms the flush of his cheeks in the warm interior of the car. ‘I’m fine Kakucho,’ he says and it is clipped, as it usually is. But they never mind, and Kaku only nods as he turns to the road again and presses a foot down on the gas further, the looming neon lights of a bar spilling over the horizon’s edge, a sharp line against the slash of darkening clouds.

It had been Ran’s idea in the end. Hushed whispers that had passed from person to person, Sanzu eventually coaxing the idea forward a few days back. There’d been an uncomfortable silence, and Mikey had watched them in turn, a hopefulness they were so quick to repress because they expected him to say no, to push, to resist.

I don’t see why not, it’s only a few hours.

And maybe the Haitani’s had smiled at each other from across the mahogany table and Takeomi had lit a cigarette and said he’d meet them there on the day and the air had felt a little lighter, a little clearer when they left the room and Mikey was alone with his thoughts for company again.

There has been anxiety on his part, and he ponders this when he exits the car as they pull up on the side and he pulls his coat collar up to cover a part of his neck and face, the old habits coming to bite at him with every gentle lash of the quickening rain. It’s been…months since he’s last stepped out and it surprises him that the world hardly changes during these bouts of self imposed isolation. The people still walk aimlessly, eyes glued to smartphones, conversations held over earpieces, toddlers wailing in parks, mothers shushing them and fishing for pacifiers in handbags. He wonders if the world should be different just because he is no longer the man from twelve years ago when he’d left you to venture out alone, a conversation had in a park that honestly could be any one when he thinks about it.

‘You still up for this Boss?’ Sanzu says, coming up behind him now, his own coat collar pulled to cover his neck from the rain, the flash of pink hair stark against the black wool, a light touch against the .22mm handgun tucked against his waist for good measure.

Mikey feels a sting then, the five of them looking over at him, poised on the doors of the car, all concern, as if he has not asked them to commit unspeakable acts of violence in his name. He wonders if it haunts them as it does him, if the guilt shreds whatever hearts are left when they’re alone standing over the sinks at night, washing blood that refuses to leave without marking the indents on their fingernails.

There is a twinge of pain when Ran smiles placatingly, a gentle coax and a tilt of his head to the side and it burns that they still give a shit this many years later, when he knows what he deserves and he knows it’s not this.

Part of him wishes he was more like them. Sanzu and his Wife expecting a child, Ran and his Girlfriend that he seems happy with- his steps light and sure-footed, perhaps safe in the knowledge that he can protect her, that he is not as bad as Mikey is himself. The worst really, all the dark and suffocating things crammed into his body twitching with the need for peace.

‘Yeah, let’s go.’ And they nod, a quick check of their pockets and suits, rings glinting under the quickly fading sunlight, a waxing crescent moon that kisses the tiles of the bar’s roof, faded translucent white that hides behind the now grey sky.

Kakucho resists putting a gentle hand on Mikey’s back as he’s ushered towards the entrance, an instinct he never really lost after… all that happened. Maybe it’s in his blood to care so deeply, even after everything, or maybe he wonders if Mikey deserves a gentle hand even now, all that he’s seen and hates himself for seeing. If only it were easy to completely shred that part of him that still cares. About anything. Maybe he reminds him a little too much- of a man with white hair he once knew.

Mikey glances down at the pavement, flecks of rain slapped against the concrete and it’s then that he feels the full force of a person barrelling into him, a knock against his lungs that has the air drawn out in a quick breath, hands extended to brace himself as the fall comes.

There is a shout, and the click of guns with the safety pulled, a harsh and guttural, “get on the ground!’, a “Mikey!” that he hears as the sound fades, a ringing in his ears that thrums in time with his racing heart, flushed skin that flares a deeper red as his vision swims.

“Mikey! Boss, are you okay?” Kakucho has a hand on his shoulder and he feels its warmth through the coat. He braces a hand to his side, a squeeze of his eyes that has his breath coming slowly now, slow and calculated lungfuls of hair that have the foamy blackness of his vision clearing, the twist of Kaku’s concerned expression now coming into focus. He wheezes, coughs, the pain thrumming in his chest with every sharp and spiky breath, slow inhales that ache in beating sinew of his lungs.

Sanzu is shouting, a hand held tightly on his gun, the cold and hard steel of his gaze now narrowed on a crouching figure on the floor, hands above their head and shaking, wracking swings of their shoulders with every word rushed out in panicked breaths.

‘I’m fine, what happened?’ Mikey says, his breaths coming easier now, a hand splayed on his chest, puffed cheeks and hair clinging to his neck.

He wonders if he should have seen it, felt it, reflexes coming to life, or maybe he’s dulled enough not to withdraw from pain when he thinks he deserves it. Or maybe he’s getting tacky, all the time he spends so long cooped up by himself, dark rooms where there is never danger outside of the violent claws of his own thoughts sinking into his flesh.

‘Shut up, enough crying,’ Sanzu says and presses the gun to their temple, a minor click of metal and the crunch of gravel under his feet, him looming over them in his pinstripe suit, the unmissable cold frost of his voice that has them shaking involuntarily.

‘Please, please it was an accident, I didn’t mean it!’ And they narrow towards the floor, hands held high above their head, hair swinging and dampening in the now steadier rain.

‘I don’t give a shit-’

‘Sanzu-’ This from Ran who stands opposite from Rindou, a gun also drawn from the younger Haitani, a calculating gaze on the shivering figure kneeling at his feet, wordless assent and a narrow pinch of his brows when he catches the stockinged legs now muddied with dirt, a torn skirt that’s now patchy with mud splatter in his periphery.

Kakucho stiffens suddenly, a hand still on Mikey’s shoulder as the descent of his realisation makes a steady crawl along his spine. ‘It’s a girl,’ he says, and his throat aches somehow, the harsh lump now dragging along his chest when he sees the books and papers now decorating the drainage, water clogged and sodden with rain.

Sanzu casts a glance at him, a long and hard stare that he shakes off with some apprehension, the slight thrum in his bones that has the hairs on his nape rising on end. ‘That doesn’t matter to me.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake Sanzu-’ Ran again, two hands out as if to calm a child, his head turning this way and that for the police he knows instinctively is coming, sirens that only ever seem to be a moment away.

‘Shut the fuck up Haitani- she could have hurt Mikey.’

‘Yes but she didn’t, it was probably an accident. Put your fucking guns away.’

Sanzu sneers. ‘I don’t take orders from you.’ And the gun digs further into her temple, a drag of his gaze to his leader for assent for a bullet that can spill the red mush of brains over the sidewalk.

‘She hardly looks like she’s a threat Sanzu,’ Kakucho says from beside Mikey, a worried zip of his eyes to the girl sobbing against the tarmac. He hates it again, the sound of pain that seems to follow him, these situations he can never leave, and a heart that still cares and tries even now. Somewhere, a child cries and he looks up and over the waist-high gate to the woman with a pram now whispering into her phone, a cut of her narrowed eyes towards them, hushed and guttural and suspicious, pushing the pram with one hand and holding the receiver to ear with the other.

Mikey watches, the angry slap of his heart against his ribs now cooling with the brisk evening chill, the dull shadowy ink of his gaze now moving between the four of them.

Sanzu bares his teeth, a wolf entrapping the doe in the cage. ‘Did you miss the part where she knocked into Mikey? I don’t care if she’s a girl, no one touches the Boss.’ And he pulls the safety, a click of metal and sliding silver as it presses against her skin.

Ran hisses, stepping forward in confidence and Rindou stiffens at it all- his Brother moving between Sanzu and the Girl, breezing into danger, his hand now wrapped around the barrel of the gun to tug it up and away.

He draws back his hand, a jerk against the silver, his knuckles splashed with cold rain running along his wrist and swallowed by the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Don’t make a scene Sanzu, people are starting to look. You’re being reckless.’ And he holds his eyes, purple flecks of light flashing under the clouds, and Sanzu frowning, a twitch that has a vein pulsing in his temple as he holds firmly on the grip, knuckles white with the strain.

Kakucho moves from behind Mikey, his hand slipping from his shoulder blades, both palms coming up as if placating an animal, his coat collar skewed from the lashings of rain slapping against the pale ivory of his neck. ‘Look, both of you calm down, I’m sure it was an accident. And instead of going for each other’s throats, let the Boss decide what he wants to do.’

Sanzu holds the elder Haitani’s gaze, Rindou hovering near his Brother’s shoulder with a piercing unflinching frown, before he breaks and turns to Mikey with a faint kiss of his teeth and a scoff as he slowly lowers the gun from her head.

Kakucho turns back to Mikey, his head bent lower, voice a subdued whisper flecked with a concern that he can’t help, because he is just a man, and he has seen too much blood for one lifetime. And he thinks maybe after this long he shouldn’t care anymore, that the scars on his knuckles have faded to a muted silvery pink, or that the black ink on his chest has permanently made a home in his heart where the hope of anything better has long been locked and sealed, but he does. Care that is. Even if he shouldn’t. Even if it haunts him.

‘Boss?’ he says, a pinch of his forehead creased apprehension. ‘What do you want to do about this? We can leave her or…get rid of her, it’s your call.’

Mikey raises his eyes, the understanding whirling in the dark velvet of them before lowering them again, to where you look over your shoulder at him, lips parted in fear and shaking with the cold and mud splatter clinging to your skin.

Something moves in his chest.

A beat of his heart that’s a fraction of a second too fast, a tap of it against his ribs.

And an image flashes across his mind then, quick and slipping through his fingers like sand. Hair that he touched with a reverence that was godly, clear pretty eyes swollen with tears, lips reddened and smeared with saliva from his own, dripping down a trembling chin that he cups with his two bruised hands. And he had kissed you then, again and again and it had felt like a kind of freedom, a small respite before he abandoned you in this park, under the trees where the blossoms were still shifting to pink, and the cicadas hummed during the evening. And it had been a nice day really, he had made it so. A memory you could hold that hurt a little less despite what he’d done, that you could learn to heal from and forgive yourself for- because you were always like that, so quick to shoulder his shares of the blame.

Your mouth moves, lips parting, closing, trembling with the rain splashed across your cheeks, tear tracks that gather on your chin to disappear into the same worn red scarf that’s frayed and repaired and frayed and repaired and patched in all the places he knows you’ve mended.

‘M…..Manjiro?’ you say, a breathless whisper that slips across the wet tarmac, your eyebrows shooting up, confusion spilling across the blush dusted across your cheeks.

Sanzu stiffens and the gun digs into your skull from the back again, a sharp lance of pain that sprints across your scalp and spine. ‘How do you know his name?’ he growls, a wolf circling prey, teeth bared to tear through your skin.

You whimper audibly, your hands reaching higher in surrender, chipped nail polish now flecked with rain, the mud caked under your nails and across your palms streaked with a crisscross of red grazes.

Kakucho takes a step forward and Rindou lowers his gun a fraction, takes a step back with an uncertainty that zips between him and Ran, who still holds tight to the muzzle of Sanzu’s now raised revolver, knuckles chill with the cold, the lapels of his coat now blown open with the lashes of icy wind.

‘Boss?’ Kakucho says, his eyes flecked with concern, the jet black sweep of hair now shining crystalline with the rain speckled across it. ‘You know her?’

Your gaze flits, a deer caught in headlights, between the five of them, each measuring you with an inflection of concern and curiosity, the usual pinch of Rindou’s eyebrows now tightened in anxiety.

Mikey knows your face.

He could know it in his sleep, in dreams where the image of you is pressed to his pillows, pressed to the swirling liquid at the bottom of his glass, pressed to his tongue when he fucks a cheap whore with you on his mind, your body underneath his hands and so responsive to all the small and minute touches. Only to kill them later because they could never be you, and they could never be his and he doesn’t care for using others anymore when he could never undo his wrongs- could never wash away the curve of your lips smiling against his, or the tight and snug fit of you pressed against his sheets, the mattress of his old place now indented from the memory of you, your hair caught in the woven fibres of his pillows and he’d hated it that much he’d torched it all and watched the flames eat the image of you alive.

His tongue clings to the roof of his mouth, the taste of his saliva thick and cloying and heavy over his teeth.

‘Y…..Y/N?’ he says, his whisper caught on the whip of the wind lashing at his cheeks. It’s tough, this many years later to say your name when he’s spent years burying it at the bottom of a bottle, underneath the copious pills Sanzu has offered to him, the taste of you swimming in his mouth, and washed and washed and washed down again and again and again.

You shift, and lean on your caked palms, your knees drawn up to your chin, stockings torn at the knees and thighs, soft skin splattered with rain.

‘Mikey,’ you say again, the feeling of it foreign on your tongue, tripping over it now after twelve years of resigning yourself to never seeing him again, of telling yourself it was for the best that he’d left you to nurse your heart alone.

‘Y/N,’ he says, the sound of it a sharp gasp, the dark velvet night of his eyes now taking you in, the entirety of you burned into his gaze and it aches in his chest, pulses in his temple, a hot white kind of pain that zips across his skull.

Kakucho takes his cue and moves between the two of you, extending a hand and hoisting you up before fishing a handkerchief from the lapel of his waistcoat. He shakes his head, a short and abrupt glance at Sanzu who only scoffs at him in return, arms now folded over his chest with incredulity.

‘I’m sorry, about this I mean.’ And he wraps your hand around the small fabric before shrugging his jacket off and draping it over your shoulders, a comforting squeeze that accompanies the hard set of his mouth into a shaky smile.

‘It….it’s okay, I understand.’ You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, wrists and hands entirely gulfed by his sleeves. ‘I’m sorry I caused this.’

‘Do you really know him?’

‘He’s my….he’s someone I knew once.’

He nods, draws you slightly closer against a particularly strong gust of a gale before turning his gaze back to the others, particularly to Mikey who stands frozen and rooted, conflict whirling in the ink of his eyes.

Ran moves, foxlike and agile and bends to whisper. ‘Boss, if you want a minute alone, I can take the others. Kaku will stay with you for safety…and to make sure she doesn’t try anything.’ This last part hushed, and more for Sanzu who glares at you with a narrow pinch of his brow, pink hair now clinging to the wet collar of his black coat.

Mikey glances up once to the clear shine of Ran’s earnest eyes, the usual smirk and lilt of his playful charm now buried under the concerned and protective tug of his eyebrows before nodding once, slowly, deliberately, as if he’s warring with himself.

And Ran smiles, genuinely, before patting Kakucho reassuringly on the back. ‘Alright let’s go, we’ll wait inside.’

‘I’m not leaving the Boss,’ Sanzu says, and taps his gun against his arm, the silver catching the fading daylight.

‘You heard what he said, we can go. Kaku will be here anyway.’

Ran, for all of it, the blood he has seen, knows the importance of this moment right here, the only flicker of anything left in the man who once held the world so tightly, the only thing maybe that he can provide that make him a little better, a little happier, a little anything other than what he is.

Sanzu scoffs and looks to Mikey again, who only flicks his eyes up once in recognition, before letting them fall on your mud splattered shoes where he’s resigned to let his gaze stay, burning holes into the tarmac under your feet because he just can’t look, can’t let himself see you in all the ways he’s wanted to for years. The clear clarity of your eyes where the sun soaks, the pinch of your eyebrows and forehead that he’d kissed because you’d liked it and you’d felt safe and warm and his.

‘Come on, let’s go, we’ll wait for the Boss inside.’ Ran puts a protective arm around Rindou, shooting a glare at Sanzu who turns hesitantly, casting a glance back at Mikey, his steps faltering, tripping towards the neon lights of the glitzy bar.

Then, Kakucho, as if sensing the tension. ‘I’ll be in the car, I’ll keep the window rolled for privacy but call if you need me,’ he says, a reassuring pat on Mikey’s back, his chest lurching with an ache when the the fading light bounces from Mikey’s platinum hair just right, in a way someone else’s used to once upon a time.

You shift on your feet, a shy glance up and away again, settling your eyes on his shoes where the rain has splashed across the black leather.

‘So…’ you start, a cough into your hand and he fights a strangled sound of uncomfortability, of hesitation and a shyness he thought was long dead.

‘It’s good to see you Manjiro.’

It hurts to hear you say his name, his real name, the taste of it in your mouth that feels so new and old and familiar and not, and he likes how it sounds. He always has.

‘You…too…Y/N.’

There’s a silence again, him biting hard on his tongue, you moving from foot to foot and you hate it, that it became this, that everything you had is washed down the drainage, ruined and tainted and buried with the years when once, you had been something. Maybe nothing more than partners, but something.

Your eyes flick up. ‘I’m sorry I hit you, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t see you there,’ you say. ‘Oh, I’m not saying it’s because you’re- y’know, I just mean-’

‘It’s fine, I wasn’t hurt.’ Clipped and aching in his chest, chewing the words up and squeezing his fingers into his palm, red crescents indented into the pale ivory of his skin. ‘Are you…well? You look well.’ This time, he does look up, at your face blooming with health, a happiness he had never seen on you back then, the worry lines now faded to muted smile lines and it burns him that he hadn’t put them there, that he’d been the reason for it all.

Your eyes shine, a flicker of excitement spilling across them, a small smile curling at the edge of your wet lips and he has an urge to kiss you, press you against the car and hike your skirt up, to paint you with him again like he did, leaving a mark that blooms across your skin with his teeth.

‘I am well Manjiro, I’m doing pretty good,’ you say, an embarrassed grin that you’re quick to hide behind your wet sleeve, the rain now petering to a soft and unsteady trickle that whets your lashes. ‘And you?’

You fight the temptation to mention that he seems to have lost weight since you last saw him, a hollowness to his skin, thin and dripping shadows under his eyes that accent the shine of his lustrous platinum hair, dark circles that line his ivory pallid cheeks. He hasn’t been eating, you think. Meals left unattended and thrown, drinks chosen to accompany the cold and lonely nights.

He stiffens. ‘I’m doing fine. I don’t have much time to get out anymore, that's all.’ His nerves tighten with tension, your knowing gaze that melts with a curiosity and pity that he hates, that he loves, that he wants and never believes he wants because you always somehow knew, were always somehow so forthcoming even when he wishes you weren’t, even when he knew he deserved less.

‘I see. I missed you y’know,’ you say, your eyes softening, mouth puckering to a soft pout. ‘I see you changed your hair too, it looks good on you Manjiro, it really suits you.’ And he wishes it hurt less like this, in the same park he had left you in, wishes that you had kicked and screamed at him when you met again, a rage that he deserved and would have let himself feel, all the anger and heartbreak he would have willingly endured for you because it could never atone for the sins he’d accumulated in time.

Something kicks in his chest. ‘It was for my Brother, after he passed.’

The rain slaps against the bonnet of the car, clouds greying like oatmeal, a sludge of cement across the sky.

‘Oh. I’m sorry, forgive me I didn’t mean to upset you or anything.’

‘It’s fine Y/N, you don’t need to apologise for everything…I thought you’d be angry.’

‘Huh? I don’t understand what you mean by that.’

He does look up then, at the tree overhead, the branches bare and bending, ticking the hood of your coat and snagging at you with the red scarf pulled tight to your chin, worn threads catching on the fading glossy lips and he thinks of them against his, the thump of your heart pressed to his, fingers tugging at his hair, a fist wound tight in the threads of it and pulling, yanking even, when he bites and licks and soothes over the marks made by his teeth.

He takes an unsure step forward, Kakucho in the car raising an eyebrow as he watches.

‘I mean, why aren’t you angry? You’ve not said anything about it yet.’

You frown, sidestepping between the curb and the road, weight shifting from one foot to another. ‘About what ‘Jiro? The way we parted?’

And he nods, the dull lustre of his eyes swimming with an undefined and unusual clearness and you sigh, drawing out a long breath that mists in the now clear evening sky. ‘What’s to say? You left me, you no longer wanted anything to do with me and I gave up on pretending there was something I could have done to change what happened back then. I admitted it to myself finally anyway.’

‘Admitted what?’ he says and tilts his head to the side, the swing of white hair now plastered to his neck where goosebumps prickle across his skin.

You wrinkle your nose, as if it’s obvious. ‘That you found someone else of course. Another girl, one prettier and smarter and better.’

‘Huh?’ Ice pours into his veins, a flash of white hot lightning across his skull. ‘That wasn’t it. I didn’t leave because of that.’

You stiffen, shaking your head, a frown bleeding across your forehead. ‘Then why?’

He clamps his lips together, a firm line that accompanies the uncomfortable shake of his head, the silence that stretches and yawns wide.

‘You know, I racked my brain for weeks, trying to think of if there was something I could have done, if I had accidentally done something wrong that I just didn’t know about. Was there?’

A beat. ‘No, no I made my decision weeks before that.’

Your chest falls, heart slamming against your ribs. ‘Then what Manjiro? I thought we were doing good, we really were, right?’ Your voice wobbles, tapers off at the end, a small and uncertain shake to the usually bright timbre of it and he aches, for doing this again, for a second time.

‘Stop. Stop asking me this,’ he says, a hesitant step back, hand catching on the bonnet of the car and Kakucho- inside- raises an eyebrow at the two of you, mouths moving, glassy pearlescent shine of your eyes that makes Mikey seem like a deer in headlights, uncomfortable and uncertain. It does not take him long to put two and two together from that.

You press on, a step forward with more vigour. ‘Why Manjiro? I don’t get it.’

He balls a hand into fists, the hurt churning in his chest, old wounds flayed open and licked with salt, the blood running down his ribcage where the carving of your name has never left. ‘I don’t want to talk about this, and you will not ask again.’

‘Please,’ you say, your hands coming out as if in prayer, surrendering yourself under the thick wiry branches where the rain trickles through the wood. ‘Please, I just want to know, I deserve to know.’

Kakucho puts a hand on the door, nerves wiring with anticipation.

Mikey’s blood roars in his ears, the silence a cavern, deafening and loud and vibrating in his skull and when he pauses, the silence hanging on his breath, you go on, and the tears spill, years of them, so watery and full of a grief so big you’ve been swimming in it. Twelve years, all the love that died somewhere, all the love you never got to give, all the forgiveness you knew he could have taken for himself if he just stayed- because you had forgiven him and it had been easy and you’d have come back to his waiting arms if he’d let you.

You take another step, within arms reach now, breath glossing in the mist, the lump in your throat spiky as it slides along your flesh with every sharp intake of breath. ‘I just wish- if it had been someone else- if you never loved me anymore- then you could have just said so, I could have taken it I swear.’ You’d have wished him happiness still, seen him off in some dignified way, left with a wave and a final smile as a parting gift rather than the grief and rage thrown at the wall, at yourself, for just not being enough for him to be honest to.

‘Please stop,’ he whispers, hands balled into fists in his coat, shoulders pulled up to his ears and shrinking still against his coat, his eyes averted and glancing frantically between you and the tarmac. Kakucho eyes the two of you nervously, apprehension that simmers along his skin, knuckles white and gripping the door for the moment to step in should he need to.

You deflate then, your body sagging in on itself, a tiredness that seeps into your bones, cold licking across your skin and down to the fibres of your clothes and you fiddle with your hands, pulling at your sleeves, hanging your head and your gaze dragging to his shoes again, now flecked with lashings of cold rain.

‘I loved you Manjiro,’ you say, a soft and hesitant whisper that’s lost under the rush and hum of passing cars, the puddles jumping and thrumming across the tarmac. ‘I really loved you.’

You look up and the pain is a knife across your lungs, sharp and fresh and fast, tears that are salty enough to sting, the devastation of all the untold feelings, all the hurts that were never resolved and never forgotten now rising to your tongue. From where Kakucho is, he only sees you, the bleak and crumpling turn of your once red lips, wobbling and glossy with tears, and Mikey struck still- a deer in headlights- his back stiff and hunched as if in pain.

‘You shouldn’t have, that was your mistake.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

'I do. I never asked you to love me, I never asked for anything from you.’

The edge of your voice seeps with a hardened bite then. ‘You’re an awful liar Mikey. Don’t think I didn’t notice how desperate you were just for someone to hold you- it was written all over your face.’

The inky velvet of his eyes flashes with cobalt steel. ‘Watch your mouth with me, I could have you killed.’

‘That’s the thing about you. You like to pretend you’re invincible, but I never forgot you at all and I would have stayed with you till the end.’

He swallows back a wince, a sharp lance of pain that slices clean across the shattered remains of his heart because he knows, he knew back then that it would have been true, that you’d have held onto him and waded through the thicket of sin, the debauchery you’d have endured for his sake, the violence you’d have scrubbed with the blood from his hands and then held gently- as if he had not killed to get there in the first place.

His skin burns, cheeks blazing with a furious heat, all the adrenaline now spilling into his blood and he hates you. He hates you so much that it feels close to shame, for this feeling still. That whatever he can still feel now, what passes as love to him still resides in his chest, an ache and a yearning for the heat and feel of you in his hands and he wishes it had been beaten out of him in some way, wishes your face was not so pretty, wishes your voice was less kind, less soft, less everything he so desperately wants to grab at selfishly and greedily.

He swallows, a thick boulder that has his tongue weighing down. ‘I don’t want to hear anymore.’ He makes a turn when you grab at his wrist- a minute and split second decision that has the hairs on his arms rising.

Kakucho stiffens, his gun pulled quickly and efficiently from the glove box and tucked into his pants, the car door pushed open and him stepping out as the rain spits through the gaps in the wiry branches.

‘Manjiro please, don’t just go- not again, not like last time,’ you say, your voice flecked with a desperation that breaks off into a sob, your other sleeve held to your running nose, your running eyes, tears that gather on your chin and his eyes rove over your pretty face, falling and falling till the glittery band on your ring finger snags him.

He freezes, and the silence is weighty, palpable when you glance down at where your fingers circle his wrist, thumb pressed to the indent of veins now thrumming with warmth under your touch, your heart punching against your ribs when his gaze flicks up to meet your eyes again, a fresh wave of pain quickly stamped out. He clenches his fist and pulls his wrist away, turning his coat collar up till his tattoo is swallowed by the black wool.

‘I…’

‘Don’t.’

‘I can explain, I swear.’

‘You’re married,’ he says, bluntly, matter of factly even- his voice melting with apathy, a sneer that he can’t help, that he hates himself for when the jealousy burns in his lungs, green and ugly and hot.

‘I am.’

‘You’re married and you didn’t mention it.’

You frown, your outstretched hand now pulled back and cradled to your chest. ‘Should I have? Why does that matter to you?’

His hackles rise again, a vein pulsing in his temple when Kakucho looms at his side, a reassuring hand coming to rest on his coat, the jet black swing of his hair flecked with frosty rain.

‘It doesn’t,’ he says, forcing a nonchalance he doesn’t feel, and a pain he does far into his stomach. ‘I don’t care.’

And of course you are, when he thinks about it. You’re good and it pains him that that hasn’t changed his many years later, still saying sorry, still bright as the sun, still soft and too pretty to touch, terrifying and alluring all at once when he knows the world is not kind and yet you behave as if it is, as if it should be despite yourself. The years have not changed you and it is this that has the seed of envy sprouting in his chest- that all those wasted years he did not waste with you, the two of you growing up and growing older and becoming mellowed by time. The regret sinks into his bones.

‘Oh,’ you say, stung and hiding it well behind your trembling lip, your sleeve coming up to wipe at stray tears, all the earnestness he knows he has to shatter time and time again because you are just like that.

You remind him of someone, another person left behind in the past. Someone who was too persistent, annoyingly so and yet funny, adorable, nostalgic, beautiful, all the things he no longer had room for when it all changed, all the determination he had to stamp out of you because you wouldn’t do it yourself and the world couldn’t shake you.

And then. ‘How long?’

‘Huh?’

‘How long have you been married?’ and he’s not sure why he’s asking when he believes he doesn’t care, only that some locked part of him wants to keep you a minute longer, be a bit more selfish and greedy for your time when he has twelve years to fill and no amount of pining can assuage the ache of your absence in all of it.

Something like joy flits momentarily across your eyes, and Mikey wonders if you know, if you noticed the sun that breaks through the clouds when your eyes shine with a clarity, a clearness that punches against his chest, the barest sliver of a smile tugging at your lips that you’re ashamed of even now and still hiding as if you’re trying to save him from more.

‘Oh,’ you say, a little shyly and kicking at the ground. ‘Me and Mitsuya have been married for about five years but we were dating for five before that. We have a son now too, a baby boy just starting school.’

You avoid his gaze, the slow and naked crumple of his mouth, the edges turned down and vulnerable, ashamed, the ricochet of his breaking heart you swear you can hear and wish you didn’t have to. You love your husband, you swear you do and it’s a testament to him that when Mikey left, he was the one who put you back together again, the time taken and mended to fix you, nights spent so freely and willingly at your side and never once used to badmouth Mikey or you, or anyone for that matter. Love persisting, as he always had and does.

But there is something that aches inside when you glance up at Mikey the same as ever, raw desperation and a need so great that you wonder if anything has changed in twelve years, if he lies awake on some nights as you do, the occasional thought and dream of him that you’re determined never to talk about, buried and locked in some dark part of your chest where the tangled thicket of your history lies dormant.

Do you ever really recover from the pain of first love? Is it even love then? When you are young and fickle and you think you know all there is to know about it and you wonder if the hurt can ever truly heal when it breaks you open and you recover and move on and forget, wounds painted over only to be peeled back again and again. Is it love? Or is it love for what you know it to be at the time?

‘Oh,’ he says, finally clearing his throat behind his hand, the mask falling as it does, as he’s used to and turning to nod at Kakucho now over his shoulder. ‘Get a driver to take her home, we’re done here.’

Your eyes widen in alarm. ‘Manjiro? No wait, we haven’t finished.’

‘We have, I have nothing more to say to you.’

He does. He doesn’t. He isn’t sure. He only knows with certainty that it burns him when he thinks of another man having you in all the ways he wishes he could, everything he should have been that someone else was so easily, pooling in a regret that’s a cavern so wide it’ll eat him if he thinks too long about it. He hurts, he inflicts pain, and you deserve a softer love than anything he could have ever given you.

‘Manjiro!’

He glares at you over his shoulder, the velvet darkness of his eyes swirling with an ivory flash, an impulse sparking to life. ‘It’s Mikey. My name is Mikey.’

Ice pours into your chest and you pull back as if burned, the fresh tears brimming unbridled and unbidden.

‘Mikey…’ you breathe, a plume of mist that dusts him with grey in your periphery, tasting the sound of it for the last time, savouring it on your tongue, anguish swirling in your voice when it cracks on the last syllable.

He nods at Kakucho once and stalks past you, eyes trained on the neon lights of the building behind and you in the corner of his vision getting smaller, the ache and thump of his heart that claws at him for doing it again. Leaving again. Hurting you again. Breaking you again, because it is all he is capable of, and you deserve something softer than the jagged edges of him to cut yourself on.

You cradle your hand to your chest, the resounding footsteps getting further now, you glancing back at the swish and swing of white hair against the black collar of his coat, and always walking away, always the image of his back to look at like he had done before.

Kakucho rests a hand on your shoulder, the soothing warmth of his voice dripping like honey. ‘Hey, I’m not sure what all that was about but you’ll be fine and I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry? For what?’ you say, your gaze snagging on the crimson light of his eye, the milky white of the other hidden by the midnight black of his hair, a look so gentle and soft, a comfort so warm.

‘All of it I think. For what became of him that you know about, and even all that you don’t. For what it’s worth, none of it was ever your fault,’ he says, a faint tilt of his head to the side. ‘Mikey just changed after Iza-’ A pause, a harsh clench of his jaw, lashes kissing at his cheek as he heaves a weighted sigh. ‘After losing his siblings, all of them. It wasn’t ever you.’

‘I would have stayed, you know, I would have loved him through it all.’

‘That’s the problem. Look, I don’t know you but if Mikey felt like you could have come to harm because of him, then he left you for that reason. As unhappy as he is, and as you are with it, maybe the reason you’re alive is because of that decision.’

Apprehension bristles across your skin. ‘You know more than you’re letting on Mr….?

‘Kakucho, and yes I do. We heard things that’s all, and it’s my job to stay in the loop on his life. I recognised you from the pictures.’

‘Pictures?’

‘The ones he failed to burn, old pictures of the two of you that he thinks no one else knows he looks at. But we’ve all got skeletons in our closets and we just happen to know his.’

He watches you then, all the realisations that dawn and spill across your eyes, the turn of your mouth that has your lips trembling, your hair now plastered to your skin. It’s heavy, the weight of it all, truths and lies that unfurl like flags in the wind.

‘Look, I have to go, but there’s a car here to take you home, give the driver your address okay?’ And he shepherds you to the black unmarked car where the driver nods at you as you slip in, your mind blank and dizzy, a white noise that rings in your ears as he bends at the window. ‘Best you don’t tell your Husband about this either. For obvious reasons.’

‘Okay…’ you say, numb and blind, a grief so big clustering in your chest that it shows on your cheeks, where the tears continue, swallowed up by the red scarf now unfurling around your neck. ‘Thank you Mr Kakucho, for everything.’

He gives you a smile, a pained one at that, the shared weight and loss zipping between you two as he stands and taps the roof of the car, the driver calling a ‘Where to Miss?’ that’s cut when he rolls the windows up again.

You drive off and he sighs, heavy and thick and painful, a sharp pinch in his lungs when he turns towards the club and walks, feet dragging to the doors where Mikey waits, agonised as he watches your car drive off in a plume of grey smoke.

a/n: I have nothing to add, u can pelt me with rocks for this one lmao, I figured it was time for something soul crushing. sorry for this being a little late though but I hope everyone enjoys it still. happy birthday to baby boy.

taglist: @reiners-milkbiddies @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @snakegentleman @haitaniapologist @nafarsiti @bejeweled-night-33 @ranscutedoll @the-travelling-witch @orchid3a @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @sinfulseashell @sweet-seishu @burnishedcrown @nikokopuffs @mitsuwuyaa @haruwuchiyoo @mochimiyaas @theaonlax @blackfire2013 @wotakuhime @severellamahottub (pls dm or send an ask or comment to be added)

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev #mikey x reader #sano manjiro #tokyorev x reader #tokyo revengers x reader

331 notes · View notes

pluvialpoet · 7 months ago

Text

bergamot

Summary: moments of quiet reflection reaffirm what you both already know to be true- he’s always going to come back, and you’re always going to be waiting with open arms

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!reader

Requested: no

Warning: idiots in love, friends to lovers, mutual pining, scarecrow's fear toxin, mentions of death and grief, slight angst, fluffy ending, loosely based off of batman: hush (2019)- but no major spoilers

Word Count: 3,930

masterlist

a/n: I know that dick has a tolerance against/is immune to scarecrow's fear toxin, but let's pretend he isn't...for the plot

Sleep is cruel in the way it continues to evade you when you crave it most. Mocking and teasing, exhaustion morphs into desperation. Even with your eyes shut dreams fail you, and nightmares taunt.

A siren wails, bellowing out into the night and echoing caution even after the initial cry has faded. Could be a police car, or an ambulance. Maybe even a fire truck. You try not to consider all of the possibilities, knowing it’ll only starve your slumber, further. With a huff, you adjust the heavy comforter, pulling it up until it bunches just under your chin.

In a few weeks, branches will be stripped of their leaves. Snow will fall, and the city will suffocate under a blanket of white. July was only yesterday, sticky and never-ending- infinite until finite. Now, January lurks around the corner- weeks away, but daunting, nevertheless.

The pillow tucked behind your back is a poor imitation of the brawn you wish feathers and fill could replicate, just as the one pressed to your chest acts as an imposter mimicking the body meant to be sleeping peacefully beside you. It’s impossible to tell feelings of loneliness apart from being alone, and deep down you know that reminiscence is merciless. Memory is wicked. But you can’t help remembering. It’s the only way you won’t forget- and even then, so much time has passed that you’ve begun to fade, and he’s begun to blur. Spiraling further and further away from reality and control, you drift towards hope, feeding each dangerous possibility until you have nothing left to give, but delusion takes and takes and takes…

Answers elude like comfort- and sleep. When, how, and why is lost upon you. He’s been gone for so long. Even so, your life has continued, evolving to accommodate the gaps he used to fill. Though, it’s about as effective as papier-mâchéing an open wound shut. Everywhere you look, everything you do, every time you shut your eyes, he finds a way to bleed into you, one way or another, and you welcome it every single time. All you really have are memories and a space in your bed which has always been his to come home to.

Outside, the wind howls. Angry and violent, the sound rattles the windowpane and you burrow deeper into the covers trying to block it out. Shadows dance across the ceiling, but none of them belong to the ghost you’ve been waiting for. Another frustrated huff fails to quell burning exhaustion, and you rub your eyes with the back of your hand before checking the clock next to you. Neon green flashes, all too pleased to report that it’s well past midnight and you haven’t gotten a wink of sleep. Already tomorrow, and you’re still mourning today.

Pushing the covers off, you shiver. There’s a chill in the air and little comfort to be found in the fact that the entire apartment feels cold and empty without him in it. At least it’s not just the bed. It’s the entire room, the hallway, and the kitchen, too. You reach for the light above the stove and begin to search the cupboards for a mug. If nothing else, at least a cup of tea will warm you up. Thanks to muscle memory, you act on autopilot, filling the ceramic with water and placing it in the microwave before picking a teabag and waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting, always waiting. Three monotone beeps call your attention back before it has another chance to wander away from you, and you retrieve the cup and place the teabag inside. Steeping time be damned.

You can’t wait any longer.

One leg curls under the other as you take a seat and bring the mug to your mouth. It burns the tip of your tongue, a small price to pay for your greed, and you swallow the too-hot liquid regardless of the consequences. The pain barely registers, anyway. With both palms pressed to the vessel, warmth finally finds you, and a barely contented huff passes your lips to blow the steam from the cup. It’s not always like this. It’s not supposed to be, but for so long, it has been. Never months, always weeks. You don’t know how to do this or how much longer you can put yourself through this torture when every sunrise twists the knots in your stomach tighter and tighter. How much longer until you snap?

You’re so tangled up in your suffering that you miss it the first time, until the hair on the back of your neck bristles. Did you imagine it? Silently, you wait, setting the steaming mug down to listen, and this time, you hear it. Faintly, but there. Real.

Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.

I’m here. I’m safe. Can I come in?

Your feet move before the rest of your body does, and the chair scrapes loudly across the hardwood as you jump from it in shock. A cocktail of excitement, worry, disbelief, and fear bubbles and swirls through you when you spot a familiar glimpse of black and blue through the window near the fire escape.

“Dick?”

Crossing the room without any memory of doing so, you fiddle with the latch that keeps you from him, and him from you, until finally it clicks. With only one foot through the window, you reach for him, desperate to savor the illusion until mass, warmth and a heartbeat prove it to be real. Upon realizing, your breath hitches. He’s real. He’s real, and he’s here. No longer a dream. No longer a nightmare. No longer a vision only sleep can grant or mold, he stands before you. He takes a moment to properly slide the window shut behind him, returning the lock to its rightful position- keeping the rest of the world and the winter, out- before turning to face you once more. He can’t even get a word out before you’re pressed against him, wrapping your arms around him and holding yourself back from crushing him with the intensity of your longing. Overly cautious of injuries you can’t physically see- mindful of bruises, tears of flesh, and wounds that remain eclipsed by kevlar and moonlight- you embrace him with a hesitancy that severely undermines your fervor. Holding him gently- delicately, tenderly- the way you’ve dreamt about entwining with him on nights when sleep has been generous instead of cruel, you finally look up at him.

A sigh of relief dispels the hoarded tension in your neck, shoulders, and chest when you rest your head against his chest and inhale. Sweat and copper muddle his natural scent, but even when he’s covered in his victories, even when he’s drenched in his defeats, he still smells like home- warm, safe, familiar, and comforting.

He hesitates to envelop you with the same thinly veiled desperation, holding himself back.

Every muscle in his body carries the strain of battles fought and won. His head throbs with the force of his thoughts, and the inescapable dizziness that always accompanies crashing down from a high. Then again, he’s never been one to ease into things gracefully. Tiny cuts and scrapes, angry blacks and blues, and even gaping gashes that are still seeping and tender to the touch hardly register as anything other than a stinging, burning sensation. Everything is dull. Ferocity and intensity both subdued. Through the haze of everything that competes for his attention, you’re the one thing that’s clear. As always, the hold you have on him, both physical and metaphorical, brings him back to his senses, but doubt keeps him withdrawn.

Warily wrapping his arms around you, Dick returns the gesture as best as he can. Cages built of muscle, meant to keep you close, refuse to lock you in place, and he finds it increasingly difficult to resist surrendering to you entirely. Just as his nerves begin to settle they spike once more when the gravity of the past few months finally begins to sink in. As you continue to tremble in his arms, he swallows a lump in his throat and fights the urge to hold you impossibly closer. If he weren’t so afraid, he’d never let go again. But he’s not the same man he was the last time you saw him. Having seen too much, he knows that he can’t let this become something more. Fear is rotten. He’s seen the future, and if he keeps leaning on you then he’s only going to drag you down with him. Regardless of what he really wants, he won’t let this become something more, but then he looks down at you in his shirt and realizes it’s always been something more- and it terrifies him more than anything.

When pink swirls around the drain- a muted severity of soapy lather and remnants of crusted, oozing red- he rests his forehead against the cold tiles and lets out a deep sigh. He can’t remember the last time he’d had a proper shower. Under the trickling scorch, he allows his shoulders to slump forward, letting the too-hot water soothe his muscles like a balm, and it stings in a way he welcomes- a reminder that he’s done it again, he’s survived the worst and now he just has to survive the recovery.

He’s never been good with the after, always losing himself in possibilities of what comes next without taking a minute to catch his breath, but he’s trying to be better. He owes it to you. Not only you but himself, too- but mostly you. So, he tries to forget. He pushes memories too fresh to be forgotten somewhere else, banishing them to the far corners of his mind and locking them away until he’s ready to face his demons at his own pace, on his own terms, but his wicked creations fight back. Even when they’re crafted from delusions, mirroring real-life counterparts with a precision too exact to be a figmented replication, he finds himself engaged in an internal match that never crowns a victor. It’s a conflict that never ceases, even after his own surrender. Still, he’s found that the intrusions are less when copper is overpowered by citrus, and when red, inevitably swirls into pink.

Steam amplifies the smell of sweat and body odor, so pungent that the only word to describe it is bad, and he holds his breath while he reaches for your soap once more. He can’t believe you let him anywhere near you. It’s even more unfathomable that you sought an embrace, despite the remnants of battle that’ve woven themselves into his being- lingering, even long after. He’s repulsed by that which exposes him, a stench so strong that it serves as a testament to the fact that he reclaimed you as soon as he could, coming right back to this haven of sorts without any prior stops, and his stomach churns uncomfortably, the once soothing mist tainting each attempt at air, and a weight teases the aching muscles of his chest which breath does not alleviate.

Through the haze, he sees the truth- when reality remains undistorted by the tricks of his own want and longing, he recognizes fact without his own warped perceptions of fantasy- and he realizes just how careless he’s been. By allowing desire to suade better judgment, he’s put you at risk. Guilt punishes with an onslaught of emotions ranging from frustration to anger, sadness to grief, and even regret to sorrow. His own reluctance to accept how dangerous it was, and always has been, to lean on your affections as a crutch has finally caught up to him. After all that he’s seen, after everything he’s been forced to bear witness to over the past few months, coupled with a lifetime of loss, he’s no longer able to ignore the thought that’s broken free from the shackles of elsewhere. What was once dull, always there but never really forgotten, has become intense and persistent.

Every time he finds his way back to you, he invites peril into your life. He’s hazardous. Even if he’s not, being attached to him- in any way- puts you at an even greater risk of endangerment. Trying to justify something even as tame as a friendship is absurd. You’re so much more than that. Whether he meant for it to happen or not, you’ve found a place within his heart. Every beat echoes your name and carries secrets of his devotion. All that remains of the walls meant to protect both of you is rubble, and Dick stands alone in the epicenter of the aftermath, unsure and torn between chaos and order. Selfishly, he wants. Greedily, he craves. Morally, he knows that he should just walk away- but he can’t.

The scene shifts, ceramic tile falling away to reveal an eerie, yet familiar boneyard, and he shakes his head. It’s not real. It was never real- but it was so vivid. Cold fog obscures his vision, and he closes his eyes. This is a trick. This isn’t truth. He knows what comes next. Forced to indulge in his worst nightmares, the shrill, piercing sound of your terror renders him numb. He can’t move. Paralyzed, he fights limbs of lead, but he can’t act. It surrounds him, your agony, and he can’t do anything to save you. He can’t protect you. With each cry of his name, you plead, but there’s nothing he can do. When silence follows his ragged breaths, he refuses to look down. He hates this part the most, but he doesn’t have a choice. Crimson stains the black and blue weave, and he can taste metallic. He doesn’t have any control over this hallucination, born and bred from his greatest fear, and all he can do is witness the fallout of your shared torture- your blood on his hands, his body slumped against your tombstone, and the triumphant laughter of a clown, a scarecrow, a ventriloquist, and a hundred more that delight in your demise.

He can’t catch his breath. Drifting further and further away from reality, he struggles to claw his way back towards the light. When his vision begins to fade, he reaches for more soap. In for three counts, out for four. In for three counts, and out for four, again, Dick feels lightheaded. There’s no limit to how far he’d go to keep you safe, not a single rule or code he wouldn’t break to protect you from anything and everything- and that’s an entirely different threat, in and of itself. His loyalty has the potential to become his ruin, and he’d let it- for your sake- but would that be enough? Could his devotion be enough to keep you safe from the otherwise brutal fate that awaits you with, and without, his intervention?

The bite of a washrag leaves his skin raw. Lost to his thoughts, he’s been mindlessly scrubbing away at his flesh, dousing himself with bubbled distraction. Another breath fails to alleviate his unease. All he can think about is that which is out of his control, and he can’t help but wonder, is there even a chance for the two of you?

Every thought is a contradiction.

He could wax poetic to Bruce about love- how precious and fragile and conscious it is- but he can’t even bring himself to act upon his own advice. Even worse than following in a denialist’s footsteps is being a hypocrite, but there are just too many variables for him to take into account- too many what-ifs and maybe’s that enable him to cower behind words left unspoken.

In spite of this, he dares to dream of a future where you’re his and he’s yours, and nothing else matters. Lost to his delusions, a smile threatens to work muscles that’ve remained dormant for months of disuse. It hurts. Stretching, pulling, and manipulating his face to actually convey what he’s feeling instead of trying to veil it, hurts. However, the worst pain follows. As he reaches for the illusion, it slips through his fingers- so close he can almost hold it, yet just out of reach, simultaneously- and just like that, reality distorts the mirage. Pried from him, ripped away and sporting his claw marks, what could’ve been remains what could’ve been- and it’s all his fault.

Fear suppresses his love.

He’s already lost so much, he can’t lose this, too. He won’t. However glutinous, he craves more- even when he knows he can’t have it, he wants with a desire that’s almost too strong to ignore. Almost. Locking his feelings away, he throws away the key, but his ribs begin to expand with the intensity of his longing, and his chest feels tight. This isn’t like before. It seems as if his secrets have outgrown their cages, and he finds himself at a crossroads. His mind begins to drift and he wonders if this agony is why Bruce kept Selina at arm’s length…

A sigh, and a revelation- he’s not Bruce, and you’re not Selina.

Dick’s been going about this all wrong. Despite everything he’s been taught about love and loss, he’s allowed a life outside of a domino mask and kevlar. He deserves to cherish someone, to protect and devote himself to something other than his work- someone to fight for, someone to come home to- and he deserves to be beloved, too. Even if only for tonight. Even if tomorrow isn’t promised and all you have is right now, you’re here. On the other side of the frosted glass screen and plaster, you’re waiting for him. Another smile, less forced and genuine, feels like a relief instead of a burden. His skin pebbles under the frigid stream left in the wake of molten steam. With a shiver, he seeks your warmth, reaching for the faucet and stepping out of the enclosure.

A worn shirt rests atop the counter, the fabric faded from years of wear and wash, folded neatly beneath a pair of fresh boxers and socks likely left behind from the last time, or the time before that, or even the time before…truth be told, he thought he’d lost it, misplaced it, or given it away. Of course, you’ve had it in your care, all along. The corner of his mouth threatens to twitch into a smile. Slipping the towel from around his waist, he begins to dress, wondering when you managed to sneak in without him hearing you. The door used to creak, and he realizes that you must have fixed it while he was gone. It’s hard not to think about what else might’ve changed since the last time he saw you. Would you have stayed with him, if he asked you to? You always have. Six years and counting, he muses if you always will…

His hair is getting long, again. Droplets fall from the overgrown strands at the base of his neck down his back, making him shiver and reach for his towel once more. He pats his hair down, ruffling it with the towel a few times before wiping away at the mirror. Making eye contact with his reflection he’s the first to look away. He’s looked worse and supposes that's a small win in and of itself, though he can’t stand the sight of himself any longer than he has to. A deep exhale and a shake of his head diverts his attention to the countertop where a spare toothbrush has been left out for him to use. Of course, he already knows where the toothpaste is. He helps himself with a growing smile and places it in the holder right next to yours when he’s done. His chest expands with something he can’t quite name when he finds himself surrounded by gentle reminders of your care. A small cup of water and painkillers act as physical embodiments of your thoughtfulness and he revels in the knowledge that you’re letting him know you’re there for him while giving him space to come down from whatever adrenaline rush the past few months have spiked. It’s in those silent gestures of love that he hears it the loudest, echoing and amplifying all around him.

It must be killing you to act so selflessly, and he tries not to be selfish with your affections, but it’s difficult not to feel like a burden when you’ve rearranged more than just a spot on the counter, or a place for him to keep his toothbrush next to yours, for him- giving him a home without expecting anything else in return.

Down the hall, the mattress protests against his arrival, angry springs squeaking from months of disuse before welcoming his weight and warmth on the side opposite of yours- his side, from the very moment, years ago, when he found his way back to you after a night that left him bloody and beaten but not broken. Never broken- not when he’s always had you. Though most memory of the first evening spent beside you remains a blur, the ability to recall details and specifics stolen from him as his wounds wept crimson tears that stained your hands and upholstery, fondness prevails. Despite robbed recollections, tender warmth, and affection remain. Even then, he knew. Without really knowing, without certainty, he was certain- he loved you, and you loved him, and every gentle, devoted gesture has always reaffirmed the one thing he could never doubt. Every silent offering, every selfless sacrifice, and piece of yourself that you’ve surrendered to him further insists that your heart acts in favor of three words never spoken.

His arm finds your waist easily, and he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to tiptoe around his reluctance to accept what this is, anymore. Not when you’re here. Not when you’re waiting so patiently for him, and snuggle back into his hold the moment he reaches out for you. Some limbs tangle, but not yours- the two of you fit perfectly together, like you were truly meant to be, and the moment that you’re allowed to converge, you press your palm flat against his arm, holding him close to you.

Reacquainting yourself with him after is always your favorite part. Though, your heart cleaves when your fingertips ghost over a new scar- the skin still raised and angry, even if the wound has closed. With something akin to sympathy, an apology for the pain he’s suffered that you can’t take away, you gently trace the new mark in acknowledgment.

Tomorrow, or later today, when the sunlight illuminates the sky, you’ll ask him about it. Or, maybe you won’t. When the first glimpses of warm light threaten to spill over the horizon, you might get answers to the questions you’ve spent the last few months pondering. Or, perhaps everything unasked will remain unresolved. Either way, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fact that tonight, you’ll sleep- safe and protected, at ease and engulfed by all things him- and even if it only lasts for the night, you’ll cherish whatever small moments of intimacy the moon grants before the sun, inevitably, rips them away- a fate you’ve grown to expect, time and time again.

Still, you let your eyes flutter shut, basking in the silence for only a moment before it’s interrupted.

“I love you,” Dick confesses softly, words warm and whispered against your shoulder encouraged by a fleeting moment of courage- and the tender caress of your touch- that prompt the secret to spill from his chest, an accident he fears he may have to render excuses for to salvage whatever broken pieces are left of this unspoken relationship.

“I know,” With your back towards him he misses the stretch of a smile ghosting your lips, and finds himself tensing behind you. Could you have really known? All this time? Is that why he always comes back? Is that why you let him? “I love you, too,”

“No, I mean, I really lo-“

“Tell me in the morning, yeah?” You suggest before he can get too far ahead of himself. Torn between wanting to clarify his confession and realizing that maybe he doesn’t have to, Dick relents. He can’t really argue, anyway- having kept this to himself for so many years, another few hours won’t hurt. With a breath- of acceptance, not defeat or surrender- he closes his eyes and finally relaxes into your embrace.

It’s over.

For now, Dick can rest easy knowing that when the smell of bergamot fades, this tacit love will always remain, and he finds enough comfort in the realization to let it lull him into a peaceful sleep.

a/n: I love him so much!!! this has been rotting in my brain for nearly a year and I just found it in my drafts last night lol! anyway, this started as a challenge to myself where I wanted to see if I could write something with only five lines of dialogue, and I'm curious to hear how you all think it turned out! as always, requests are open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading!

everyone who requested to be tagged: @idyllcy @wicked-laugh @ul4lume

Send me some feedback, or request to be added to my taglist! (please specify which taglist you’d like to be added to- character or general) !Requests: OPEN!

buy me a ko-fi!

#dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson imagine #dick grayson angst #dick grayson fluff #dick grayson fanfic #dick grayson fanfiction #nightwing #nightwing x reader #nightwing imagine #nightwing fluff #dc titans #dc imagine #dc comics imagine #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson x you #nightwing x you #nightwing x y/n

362 notes · View notes

swiggity-swexual-i-am-asexual · 1 year ago

Text

Danny Phantom doesn’t want to be king.

And the Observants also don’t want him to be king.

Frankly, very VERY few people want him to be king, dead or alive.

But opening the sarcophagus, even if it’s closed NOW, disrupted some magic protections. Until those can be fixed, summoning spells need to be answered by SOMEONE. Not all of summons, just like—once a month or so. Because if they don’t let that power outlet happen, all of those summon magics build up and suddenly Pariah Dark reigns again. Answering the summon basically dispels the built up magic, like opening a dam.

Again, Danny doesn’t WANT to do this either, but everyone else involved is a bad choice. He won’t even be named prince, because THEN that implies he COULD be king. He needs a title, of some kind, a position in the court, no matter how tenuous, so he can do the thing. Something where no one in their right or even WRONG mind would think to try to kill him for the position or try to marry him or something equally annoying to deal with.

So.

He becomes the Ghost Court Jester.

He even gets a fancy little outfit upgrade when he’s summoned, all black and white bell hats and shoes, a stupid little ruffle collar and black parachute pants, even face paint with a tiny dot of glowing neon green at the tip of his nose. The works. Better yet, if he hasn’t been ‘unsummoned’, his human form is just the exact same costume with swapped colors. He can change into his normal outfits, but until that circle has been disrupted, the next summon, or the next full or new moon, he’s stuck into the outfit when he first transforms from either form.

The Phantom Jester, which is a title more intimidating than Danny appears to be if we are to be honest, cracks jokes and never, EVER takes the summons seriously.

“Listen, I just had to get my hours in and it’s the last day of the lunar month, you got lucky I came at all.”

“I got the position by virtue of not wanting to go to Time Jail for a crime I technically didn’t commit and technically probably won’t but, well, eyes are the beholder of the grudge or something else equally cryptic to make you mad.”

“Is this a slumber party? … do you have cake? Bummer. Well, enjoy the bleeding walls then.”

“Whether I help you or not is entirely dependent on how well of a run down you can give me on this book I have to read that I have not at all touched.”

“Explain the reason in three sentences or less. I suggest less. And if it’s stupid I’m hitting you—oh you think this circle can contain me? Haha. It won’t.”

“Is that chicken blood? Why?? What did the chickens do to you?”

There are props in his costume but he literally never knows what he’s gonna pull out of his sleeves. Danny can’t even do a balloon animal and knows exactly zero card tricks, which would be more of an issue if the cards weren’t the size of a dinner plate. He barely even juggles and he’s honestly probably just utilizing his rarely-used telekinetic powers, but he does give people flowers if they haven’t been a total jerk. And if those flowers are like, rare and have seeds for propagation, well… he literally wouldn’t know. No, really, he doesn’t. He gets summoned by at least two ecology departments and he has no idea why, I mean, if he had a nickel—

He also had pies and is NOT afraid to use them.

#danny phantom #danny phantom headcanon #I usually do crossover stuff these days #but I deliberately left it out so anyone could chose to do so or not #that said…. could you imagine #there’s so many fandoms where this would just be really fucking funny #rare spell ingredients? super serious situation? life and death in the BALANCE?#and here’s a sassy teenager who isn’t even getting paid for this #you summoned him and now he’s YOUR problem #fair warning he bites #someone calls him a mime and he almost decks them #Mimes and clowns are noble pursuits!#this is like. pun-ishment of some kind

1K notes · View notes

heartfullofleeches · 2 years ago

Text

Clown Talk

Yandere Crime Harem + G.N Clown TV-Showhost Reader

Extortion. Aggravated Assault. Murder.

The list went on for the royal who had it all, and lost almost everything in one night.

A well respected and charitable figure in their community, it was a shock to the masses to see local casino owner, and frequent donor to hospitals framed on the five o'clock news for misconduct. Anyone with a good head on their shoulders and a realistic outlook on the world could see straight through the facade. Beneath that mask was a monster - every good deal that person ever committed a cover for their true goals.

Those they had helped plead their innocence. Those they had wronged tied their noose. The documents leaked to the public would tell which party was correct, wiped clean from history before the victor could be declared. Read aloud in court, each word marked a new trial at play. The execution of the rat bastard who got them into this whole ordeal in the first place.

The criminal know exactly who it was. Caught his hand in the cookie jar resembling their safe weeks ago, but they had enough of a heart to let him go for being the one person his little girl had. Not again. Day in and day out they dreamt of how they'd carry out their revenge. Splattering his brains all over the wall. Slicing him into cutlets and having a nice cookout for everyone involved. It was a beautiful dream. The one thing preventing the compete lost of their sanity. Shouldn't be too long now until their people manage to get them out and their hands around that bastard's neck. Only a matter of time-

"Quit mumbling to yourself- I can't hear the TV."

As if this hell couldn't get any worse. A desaturated rainbow flies across the television screen, showering an empty field with stars and hearts that sprout colorful flowers from the earth. The theme song for the show plays in the background; the strums of each guitar string and the voice humming along to the beat drilled into the criminal's head like psychological warfare. While the voice wasn't totally abysmal it still belonged to their greatest enemy. That fucking clown.

"Good Day, everyone! I've missed you all so much, and am so excited to meet all the new faces. Are you ready all for an exciting day of fun and new adventures?"

The few shouts of agreement make their ears bleed more. Needless to say the prison they had been thrown in was a shit hole. Terrible food, hard beds, and televisions that only played one station without interference. That neon haired, colorblock mess of an entertainer had haunted them from day one of their stay; the sounds chasing them whenever they fled to the sanctuary of their cell. Pathetically, while there were a couple naysayers, majority of the prison population had begun to actually like the show. A body hurls into the seat next to them.

"Thank fuck I didn't miss it. You staying this time, Zero?"

Zero's face wrinkles from the frown lines. 4D was a fellow intimate and the biggest fan of the show. A crook booked for various robberies who just like Zero was ratted on by an acquaintance. The nickname came from their tag including the number fourty and they thought it would be cool in unison with the one they forced onto Zero.

"I told you not to call me that."

"I get that you're some big hot-shot and "adults shouldn't be watching shows for kids.", but it's really good when you sit down and watch it. That clown ain't too bad on the eyes either."

Zero resists the urge to snap their fingers as they air quote. "I'd rather flush my head down a toilet."

"Come on! If ya watch it, I'll leave ya alone for the rest of your sentence."

That catches their attention. Armz crossed, Zero looks at the television. The set had switched to that of a kitchen as the clown speaks

"Juno has been feeling better down today, let's cheer him up with his favorite snack! Before we begin, make sure you always ask for an adults help when handing sharp objects or using the stove. Unless you are one yourself. "

With a wink, they throw an apron and go through the steps of making homemade rice treats with the audience. After putting the tray in the oven, they discreetly pull out another one with a full sheet of the treats already made. Marshmallow fluff and melted chocolate chips ooze from their sides as the clown cuts out a heart shaped piece with a cookie cutter.

"And there you go! A simple, fun activity you can do with family and friends, and even get something taste out of it. Juno prefers chocolate, but you can add a number of things to your own and let your imagination run wild."

Great. Now they were annoyed and hungry. They couldn't stand another segment.

"I'm leaving."

4D whines. "Whaaat? That was barely anything. Hey, don't go-"

They grab Zero's sleeve, but are powerless to stop them as they leave the common area and venture up to their room. Over the guard rail of the second floor, they watch the other inmates mindlessly crowded around the television screen and unironically enjoying it. They would've spat at them had it not been for the guard by their cell. Inside the room, their roommate had left the tv on and that same damned show was playing. They go to turn it off only to be cut off by a fake cry of pain.

"Ouch!"

The clown tumbles to the ground, figure looming over them off screen. They come into frame as they grip the clown's arm and helps them to their feet.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's okay, Juno. I know it wasn't on purpose."

The two face the screen as the clown speaks.

"Sometimes our friends do or say things that hurt our feelings. Take a breath, hear them out, but there's one important rule. Remember - forgiveness and friendship aren't always mutual. Sometimes people we may think are our friends go too far, and they believe an apology will make everything okay, but that's not always the case. The best thing you can do is forgive - and let go."

The background music is soft. The clown's smile is sincere, but an offshoot of that silly expression they had moments ago. Forgive. That weasel? There's no way in hell they could. He ruined them. Damaged their imagine. The bitterness Zero held was the only thing that pulled them forward. But what would come after they got their revenge?

"That's all for day, folks! And don't forget- you all may be my helpers, but I am here to help you the most!"

The intimate ends up watching the show until lights out. Each episode holds a new life lesson, cushioned by the silly activites prior to them and the songs the clown and their friends sings at the end. Regrettably, Zero finds their lips twitching upwards and a hushed laugh in their chest at some of the clown's jokes. When the clown visits them in their sleep, the dreams didn't seem as bad as before.

The next day Zero finds 4D in the yard. They're hesitant to speak.

"So... Why exactly do you like that clown?"

4D drops the equipment in their hand, looking flustered. "Wow, uh, why do you ask?"

"Just curious. If it's so embarrassing, I can make it worth while."

4D refuses the cigeratte they offer. "I quit. It ain't nothing serious like that, we just... talked."

Zero raises a brow. "Talked? You some kind of nutcase or something?"

"Maybe, but what I mean is I sent them a letter. After all the rush and freedom of the things I did, I was going mad in here. I got no friends, no family. At the end of every episode there's an address so I thought I'd try and send them a letter. I never expected them to respond. Hell, I thought the guards would tear it up and laugh, but neither of those predictions were true. They... helped me. More than anyone ever had in my life. Even sent me a couple things when I hadn't asked. They're all I have."

4D wipes their face with their sleeve. Zero, unsure, raises their hand to their shoulder, but falls short of a comforting touch.

"..Thanks... Take care."

Zero sits in their cell when the next show comes end. They pen down the address on the screen, wondering if they were really going to go through with this. They write out their letter and hand it off to the only guard they trust.

"What do you do, when you've lost everything."

A response comes in a week's time.

"Hey, there!

First off, I want to say thank you for sending your letter in. From the address and the others I've spoken too, I know that you're going through a really tough time. It's understandable to believe you've lost everything, but there will always be a new ladder to climb to the top so long as you try your hardest. You may be in the dark for now, but the sun will shine again for you some day."

Zero loses track of how many times they read the letter. They can see eraser marks from when the writer rewrote their lines. It was the exact same penmanship as when the clown wrote their name on a drawing they had just finished, clearing out the possibility of it being an assistant on the show. Zero crumples the envelope and throws it in the trash, but tucks the letter under their pillow.

When they are released the following month, they're found sitting in front of the community television.

"Sunshine's beautiful this time of day, isn't it?"

"B...oss, I'm sorry, please."

Zero takes another drag of their cigar as his head is dunked into the freezing waters. The silence makes the scenario one for the books, but for some reason the sun just isn't as bright as it was on those dirty screens. They exhale as the bruised male is brought out of the sea once more.

"I forgive you, and now I'm letting go." They wave to the others on the boat. "Drop him. I don't want to be late for the show."

Arriving at the studio, a whiny voice drills from behind them.

"Aw, man- you got front row seats? Switch with your ol pal. Its the least you can do since I introduced you to them."

#Clown reader #yandere oc #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere insert #yandere scenarios #yandere blurb #yandere x darling #yandere writing #yandere stories #yandere drabble

1K notes · View notes

fortheloveofwonderland · 10 months ago

Text

Me & You & Everyone We Know | Chapter 18 | S.R

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Summary - You and Spencer try to cope in the aftermath of running into each other. Spencer makes a series of stupid decisions which lead him back to you and then away from you once more.

Pairing - Single Dad! Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, smut minors DNI.

Warnings - drinking, slightly tipsy reader, swearing, AA meetings, talk of therapy, tears, Spencer falls off the wagon, arguing, slightly aggressive and intimidating Spencer, mention of erectile dysfunction, making out, use of “good girl”, oral (f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, orgasm denial(?), Spencer goes from 0-100 and back again, Spencer is incredibly mean.

WC - 7.9k

Chapter 18 - Sandcastles

We built sandcastles that washed away,

I made you cry when I walked away.

Oh, and although I promised that I couldn't stay, baby,

Every promise don't work out that way, oh, babe.

Every promise don't work out that way.

“How much further is this place? I said we should have gotten a cab.” Tara groaned, her feet howling from the high heels she was wearing.

“Just a little further.” Penelope insisted.

Tara glanced at Emily and JJ who seemed to be struggling just as much as she was. Garcia was the only one of the four who wore heels on a regular basis and as such the walk wasn’t bothering her like it was them.

“You said that five blocks ago.” Emily moaned, clinging to Tara’s arm to help keep her balanced.

“A little walk never hurt anyone.” Garcia clucked.

“Tell that to my feet.” JJ rolled her eyes.

They continued for another two blocks before Penelope picked up her pace and started pointing down the street towards a blue neon sign proclaiming the name Trouble Bird.

According to Penelope it was the best cocktail bar in the district and she’d insisted they go there for girls' night.

The four of them had already polished off a couple of bottles of wine at Garcia’s apartment and the blonde had assured them the bar was just around the corner.

“I don’t care what you say, next time we are getting a cab.” Tara huffed as they closed in on the bar.

All that walking had seriously sobered her up, making the pre-drinks pointless. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on a cocktail or two. Maybe even five.

As they neared the entrance, someone heading in their direction clearly caught Penelope’s eye and she slowed until she came to a stop.

The others did the same, a collective groan leaving their lips.

“Please god don’t tell me it’s closed.” Emily threw her head back in frustration.

But Garcia wasn’t listening. She took a few steps closer to the woman wearing a long, black evening dress, heels hanging limply from her fingers.

“Y/N?” She spoke and your eyes shot up from where you’d been looking at the pavement.

You blinked a few times, eyes darting between the four women and recognising two of them. You wiped your face where your mascara was probably staining your cheeks from crying.

“Penelope, right? Spencer’s friend. And JJ.” You looked between the two blondes.

“Y/N?” Tara frowned. “The Y/N?”

“Uh…yes?” You frowned.

“This is Tara and Emily, we all worked with Spencer at the BAU.” Penelope informed you. “Are you ok? Have you been crying?”

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” You shook your head. “It was nice to see you and meet you. I should be going.”

You started past the women, meanwhile Penelope was giving them all wide eyed glances.

“Look at her,” she whispered. “We can’t let her leave.”

“Are you proposing we ask Reid’s ex-girlfriend to hang out with us?” Emily hissed under her breath.

“I feel bad for her.” JJ replied in equally hushed tones.

“Me too.” Tara agreed.

“For the record,” you spun back to face them. “You’re not being as quiet as you think you are. I’m fine, really. I’m getting used to being broken up with recently. Growing a pretty thick skin.”

Penelope’s face fell, her heart bleeding for you. She hated seeing anyone upset, even people she barely knew. She moved past JJ, Emily and Tara closer to you.

“I insist you join us for a drink. This bar is supposed to be great.” She pointed over her shoulder at the Trouble Bird.

“I think that sounds super weird.” You pulled a face. “No offence, I’m sure you’re all really lovely but as Emily said, I’m your friend's ex-girlfriend. I’m sure Spencer would not love the idea of me drinking with you.”

“Can I ask you one thing?” Emily stepped forward now, eyebrow raised.

“I guess.” You shrugged.

“You being upset, does it have anything to do with Reid?”

“Uh…” you inhaled. “In a roundabout way, kind of.”

“In that case, you will drink with us. If he’s upset you, screw him.” Emily smiled at you, clamping a hand down on your shoulder.

“But you’re his friend?” You pulled a face.

“Guess what, girly?” Garcia clapped her hands together. “We’re your friends now too.”

And with that she took you by the hand and the five of you continued on inside of the bar.

***

Two shots of a tequila and an exuberantly large glass of wine later, you’d eased up a little, spilling your guts to four women you barely knew.

“It’s not even like I care that much, you know?” You sighed. “Sam and I didn’t have a future, I wasn’t in love with him. But bumping into Spencer like that was…fuck it was the worst.”

“What was Spence doing at an art gallery? I am struggling to picture that.” JJ shook her head.

“Blair,” you spat her name out of your mouth like a bad taste. “Beautiful, sweet Blair. She works at the gallery.”

“I’m lost.” Tara looked at the others.

“Yeah, who’s Blair?” Emily added.

“Spencer’s new girlfriend.” You whined.

“Spence has a new girlfriend?” JJ pulled a face.

“Oh!” Garcia gasped, clapping her hands to her face. “The mom! The mom of the boy Daisy likes.”

“You knew?” JJ glared at Penelope.

“I knew he had a date a while ago. Luke and I watched the girls and…” she trailed off as the three BAU ladies smirked.

“You owe me fifty bucks.” Tara nudged Emily. “I told you Alvez and Garcia were dating.”

“Oh boy,” Penelope blushed. “Uh…surprise?”

“I really didn’t think it was true.” Emily shook her head, slapping a bill in Tara’s hand.

“Oh please, Alvez gets all heart eyes every time she walks into a room.” Tara laughed. “But back to the matter at hand. Reid really has a new girlfriend?”

“Yes,” you pouted. “And Sam broke up with me because I got all heart eyes over Spencer without even realising.”

“What is up with him lately?” Emily scoffed. “I’ve never known him date like this.”

“He was married for a really long time.” JJ shrugged.

“He's going through some stuff. Cut him some slack.” Tara sighed and suddenly all eyes were on her.

“What do you know?” Penelope asked her.

“What? I don’t know anything.” Tara tried to shake her off.

“Liar! You know something!” Penelope gasped again. “Spill!”

“I promised him I wouldn’t say anything.” Tara pulled a face. “He’s trying to get sober, I went to a meeting with him a while ago. And he’s seeing a therapist.”

All four of you looked at Tara, letting her words sink in. Tara looked painfully guilty, feeling terrible for breaking her promise to Spencer. But the girls were worried about him, she wanted to try and stem their fears.

“So he’s got himself all shiny and new for Blair.” You huffed. “Fabulous. So I was just the rebound after his wife and now this woman gets the new and improved Spencer? Fucking super.”

Out of nowhere you started to cry. And it wasn’t just a few tears, you started sobbing. You doubled over in your chair, resting your head on the table and wrapping your arms around yourself while you wept.

Penelope was next to you and she wrapped her arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to her.

“Oh Y/N,” She cooed, rubbing your back. “Oh dear, sweet Y/N.”

“Spencer is not himself lately,” Emily reached across the table and stroked your hair. “He’s not always like this.”

“I feel like such an idiot.” You sat up, tears still falling rapidly. “I should not be crying about Spencer in front of you guys.”

“Don’t worry about it.” JJ tried to placate you. “Honestly, it's ok.”

“No it’s not.” You wiped your eyes on the back of your hand. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Don’t leave, not like this.” Tara tried to insist but you were already on your feet.

“Thanks for this, and I’m sorry if I ruined your night.” You sniffed.

“Y/N, you really don’t have to go.” Penelope looked up at you sadly.

“It’s best that I do. Enjoy the rest of your night, please don’t worry about me.” You turned on your heels and fled the bar, the four BAU ladies watching you go.

“Goddamn Reid.” Emily grunted. “She seems like a nice girl.”

“She is.” Penelope was pouting. “When Luke and I ran into them at Barkhaus they seemed so happy.”

“I have so many questions about that sentence, that I am going to put a pin in for now.” JJ shook her head. “Clearly Spence is going through a lot.”

“How long has he been going to therapy, Tara?” Emily asked her, turning to her left.

But Tara wasn’t listening.

She was looking down at her phone and the seven missed calls she’d had in the time they had been sitting here. As she stared at it, it started to ring again, the same number as all the others.

“Who is it? Do you need to get that?” Emily nudged her arm.

With a sign, Tara looked up at her friends, nodding her head stiffly.

“Yeah I probably should,” she exhaled. “It’s Reid.”

***

Spencer sat on the steps of the building with his head between his knees and his eyes closed. He listened to the passing cars, counted them in his head. He also kept count of every set of shoes he heard walk by.

He estimated he sat there for twenty four minutes before he heard another set of footsteps getting closer. He opened his eyes and lifted his head, her image coming into view.

“How many?” Tara asked softly although her body language was somewhat defensive.

“Three.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I stopped at three scotch’s.”

Tara exhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring as she did so. She put her hand on his shoulder.

“You should have called me sooner.”

“Most likely.�� He nodded, feeling like a naughty schoolboy. “I’m sorry.”

“I guess it's some kind of relief you stopped at three.” She guided him back towards the building steps he’d been sitting on.

“Any more than that and I wouldn’t have made it back.” He confessed.

He let Tara lead him inside to the meeting he so sorely needed. Afterwards she took him for coffee, despite the late hour.

“Did I drag you out of bed?” He asked over his mug.

“No, I was at a bar a few blocks away with the girls.” She rolled her lip guiltily between her teeth.

“You told them, didn’t you?”

“I had to.” She replied. “And uh, Y/N too.”

Spencer almost dropped his mug. His eyes bulged and his mouth fell open as he glared at her as if she’d just grown a second head.

“Excuse me?” He spat a little angrier than he’d meant to.

“We bumped into her outside the bar. Garcia and JJ recognised her. She’d been crying and we felt bad for her.” Tara shrugged meekly.

“She’d been crying?” His face fell and his bottom lip pouted at the thought.

“Yeah, she broke up with her boyfriend.”

“She did?” He sat up straight suddenly, like he’d been juiced with an electric current.

“Don’t get too excited,” Tara rolled her eyes. “She’s heartbroken, Reid. You did a real number on her. She thinks she was nothing more than a rebound from Maeve.”

“That’s not true.” He shook his head frantically. “That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“You moved on pretty fast.” Tara sighed, picking up her coffee.

“Only because she did.” He whined a little. “If anything, Blair is a rebound from Y/N. I love her Tara, I love her so much.”

“I am not the one you should be telling this to.” She shrugged.

“You’re right.” He nodded, slipping out of the booth and throwing some bills on the table.

“Where are you going?” Tara frowned up at him.

“To talk to Y/N.”

“Right now?”

“Yes right now!”

“Seems like a pretty bad idea to me.” She cocked an eyebrow.

“Don’t care. I need to see her.” He sounded like he’d made up his mind.

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Tara focused back on her coffee.

“Thanks for coming to the meeting with me.”

“You’re welcome. See you soon, Reid.” She sighed, watching him flee the diner.

She hoped he wasn’t making a terrible mistake. But she feared this would only end in disaster.

***

You were still awake, in bed and staring at the wall unblinking. The alcohol you’d consumed tonight seemed like a long distant memory and you felt horribly sober.

Every muscle in your body hurt but you weren’t sure why. It was as though the heartache was spreading through your extremities, encompassing every pore.

You’d missed Spencer every single second of every single day since you broke up. But after tonight you missed him with a renewed intensity.

To see him with another woman, holding her hand, thinking about what they got up to behind closed doors tore your heart apart all over again.

You’d meant nothing to him, it was as simple as that. You’d just been a notch on his bedpost, a rebound from his wife.

You’d cried so many tears you physically couldn’t cry anymore. So you continued to stare at the wall and hope at some point sleep would wash over you.

After a while there was a knock on your bedroom door but you ignored it. It came again twice more but both times you remained quiet.

Then the door opened and your eyes flicked from the wall to the figure in the doorway.

Your roommate Travis tentatively stepped inside, hands in his pockets.

“Uh, you have a visitor.” He shrugged.

“Don’t care.” You croaked.

“I don’t think he’s going away.” Travis shrugged again.

You frowned and shifted a little on the bed.

“He? He who?” You grumbled, rubbing your sore eyes.

Travis didn’t reply, instead he stepped aside so your visitor could enter the room.

Spencer looked about as bad as you probably did as he shuffled in your room. Travis slipped out behind him and closed the door.

His tie was undone, hanging limply around his neck and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone under his jacket.

You sat up in bed, glaring at him angrily whilst hugging the sheets around your body like some kind of protective armour.

“You’ve got a nerve showing up here.” You tried to sound angry but your voice was no more than a pathetic croak.

“I drank tonight.” He seemingly ignored you, stepping further into your room. “For the first time in weeks, I caved and I drank. Because I saw you.”

“Am I supposed to apologise for that? You’re a grown man Spencer, if you can’t handle your alcohol then that’s on you.” You managed to sound angrier this time.

“It’s called an addiction, Y/N! I don’t have any control of it! I don’t have a healthy, normal attitude towards alcohol. I’m not the kind of person that can just have a drink, I have to drink to excess, get wasted to forget my pathetic fucking life!” He yelled at you and you flinched a little.

“If you just came here to yell at me then leave. I am in no mood to listen to your bullshit, Spencer. Go back to your girlfriend. I don’t want you here.” You shook your head at him.

“No,” he stepped even further into the room. “I’m not going anywhere until I’ve said what I came here to say.”

“And what did you come here to say?” You got out of bed as he got closer, hating the way he was looming over you.

You only wore a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top and you tried to ignore how exposed you felt.

“I quit drinking, or at least it tried, I’m trying. I started therapy, I’m trying to be a better version of myself.”

“Yeah, for your new girlfriend.” You scoffed.

“Seriously? That’s what you think? You think I’m doing all of this for her?” He sounded incredulous.

“Who did you do it for then? Enlighten me.” You growled, throwing your hands up in the air.

“For a start, I’m doing it for my daughters because they deserve more from me.”

“Agreed.” You rolled your eyes.

“But I’m also doing it for you! I’m doing it because I want to be the kind of man who is worthy of your love.” He lowered his voice a little but the anger still shone through.

“Oh please,” you shook your head. “You didn’t love me, Spencer. You love your ex-wife. Or maybe you love Blair, who knows? I can’t keep up with you.”

“Yeah, I do love my ex-wife, ok?” He grabbed you by the biceps suddenly, making you whimper. “Of course I do! It’s normal for me to feel that way. Her hurting me doesn’t change the fact that we had a lot of good years together. It doesn’t erase the fact she’s the mother of my kids. But it also doesn’t mean for a second that I don’t also love you.”

“I think you’re just scared to be alone.” You shook your head. “You can’t stand to be lonely. You don’t love me Spencer, you just want someone to play happy families with. Well it won’t be me.”

Spencer hissed and suddenly, using his grip on your arms he spun you around and shoved you up against the wall.

You whined as your back slammed into it, his grip on your biceps tightening.

“You think I’m lying? You think I would stand here and lie to you?” He spat right in your face.

“I didn’t say that. You might think you love me, but you only want me until the next pretty face walks by.”

“What the fuck do you think of me?” He shook you a little. “You think I’m some kind of fucking asshole who uses women and throws them aside once he’s done with them?”

“If the shoe fits.” You shrugged.

His jaw clenched tightly and his eyes were brimming with his rage.

“I didn’t throw you aside, Y/N, you walked away.”

“Because I heard you telling your ex you were still in love with her!” You yelled again, fighting against his hold on you but he was stronger. “And then suddenly you’re dating someone else entirely. How is that supposed to make me feel?”

“I thought she was what I needed. She knows what I’ve been through, she understands because she’s been there too. But she’s not you, she’ll never be you. And you aren’t exactly innocent in all of this, you moved on from me pretty fast if I remember correctly.” He was caging you into the wall, trapping you in your own room.

“I was trying to get over you.” You scoffed.

“By fucking some frat boy looking behemoth?” He raised his voice again.

“Don’t turn this around on me. It was your fault we broke up, not mine. If you’re allowed to sleep with every single mom who looks your way then I’m allowed to sleep with the decent guy who has had feelings for me since college!” You yelled back but you noticed his expression falter. “What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head, finally letting go of you and taking a step back.

“What is it? I touched a nerve.”

“I didn’t sleep with her, ok? Is that what you want to hear? I didn’t sleep with her.”

“You expect me to believe that? You couldn’t get me into bed fast enough when we met!” You shook your head.

“You want to know the truth?” He suddenly grabbed you again and you found yourself quickly being pinned to the wall once more. “The truth is I couldn’t get it up for her. And I thought it was because of my goddamn antidepressants but it wasn’t. It wasn’t my meds, it couldn’t have been.”

“Why couldn’t it have been?” You swallowed thickly.

“Because,” he clenched his jaw again. “From the second you got out of bed and I saw what you were wearing…I got hard without so much as touching you and I have been ever since.”

You felt the air leave your lungs and you couldn’t stop from glancing down between your bodies, as if you needed proof. But low and behold you saw it, the obvious tenting in his slacks.

Your eyes flicked back up to his face and he was staring intently at you.

“So while you might have been spreading your legs for someone else, I couldn’t physically bring myself to sleep with her. I couldn’t even fucking masturbate because my hand isn’t you!” He spat.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” You scowled at him. “Am I supposed to fall to my knees and thank you? You think you can come here and tell me you can’t get it up for another woman and I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“You got in my head, don’t you understand? You got in my head and into my heart. You’re under my skin, in my veins like a drug. Maeve, Blair; they have nothing on you. I thought Maeve was the love of my life because I didn’t know any better. She’s not the love of my life, you are!” He pushed you more firmly against the wall, his hips now pressing into yours and you could feel just how hard he was.

Did it make you a complete idiot for thinking you may fall back into bed with him? He made it so easy to hate him, but he also made it impossible not to love him.

You didn’t want to forgive him, didn’t want to give in and relent to him but it felt inevitable. The way he was looking at you coupled with his firm hold on your arms and his hard cock pressing against you was making you weak.

It was only a matter of time.

“I’m not even sure you know what love is.” You scoffed.

Were you deliberately baiting him? Were you purposefully trying to anger him further? Was there a part of you that liked seeing him like this, pushed to his limits?

As expected he tightened his grip on you and you could feel the bruises starting to form.

“Are you trying to get a rise out of me, sweetheart?” He spoke, practically reading your mind.

“Whether I am or not, clearly it’s working.” You shrugged. “But if I really wanted to get a rise out of you I suppose I could tell you that while you couldn’t get it up for your girlfriend, I was having some incredibly mind blowing sex with Sam.”

Why were you doing this? What the fuck was wrong with you?

Perhaps it was the anger still flooding your veins, the hurt Spencer had caused you lingered like a rain cloud. Maybe you wanted him to know how it felt, you wanted him to feel your pain.

His eyes darkened as he stared at you and a menacing kind of smirk spread across his lips.

“Oh darling,” he chuckled deeply, angrily. “You and I both know he has nothing on me.”

“Wow, big headed much?”

“It’s not big headed if it’s a fact.” He laughed darkly again. “I put my all into everything I do, research and study so I am the very best at anything I set my mind to. And that is how I know I am good in bed. Better than that oversized asshat you spent your time with.”

You swallowed again, subconsciously pressing your thighs together. You hoped he didn’t notice but of course he did.

“How wet are you right now, Y/N?” He smirked, his eyes practically black.

“I’m…not.” You lied and he saw right through you.

“Oh ok,” he laughed again with a roll of his eyes. “So if I was to do this…”

He trailed off and removed one hand from your bicep. You watched it move between your bodies and suddenly it was between your legs, ghosting over the fabric of your shorts.

The soaking wet fabric of your shorts.

You hissed involuntarily and Spencer moved his hand back up to your bicep looking incredibly smug.

“I thought so.” He grinned dangerously. “You know you only need to say the word and I’m yours.”

“No.” You shook your head. “You hurt me, you broke my fucking heart!”

“Let me make it better, princess. I can make it up to you.” He softened, looking at you with something akin to love in his eyes.

“No.” You whimpered. “You can’t make up for what you’ve done.”

The darkness quickly returned to his eyes and in one swift move his lips were slamming into yours. You whined and the second your lips were parted his tongue plunged into your mouth.

You allowed him to kiss you, his hips grinding against yours. You were putty in his hands, a complete and utter idiot. But you didn’t care.

The kiss didn’t last very long before he was pulling back and staring deep into your eyes.

“You don’t want me?” He narrowed his eyes on you. “You want me to leave?”

You swallowed, trying to muster the strength to tell him to go, to leave and never come back. But you couldn’t.

Instead you quickly wrapped your arms around his neck and tugged him back in for another kiss. And if you didn’t know any better, you could have sworn he was smirking into your lips.

Soon enough he was manoeuvring you away from the wall and over to your bed. His lips remained on yours, deepening the kiss as he went. You felt the back of your calves hit the bed but Spencer kept you upright with his hold still on your arms.

He moved his hands now, fingertips grazing down the sides of your rib cage, lower and lower until they reached the hem of your tank top. He hooked his fingers in the fabric and started raking it up your body.

He pulled back from the kiss, his lips puffy and swollen, and you raised your arms for him to lift the top the rest of the way off. He tossed it aside quickly and your hands found the ends of his tie, still hanging around his neck.

You used it to pull him back in for another kiss and then started on the buttons of his shirt. He shrugged his jacket off in the meantime and let it hit the floor.

You got him out of his shirt and it joined the other clothes on the floor. And then he pushed you back to the bed until your back collided with the mattress.

He regarded you with his dark eyes and a sinful smirk before crawling on the bed, kneeling either side of your hips. He laid on top of you, hissing at the contact from your bare chests.

He stroked your hair lovingly back off of your face in a stark contrast to his previous roughness. But it only lasted a moment as soon he was kissing you again with renewed fervour.

He grinded his hips against yours, relishing in the feeling of being able to get hard again. He should have known it wasn’t his meds. He should have known you’d be the cure.

His lips left yours and peppered kisses along your jawline. Your head rolled back to allow him access to your neck. In kind he moved lower, lips sucking against the skin on the front of your throat.

Your hands wandered to his shoulder blades, nails kneading the muscles while he moved on to place kisses all along your collarbones.

Soon they ebbed lower, lips leaving their trail over the tops of your breasts and then down your sternum.

He circled back to place a deep kiss on the swell of your breast before you felt his tongue swirl around your hardened nipple.

You moaned as he took the bud in his mouth, teeth grazing your peak, teasingly nibbling it. You arched your back, toes curling.

He sucked and nipped for a few moments before offering the same treatment to your other nipple. You were writhing beneath him on the bed, wanton moans and breathy pants leaving your parted lips.

A few more strategically placed kisses between your breasts and he was continuing his journey down your stomach, around your belly button and then across each hip.

You were rolling your hips up to meet him, desperate for more. He smirked against your skin, knowing he was driving you crazy but that was part of the fun.

He looked up at you through his hair which had now fallen into his face, while he placed kisses along the waistband of your cotton shorts.

You’d moved to grip his shoulders and were not so subtly trying to push him lower.

“Use your words, princess.” He spoke against your shorts. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.” You whined.

“Do I?” He teased. “I think you might have to spell it out for me.”

He sat back a few inches, his large hands now on your thighs and parting them so he could kneel between them.

Your pupils were blown out as you looked up at him, face flushed red with your arousal.

“Please,” you whimpered.

“Please, what?” He was enjoying this. He was enjoying this too much.

“Please go down on me. Please, Spencer? God I missed your mouth between my legs.”

He made the most animalistic sound, closing his eyes and feeling his cock throb painfully. When he opened his eyes again you were staring right at him, begging him with your gaze.

“Oh how I have missed being between your legs.” He lowered himself again, kissing along your stomach once more whilst tugging at the hem of your shorts.

You arched your back again to aid him pulling them down your legs, the wet patch left behind in the fabric making Spencer feral.

He balled up the garment and brought them to his nose, inhaling deeply and moaning as the scent of your arousal encompassed him.

“Is this all for me, angel?” He smirked, dropping the shorts on the floor.

“Of course,” you nodded, hooking your legs over his shoulders. “Only ever for you, Spence.”

“Such a good girl for me.” He rewarded you by placing a kiss on your inner thigh. “Who do you belong to?”

“Y-you.” You stuttered, desperate for him.

“Good girl.” He repeated and kissed the inside of your other thigh. “Who’s better in bed, angel? Me or that pumped up frat boy?”

“You are!” You whined. “No one’s better than you.”

“You really are such a good girl for me, Y/N.” He smiled, kissing slightly higher on your thigh.

“So g-good.” You agreed. “P-please?”

“Well, since you did ask so nicely.” He bowed his head, blowing air between your legs and making you squirm.

He lifted one arm and pressed his forearm over your hips, holding you in place. And then his tongue cautiously swiped through your silken folds.

He collected your arousal on his tongue, moaning at how good you tasted. You whimpered and your eyes fell shut, blindly reaching out until you found his head and threaded your fingers into his locks.

You dug your nails into his roots when he found purchase on your clit. He swiped his tongue back and forth over your sensitive bud a couple of times before wrapping his lips around it.

He suckled on you, tongue jutting out every so often to add to the pleasure. You tugged at his hair, grinding against his face, needing more.

He smiled against you, his free hand edging up your thigh. You felt two long, nimble fingers press against you.

He glanced up at you through his lashes and he saw your eyes squeezed tightly shut and a few tears forcing their way out.

He continued to lap over your clit while he pushed his two digits inside of you. He growled against you, he’d almost forgotten how good you felt. The way you stretched around his fingers was heaven, and suddenly he couldn’t wait to feel it around his cock again.

He’d had every intention of bringing you to orgasm like this and he knew it wouldn’t take a lot. But as he fingered you, his digits moving deftly in and out of your throbbing cunt, he simply couldn’t wait any longer.

He pulled his mouth away from you, causing your eyes to suddenly open. He kept his fingers inside of you, stretching you as much as he could in preparation.

“Why’d you stop?” You whimpered, tears staining your face.

“I don’t think I can wait any longer.” His fingers brushed against your cervix and you shuddered and moaned. “I’m sorry, I need to be inside of you so badly.”

“Ok.” You nodded. “Please?”

He kissed your hip bones whilst scissoring his fingers inside of you a few more times. His other hand worked on the button of his slacks.

When he removed his fingers you whined again, feeling horribly empty. Spencer sat back so he could shimmy off his pants and underwear before laying back down on top of you.

His hard member found its way between your legs and he moved back and forth through your slick a few times. He bowed his head to kiss you, cupping your jaw tenderly.

“You’re not on birth control are you?” He spoke against your lips.

“I am now, I started on the pill.” You replied.

What you didn't say was that you’d gone on it because of his own paranoia. He’d somehow transferred his obsession with birth control onto you. He’d told you condoms were ninety eight percent effective, eighty five when factoring in human error. The pill, as you’d researched, was over ninety nine percent effective when taken at the same time every day, which you did religiously.

“Great.” He swallowed thickly, sitting back between your parted legs.

He held the base of his shaft and lined himself up with your desperate hole.

“I have condoms though.” You frowned up at him.

“I want to do this. I want to feel you, really feel you.” He insisted.

“You’re sure?”

“Did you use protection with him?”

“Yes.” You nodded.

“Then I’m sure.” He nodded although he wasn’t entirely sure that was true.

He did want this, more than anything, but that didn’t take away his fear of getting you pregnant. Realistically he knew the pill was incredibly safe, and the likelihood of you getting pregnant was very low. He couldn’t help but be paranoid.

But he wanted this, needed this. He wanted to take your relationship to a level he never thought he’d experience again. He wanted to be sheathed inside of you with no barrier, nothing between his cock and your throbbing walls.

“I will warn you I have not had unprotected sex in a very long time and I’m already dangerously close so if this doesn’t last long…”

“I don’t care.” You rolled your hips against him. “Please, Spencer?”

He nodded, taking a breath to stem his nerves. Keeping hold of the base of his cock he slowly pushed his way inside of you, his eyes rolling back in his head the second he inched passed your entrance.

The sounds emanating from his lips could only be described as sinful. He was careful in his movements, disappearing inside of you inch by painful inch.

It felt like coming up for air. Being inside of you like this was the most incredible feeling of his whole life. He could feel every tiny movement of you stretching around his heavy length, the smallest fluttering of your walls.

He bottomed out inside of you and collapsed on top of you, nuzzling his face against your neck and breathing heavily.

“There are no words in any human language to describe what that feels like.” He spoke into your skin. “You're definitely on the pill?”

“One hundred percent.” You confirmed, wrapping your arms around him.

“Good,” he lifted his head enough to look you in the eyes. “Because I want nothing more than to come inside of you.”

You moaned deeply and he felt you clench around him. His hips bucked involuntarily.

“P-please,” you nodded. “Please I want you to come inside me.”

He pushed himself back up, his hands either side of your face. You wrapped your own hands around his biceps, squeezing him to encourage him to move.

He started slowly, not wanting this feeling to end too soon. He pulled back almost all the way before leisurely sinking back inside of you.

He stared down on you, not breaking eye contact as he moved in and out of you. He was already close and he didn’t want this to end so soon so he continued his slow thrusts.

With each one his blunt head nudged against your bundle of nerves, and elicited a deep moan from your lungs. He was panting and grunting, closing his eyes briefly every time you clenched around his bare dick.

At that moment he had never felt so intrinsically connected to someone. He felt like he’d become a part of you and you him. Your body was simply an extension of his own.

He could feel so much, he’d forgotten what it was like to be like this, it was a feeling he wanted to last forever.

He’d never been so raw and exposed with another person and for a while that was the most wonderful feeling. But as he felt his orgasm start to build in the pit of his stomach, another unwelcome sensation joined it.

What the fuck am I doing?

He closed his eyes as an onslaught of emotions erupted inside of him. The voice of a woman he’d had a one night stand with telling him she was pregnant. Falling in love with a woman who could so easily tear apart the life they’d built together like it was a house of cards.

Spencer I’m keeping this baby whether you want to be a part of its life or not.

Spencer I’ve been having an affair.

Spencer, this is Bobby, my boyfriend.

Why is mommy leaving?

Why doesn’t she want to live with us anymore?

“Can’t do this.” He mumbled, his movements slowing ever further.

“Huh?” You panted squeezing his biceps. “I’m close Spence, don’t stop.”

“Can’t do this.” He repeated, his eyes snapping open.

He stared down at you again, stilling his movements completely. A look of remorse washed over him and he shook his head.

“I’m sorry.” He withdrew you, physically and mentally.

You whined when he pulled out, sitting up and frowning at him.

“What are you doing?” You mumbled, head hazy with your impending orgasm of which you’d been denied.

“I can’t do it.” He moved off the bed, getting to his feet, ignoring the fact his cock was still standing at attention.

“So we’ll use a condom.” You stared at his back.

“No, it’s not just that.” He turned back to you, eyes full of sorrow. “I should go.”

“What? Why?” You pulled the sheet around your body feeling exposed although Spencer didn’t seem to notice he was still naked.

“I shouldn’t have come here, I’m sorry. I can’t do this Y/N.”

“Do what?”

“This. Us. It’s not going to work is it? We know that.”

“How do we know that?” You frowned at him.

“Have you just completely forgotten that we want different things? That hasn’t changed.” He shrugged, finding his boxers on the floor and pulling them on now as his dick started to soften with his overwhelming emotions.

“You came to me. You came to me, not the other way around. You come here and tell me you love me and sleep with me and now you’re saying this?” You were incredulous.

You jumped out of bed, quickly throwing your clothes back on while Spencer did the same. He didn’t button his shirt properly but he didn’t care or notice.

“I can’t do this, I can’t bring someone into my girls lives when it’s not going to work out. They’ve already been hurt by one woman, I can’t have them be hurt by another.” He raised his voice a little, stuffing his tie in his pocket.

“They have or you have?” You scoffed. “Let’s be honest here, Spencer. This isn’t about your kids, it’s about you.”

“No,” he shook his head. “No it’s not.”

“Maeve hurt you, I get it. But not everyone is like that.” You tried to reason with him but he kept shaking his head.

“I’ve known you for all of five minutes Y/N, I knew her for thirteen years. If someone can hurt another person that way after over a decade of marriage and two children then who’s to say you couldn’t do the same?” He spat, pushing his hair back from his face.

“So this is about you.”

“No,” he frowned. “What is meant is, if someone can hurt their own daughters that way, who’s to say a stranger couldn’t do it too.”

“Bullshit,” you rolled your eyes. “You’re scared Spencer and I understand that. What Maeve did to you was horrible, I can’t even begin to imagine what that was like for you. But you have to have faith that not everyone is out to hurt you.”

“Faith?” He scoffed, his expression indignant. “I have to have faith? Faith in another human being not to hurt my girls the way their own mother hurt them?”

“Spencer, come on. This isn’t just about them and you know it!” You yelled, getting frustrated by his deflection.

“You don’t get it.” He growled. “You don’t get it because you don’t have kids.”

“Kids are tough. They bounce back quicker. It’s adults that are the vulnerable ones. We’re the ones that hang onto those losses, that feel the pain longer. I’m not doubting for a second that your wife hurt them when she left and I am not saying they probably aren’t still harbouring some kind of feelings about it. But they are buoyant and you’ve let yourself drown.” You folded your arms over your chest, shaking a head a little in disappointment.

You saw the way he clenched his jaw, the way his eyes darkened again and it didn’t at all take you by surprise when he stepped forward and grabbed you roughly by the arm.

“You don’t know anything,” he was really close to you, spitting his words right in your face. “You don’t have kids, you don’t get it. You don’t get to tell me what my kids are going through. You don’t get to tell me what I’m going through. You don’t know my girls, and you don’t know me.” He shook you by the arm but you wouldn’t show him your fear.

“You think I don’t know you? Oh please.” You scoffed, his grip on you getting firmer, blunt fingernails pressing into the previous marks he’d left behind.

“You know the things I’ve actively shown you. You know the side of me I am willing for you to see. You don’t know me. Not the real me.” He growled, spittal flying from his lips.

“I know you.” You spat back. “I know you’re scared of being vulnerable, terrified of letting someone close to you because you were hurt in a way no one should ever have to be hurt by someone they love. You built up walls to protect your heart from another beating. You use your kids as an excuse not to let anyone in. Because deep down you are petrified of getting your heart broken again. So you’re pushing me away because you think it’ll be easier than giving me a chance to hurt you.”

His eyes were practically black now, his pupils and irises bleeding together in his anger. His grip on you was so tight it was starting to hurt but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him as much.

“You don’t know shit. You think because you're getting your doctorate in psychology that you can read me? If that’s the best you’ve got you’ve got a lot to learn.” He let go of you now, turning away from you. “This isn’t up for debate Y/N. This was a mistake, I shouldn’t have come here and now I’m leaving.”

“Coward,” you spat. “Fucking coward.”

He spun back to you, eyes somehow even darker than before.

“Fuck you.” He replied childishly.

“You’d rather be alone and miserable than be with someone you love on the off chance you might get hurt? That’s pretty cowardly Spencer.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I only told you I loved you to get you into bed?” A menacing smirk blossomed on his lips. “You said it yourself, I couldn’t get you into bed fast enough when we met. I was touch starved, I needed to get laid. I would have said just about anything to get in your pants.”

“That’s not true.” You shook your head meekly.

“It most certainly is true, Y/N.” He chuckled darkly.

“You’re lying.” You whimpered.

“Am I?” He clucked. “Do you really believe that?”

“If that’s true you are exceptionally cruel.” Your eyes misted over with tears.

“Like I said, you don’t know me. Maybe I’m just a cruel person.” He shrugged, taking a few steps backwards.

“I hope one day you wake up and realise you made a huge mistake.” You snarled at him. “I hope you wake up and it hurts, it hurts everywhere. It hurts because you threw away a chance at real happiness. I hope that day comes and I hope you track me down to tell me how much it fucking hurts. Just so I can say, respectfully Doctor Reid, go burn in hell.”

You stormed past him, flinging the door open and glaring at him angrily. His expression faltered a little, the darkness in his eyes fading.

“Y/N I…”

“Leave.” You motioned to the open door. “Get out of my apartment you asshole.”

He clenched his jaw, feeling a tightness spread to chest. It was as though he had been possessed for a moment, like something else had taken over his body. Now he looked at you, the pain behind your eyes, he wanted to take back every single word he hadn’t meant to say.

“I don’t think that I-”

“Don’t care.” You cut him off. “Whatever you have to say, I don’t care. I am done listening to you now. Get the fuck out of my apartment and don’t even think about coming back here. You might have saved yourself and your kids the pain but you have shattered my heart into a million tiny pieces Spencer Reid. I hope you’re fucking happy.”

“Y/N…”

“Go!” You yelled. “Now! Or I’ll call the cops.”

Spencer clenched his jaw again, rhythmically grinding his rear molars together to try and stem any tears that might threaten to fall. He gave you one last look before he nodded and headed past you through the open door.

Seconds later, before he even made it to your front door, he heard the bedroom one slam, so loudly the walls shook.

And he knew before he even got to the door that he was going to leave here, find a bar and get so drunk he may never wake up.

@foxy-eva @kbakery @chrissyflo3 @simxican @aysixdy @givemeth @loonalockley @shamelessfangirl-3 @redbulldinner @derekm24

@pinkiceee-prose @werewolfbansheelove @mindbelova @hades-disappointment-child @weirdothatwritess

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

253 notes · View notes

seravphs · 1 year ago

Text

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — WOLFWOOD x FEM READER

You thought you'd be the one taking care of the stray you picked up off the streets, not the other way around.

wc — 3.6k

tags — fluff, dog boy/werewolf/shapeshifter au I guess, whatever you want to call it, “you become responsible forever for what you have tamed” but it goes both ways, animal abuse mention (non graphic and not from reader), shoujo manga vibes, title from runaway by Aurora

There’s a mangy old stray on your block. You’ve seen the kids chase him off with sticks too many times not to want to do something about it, no matter how your mother used to scold you for your bleeding heart.

“It’ll get you hurt someday,” echoes now in your ears as the cashier rings up your dog food, both wet and dry. You’re not sure which he’d - it seems like a he - would prefer.

$12.97 is your total. Not a bad price to pay for a life.

Only a gentle kind of revolt, more teasing than genuinely angry, remains in your mind as the first drops of rain land on your face. It was a light mist, barely enough to dampen the sweet smelling air. The wet haze pulled blurry rainbows across the clear summer sky, enough to put a hop in your step as you hurried back to your apartment.

There are no children today, and the neighborhood is quiet. A half dug hole by the adjacent apartment’s peonies tells you that your target is either nearby or at least recently in town. You unpack your bag, setting out a trap in the form of a can of wet food.

Something skulks in the periphery of your vision. Trying not to startle him, you peek at the shadow out of the corner of your eye. You didn’t know dogs grew to be this big.

When you really look at him, your stray seems more wolf than dog. He’d be nearly as large as as a human if he stood up on his back paws. Hiding beneath the trees where he thinks you can’t see him, he’s tense and untrusting.

It’s strange for you to think of yourself as capable of making anyone nervous, much less someone as big as he is. You take a step back.

He edges forward, then flees into the shadows again. He’s hesitant. His paws skitter across the grass, beating a fast and unsteady tempo that reveals how nervous he is. It’s obvious that he won’t come out to eat as long as you’re here. That’s fine.

Trust can be earned.

From your apartment’s windows, you watch him gulp down the food. He’s so clearly famished that he doesn’t even pause to breathe between bites, leaving you almost afraid that he’ll choke. When he’s finished, he lies down by his bowl, his eyes glittering.

He’s not asleep - he’s too wary a creature for that, but it’s relieving to see him relaxed and sated. He dozes like that for a minute or two before he lifts himself back up on weary paws to trot back into the woods.

You’ve tried to make it a routine to feed him after work, stopping by the pet store to pick up different flavors you think he’d like to try. Neon stickers pop out at you from various tags on the shelves, promising to boost muscle growth or improve bone strength.

In the end, you get them all. When all you do is work, you don’t worry about blowing your money on things like this. You have nothing else to spend it on - might as well spoil him. It’s nice to be able to take care of someone else.

It might be all in your head, but you think he’s starting to warm up to you. He still waits until you’re gone to eat, but it’s easier to keep tabs on him now. You don’t think it’s an accident.

Sneaking a glance out of the corner of your eye, you can spot the telltale signs that he was waiting. Sometimes you even find him waiting for your car to pull in.

Today, you find him at the end of your driveway, his tail thumping against the pavement. He’s in a good mood, it seems. When you park, he even gives a short howl.

He still retreats when you climb out of the driver’s side, only inching forward when you rustle your plastic bag of groceries at him. You crack the lid and set it down slightly in front of you to wait it out.

You’ve been trying to get him used to your presence so you can take him to the vet. It’s a slow process - some days he’s more amenable to your presence than others.

It takes a minute or two for him to consider if it’s worth it, if you’ll hurt him. Eventually, he slinks forward, his body low to the ground.

You smile at him encouragingly as you wait, crouched down to be on the same level as him. He’s a big dog, probably almost the same height as you sitting down. He pauses in front of the food and sniffs cautiously. Then, he passes it.

Your heart drops. Maybe he didn’t like it. Had you picked wrong? He’s eaten everything you gave him before - you didn’t think he was picky.

He comes right up to you, his hot breath gusting over your hand. Suddenly you realize that this is a predator. He might be feral or have rabies. After everything, you realize you don’t really know him.

Animals aren’t like humans. You’ve assigned a wild beast your own moral complications and assumptions. Perhaps it’s hungry enough to want to eat you.

He’s close enough that you can feel the warm weight of his body against your shins. Something fuzzy bumps into your hand insistently until you lift it. You realize that he’s asking to be pet and with trembling fingers, you do.

Your fingers stroke over his head and ears, growing surer with the way he’s pushing back against you. It tickles just a little, enough to make you giggle until he shoves his snout right into your palm. His nose is cold and wet.

“Go on,” you encourage, trying to nudge him towards the bowl. No matter how nice his fur feels, there’s something heartbreaking about watching him choose love over food.

“You need to eat,” you scold. He sneezes in a way that makes him shake all over. If he wasn’t a dog, you’d think he was smiling at you. He only takes a mouthful when you reach out to resume petting him. He seems to like it when you scratch right behind his ears.

You almost feel like you’ve formed a bond until he stops right at the boundary of your home and refuses to walk any further. You had thought you were getting along so well, too.

“Come on,” you coax. “Here, boy. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

He skitters back anyways, circling your property with a low, mournful howl before he trots back towards the perimeter.

Progress is progress, you try to remind yourself, however disappointed you are.

Sometimes, it feels like you’re not making any at all. There are days where you can’t even watch him eat, not knowing if he’s alright until the next time you find an empty bowl. Your fears are only alleviated by the moments where he lets you pet him or waits for you, a reminder that you are earning his trust.

It may be a slow process, but he is becoming more comfortable with you, little by little.

Now it worries you when you can’t find him sitting in his usual spot, wary but excited. He doesn’t come even when you peel back the lid of the can noisily, the metal crumpling easily in your hand. You can’t help your anxieties from multiplying, though logically you know that he’s probably just off doing whatever dogs do in their free time.

You’re already halfway up the walkway to your house when you turn back. You can’t go inside without knowing he’s safe. A quick lap around the neighborhood reveals nothing. You’re checking behind bushes and cars when you hear the first faint whimper.

Frantically, you push the leaves aside until you find him huddling in the center of a rose bush. He’s curled up on himself, as small as he could possibly be. His tail is tucked under his nose.

Your hands are pricked with thousands of little needles as you keep digging for him. You can’t imagine how much worse it would be for him. This could only have been his last resort. Something worse had chased him here.

He wags his tail when he sees you, barely able to lift his head. Seeing him struggle, you can’t help yourself. You push the branches aside to help him drag himself out, his body battered. Those kids again.

“Come on, baby,” you coo, stroking his matted fur as you pick him up in your arms. He’s not as heavy as he should be, starved as he is. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll take care of you.”

It was settled before you could decide it for yourself. He’s your responsibility now. There was never a choice in it.

Dr. Rem’s assistant comes out to fetch you less than five minutes into the check up. “I think you should stay,” he says, his tone just cool enough to sound a touch annoyed.

Your overgrown puppy won’t submit to her ministrations unless you’re in the room with him, stroking his ears and promising that everything will be alright. He must’ve been a pet at some point, to know what needles are and have such a reaction to them. To know that despite the initial pinch, it’s okay as long as you’re being pet.

When it’s finally over, both of you are exhausted, but Dr. Rem is as professional as ever as she walks you through the care routine for his treatments. “Honestly,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t understand how some people can be so cruel.”

You don’t either, but it doesn’t matter. He’s yours now, and you’ll never let anything touch him again.

“Does he have a name?” Dr. Rem’s incredibly blonde assistant asks as he’s filling out your release forms.

“I’ve just been calling him dog,” you admit bashfully.

He doesn’t need to speak. His expression says it all. Unbelievable.

You take a look at the creature you’ve decided to bring home. He does look more like a wolf than a dog. You’ve always thought so. “Wolfwood?”

“What a weird - ahem, interesting - name for a dog,” Nai, from his name tag, says.

By your feet, Wolfwood wags his tail in agreement.

“Wolfie?”

His tail wags harder. He pauses. It wags again. He turns around and nips at it, like he’s trying to hide the fact that he might like the nickname.

When you try to carry him from the car into your home, he clambers stiffly to his feet like an old man. You have to hide your laugh behind a couch. For some reason, he seems more human than animal. You’ve caught him noticing things no normal dog would, and you’re sure his pride would be injured.

The sound his nails clicking across the floor is strangely comforting, like ASMR. You’ve heard that dogs are naturally helpful to lower cortisol and reduce stress, but you’ve never thought you’d experience those effects. You lean down to stroke a hand over his furry coat, carefully avoiding the spots where he’s still hurt.

When it’s bedtime, you’ve resolved to give him the comfort of your bed and take the couch, but he’s not having any of that. His jaw snaps around the hem of your shirt, teeth digging into the fabric to prevent you from leaving. Immediately, you stop moving, afraid to hurt him worse.

“Calm down,” you say gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He barks in discontent. He really does seem human, as if he understood you.

Out of options, you resign yourself to curling up on the bed next to him, hoping you won’t accidentally roll over him in your sleep. Maybe you should invest in one of those bed dividers they use for small children. It’s the last thought in your head before you drift off.

A deep, reverberating sound wakes you up. You roll over with the pillow shoved on top of your head to try to get some peace, but it continues. Fed up, you finally rise out of your comfortable sheets, ready to give whichever neighbor that’s decided sunrise was a great time to mow their lawn a piece of your mind.

Instead, you’re greeted with a strange man in your bed. Your scream is cut short by his hand clapping over your mouth as soon as you start.

“Oops.” He says. “My bad.”

Your eyes grow wider in terror.

“Hey, hey,” he says soothingly, like that’s going to help when there’s a random man in your bed. “None of that. I’m a friend.”

You scream louder. In a spark of inspiration, you try to bite him. He winces. That’s when you start noticing the ears and the tail. The faint resemblances to someone else you know. The bandages wrapped around his torso.

“That’s right,” he says, noticing you look. “Recognize me now? Would this help?”

The tail flicks back and forth in a familiar motion. Someone else used to do that to show his happiness.

“Wolfie?”

“That’s a stupid name,” he laughs.

“I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Don’t do that,” he says, but it’s too late. You’re going back to bed.

You’re not sure why you’re not more surprised that the stray you picked up is actually a human, but after your initial reaction, you find yourself remarkably open to the idea. Part of you feels privately that you’ve always expected Wolfie to be special. He seemed so smart.

You’re in too deep to kick him out now, human or not, but that also might be an excuse. Having him around is nice, you have to admit. Whether he’s a human or a dog, having someone to come home to has changed your life.

You hadn’t realized how lonely you were until you came home to Wolfwood preparing dinner, the apron you bought for him wrapped around his waist. It reads ‘kiss the chef’ in bright pink letters.

Although you’re the one who took him in, you feel like you’re the one being taken care of.

It’s not just you. Even your coworkers have commented on the way you rush home now instead of staying up until the very last minute. You can’t keep up with your bad habits anymore. There’s someone waiting for you now.

When you open the door, the delicious fragrance of something savory drifts to your nose, spiced and warm. “I’m home,” you call.

There’s no need. He’s already waiting at the door. It’s a comical sight. He tries to make it casual, leaning against the wall with an oh-so-nonchalant air, but he’s there every single time you walk through the entrance without fail.

It’s too easy to get used to his presence.

Having someone to come home to makes you quicker to turn down overtime requests and more hesitant to take on additional duties. You thought this would hurt your work report, and you were willing to take the hit. Some things are worth it.

Instead, your productivity spikes. Even your manager notices, doling out rare and surprised praise on one of your last projects. The change in you is palpable.

“Did you get a boyfriend?” Meryl asks. “You seem happier lately.”

Everyone notices the way you seem brighter, more easygoing. You’ve started bringing homemade lunch boxes instead of eating out. Your good mood has translated into a better work product than any amount of indifferent hours you put in before.

It’s still a surprise when you receive your promotion at the end of the quarter. Something you’ve been working towards for months drops right in your lap. Lately, it feels like everything has been falling into place.

Good things arrive on the heels of even better things, all because you’ve felt more personally fulfilled than you have in years. You though taking Wolfwood in would slow you down, but it’s done the opposite.

You have more time now that you have someone looking after you. It also motivates you to have someone of your own to care for.

When you present the news to him, you can’t stop yourself from crying out of happiness, though it’s embarrassing. Wolfwood licks at the small tears rolling down your cheeks.

“What are you doing?” You laugh, trying to push his face away with no real effort behind it.

“Kisses,” he replies. “For doing a good job.”

Not like that, you try to remind yourself. He doesn’t mean it like that.

“Why is your heart beating faster?”

Stupid dog senses.

There are other ways in which his dog nature comes in handy. He’s more sensitive to nature than you are. You’ve come to rely on him instead of the forecast as he sends you off every morning, his nose scenting the ozone and petrichor in the air.

“Don’t forget to take an umbrella!”

“I’m already running late, bye!”

You should’ve listened. Now you’re forced to trudge through the damp muck, soaked to the bone. Your sneeze is so strong it rattles through your bones, making you feel achey and weak as you sniffle through the last leg of your journey. By the time you finally reach the front door, you feel as pathetic as you must look, like a half drowned rat.

Wolfwood is waiting for you again, but you barely register it. You nearly stumble over a cabinet leg as you try to make your way to the couch through the dizziness, collapsing on it. Wolfwood pads over to you, making a low grumbling noise of concern.

“Shh,” you murmur as you feel his cold nose shove into your palm. “Not right now, Wolfie. I’m tired.”

He puts his head across your thigh and whines discontentedly. Your breathing is coming a little hard. Still, you try to reassure him. “I’m okay. Just had a long day.”

There’s human hands against your forehead now, nice and cool. You turn your head so you can nuzzle into it, the gentle pressure relieving your headache just a little.

Someone’s holding you now, arms around your back and sides. “Come on, sweetheart, you gotta sit up. Eat something.”

Almost like a dog yourself, you whine and pout, turning your face away. The idea of food is turning your stomach right now. Everything seems too rich for your weak stomach.

“This is why I told you to take that umbrella this morning.” Wolfwood’s voice is stern, but his hands are kind as he props you up.

“One sip, alright? For me.”

Weakly, you part your lips so he can slide the spoon between your teeth. It’s a mild broth, barely any flavor to it, but it’s the only thing you can bear at the moment. The hot soup feels incredible, warming you from the inside out.

“There we go,” he says. “Good job, sweetheart.”

With his help, you finish the whole bowl. He wraps the blanket tighter around you before he takes the dirty dishes. Even when he leaves your side, you can hear him bustling around the room, so you’re not worried. This is nice. Even feverish, you feel pleasant.

When Wolfwood returns to the couch, his dog ears are peeking out of his hair. He kneels by you to check your temperature. Spotting your chance, you scratch at the base of his ears, listening for the satisfying thump of his tail hitting his thigh when you get the spot he really likes.

“What a good boy,” you coo, forgetting yourself.

He laughs at you, watching you fluster. “Did you forget I’m not a real dog?”

Your face is hot, but not from the fever.

A few months into the strange miracle of having someone else to care for, and someone to care for you, Wolfwood asks you for an unusual favor.

“Can you get me a collar?”

Your gaze sweeps over him, considering. “I don’t know how I’d feel about that now that I know you’re a man.”

“Honest, aren’t you?” When he smiles, you can see his fangs. It’s strangely charming, the wink of white bone in the corner of his mouth.

“Why do you even want one?”

“I dunno, instinct? It just feels nice.” He braces his hand against his throat, testing the way it’d feel. “Yeah. It feels like something’s missing.”

“That’s strange. I thought you’d prefer to be free.”

He stretches out, lifting his arms. You can see the muscle lining his back beneath his thin, nearly transparent white tee. “Freedom is relative. Everyone is tied to something, you know. No use in pretending otherwise.”

You tap his nose playfully. With a mischievous look in his eyes, he lunges forward and snaps his teeth over your finger.

“You can be wise for a puppy,” you say teasingly.

“Like I keep telling you, I’m a man,” he says, roughly pulling you towards him so he can punish you by messing with your hair. You shriek in protest, trying to push him off, but the request sticks inside your head.

On the weekend, you take a few leashes from the right section and sneak into a quieter corridor in the pet store. Even though you’ve agreed to this for Wolfwood’s sake, it’s still embarrassing. You have your pride, and it’d be hard to explain to anyone what your actual situation is.

Perhaps understanding your plight, Wolfwood doesn’t mess with you as he usually does. Or maybe he’s just pliant at the thought of getting what he wants as you clip the leather around his neck.

It looks good on him, you have to admit. He looks almost like a punk rock star, transforming it from dog collar to statement necklace.

You flick the tag on his neck, watching the silver circle twinkle with your name and number. It’s meant for him to wear when he chooses to go on walks himself as a dog. “Now it’ll be okay even if you do get lost,” you tell him, satisfied.

“I’d be fine either way,” he says. “I know the way home.”

For some reason, that makes you feel as owned as he looks, even though you’re not the one with a collar around your neck.

#wolfwood x reader #trigun x reader #Nicholas Wolfwood X reader #sera writes

200 notes · View notes

corroded-hellfire · 2 years ago

Note

hi there!! hope you’re having a good day today :D not sure if you’re taking requests but if you are would you consider doing an angst/comfort follow up to the chrissy scene ask, where reader needs eddie to come pick them up because of their stepdad or something? ♡

Here’s the first part for anyone who is looking to read it! I have to thank the lovely and wonderful @dearest-readers for helping me with this when I hit a wall. I hope you all enjoy this 💗

Warnings: drunk assholes, mild violence, language, reader has shitty home life

Words: 2.6k

The strum of the same few chords repeats itself over and over again like a broken record. The notes echo through the empty trailer as Eddie tries for the hundredth time to get the guitar solo in Master of Puppets just right. His fingers are sore from practicing for so long, but the irritation in him won’t let himself quit.

The ringing of the phone jostles Eddie out of his latest attempt and he sets his sweetheart down on his bed. Eddie’s eyes slide over to the alarm clock on his desk that lets him know it’s 11:44pm in bright neon green. He knew it had been a little while since Wayne left for work, but he hadn’t thought this much time had passed.

Who could be calling this late? Eddie thinks as he pushes himself off the bed and heads down the hallway. Leaning against the wall next to the phone, he plucks the receiver off and holds it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“E-Eddie?”

Your voice, so small and scared, has Eddie straightening up and holding the phone a little tighter.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Eddie asks, already mentally calculating the quickest route to your place. Then he hears the raucous laughter in the background and what sounds like glass shattering.

“I’m, um, I’m okay. S’just that m-my mom’s boyfriend brought some friends over and they’re all wasted. I-It’s so loud and the way that one of them looked at me scared me.”

“I’ll be there in ten,” Eddie says. “Lock yourself in your room. Is it on the ground floor? Your room?”

“Yeah, why?” you ask.

“I’ll meet you at your window. That’ll make it easier to get you out,” Eddie says, already grabbing his keys and shoving his wallet into his pocket.

“Thank you, E-Eddie.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Metallica song long forgotten, Eddie rushes to his van and prays it comes to life on the first try. He really needs to take a look under the hood and figure out what’s going on in there. Luckily, it catches, and Eddie is pulling his loud bucket of bolts onto the small streets of Forest Hills before pulling out onto the main road.

His heart is pounding as he races down the road. It’s because he’s worried about you and the situation you’re in, he tells himself. But there’s a part of him that he’s trying to keep way down that knows his heart is also racing because he’s excited to see you.

There are hardly any cars on the road this late at night, so Eddie zooms through the dark roads quickly. When he pulls onto your street, he immediately notices the gathering of cars parked in front of your house. At first, he’s afraid to have his van join the bunch, but remembers that everyone but you in the house is drunk and won’t notice another random vehicle parked at the curb.

He kills the engine and hops out of the van, taking care not to slam the door behind him. The loud laughter and cacophonous shouting from inside the house bleed out into the street, to the point where Eddie could hear every word being said by the drunk men.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie curses under his breath as he walks across your lawn, over towards the side of your house. The closer he gets to the side of the house, the more Eddie bends down to avoid being seen by anyone inside. He chances a peek into a window and quickly ducks back down again when he sees what appears to be your mom’s room. Moving onto the next window, Eddie releases a sigh of relief as he sees you sitting on your bed. The way you’re gnawing at one of your thumbs, legs tucked up to your chest, obviously terrified, has Eddie seeing red. If he wasn’t so hell bent on getting you out of this place, he’d be inside beating the shit out of some people.

Softly, not wanting to scare you even further, Eddie reaches up and raps a knuckle on your window. Your head snaps up and the way relief floods your face when your eyes land on him has Eddie’s stomach flipping at the most inopportune time. Before coming over to the window, you slide a backpack on. Once you have the window cracked, Eddie helps you lift it enough for you to crawl out of.

“Hi,” you say, giving him a grateful smile.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks as his eyes scan over you, trying to assess for himself.

“I’m fine. No one’s bothered me since I called.”

“Good,” Eddie says. “Throw your leg over, I’ll help you out.”

You do as he instructs and Eddie’s hands find your waist, helping to guide you down to the ground before he pulls your window closed.

“My van is out front,” Eddie says.

“Okay, let’s go.” You grab Eddie’s hand and he almost trips over his own feet as he leads you around the side of the house. Just as he’s opening the passenger side door of the van for you, the front door of the house opens, the drunken voices becoming even louder.

“Hey!” Both your and Eddie’s heads shoot in the direction of the door, your eyes widening at the intoxicated, belligerent man who’s staggering out onto the lawn.

“T-That’s the one who was looking at me funny. He scares me the most,” you say, cheeks heating up at the admission.

“Get in,” Eddie says, helping you into the van. “Lock the door.”

You nod and jam the lock down as soon as Eddie closes the door behind you. Assuming that he’s going to run around to the other side of the van, your eyes widen and your heart rate spikes even further when you see him step onto the grass and make his way towards the asshole.

“Eddie!” you yell, banging on the window.

“Stay there,” Eddie calls back, looking at you over his shoulder.

“Eddie! Get back here!”

Whether he can’t hear you anymore or ignores you, you’re not sure. Reaching for the crank that will roll the window down, you only open it an inch before you can hear your mom’s boyfriend's buddy taunting Eddie.

“Where do you think you’re going with her, Van Halen? Hey! I’m talking to you, pissant.”

Eddie doesn’t respond as he keeps striding towards the man.

“Martin!” the drunk calls for your mom’s boyfriend.

Eddie’s fist collides with the man’s jaw, sending him stumbling back a few steps just as Martin comes outside.

“What the fuck is going on out here?” Martin asks. He takes in the scene before him: his pal stumbling and holding his face, Eddie fuming mad and a clenched fist. “The hell are you?”

“He’s taking the g-girl,” the creep slurs.

Martin looks up and he locks eyes with you in the van. Your blood turns cold and your hands begin to shake where they rest against the window.

“Get out of that van,” Martin yells.

Eddie huffs a humorless laugh and shoots a sneer Martin’s way before backing up towards the van, not risking turning around and having his back to the drunken low lives.

“Hey, you little whore! I said get out of the van!”

Eddie stops, boots stilling against the grass beneath him.

“The fuck did you call her?” Eddie practically growls.

“Eddie,” you plead. “Please, let’s just go.”

“You her boyfriend, Eddie?” Martin asks, nose turning up as if the younger man’s name is offensive.

“Eddie, please,” you call again. “I just want to get out of here.”

These words seem to break through to Eddie, as he begins to back up again, only turning his back to the assholes when he’s in the street, far enough away from the both of them. He jumps into the driver’s seat and starts the car. You quickly wind the window back up as Martin heads towards the van, stumbling and weaving as he walks.

“You’re in deep shit,” Martin shouts as Eddie puts the van in drive. “When you get back here, you’re in for it.”

Despite yourself, you tremble at his threat. As soon as Eddie pulls out onto the road, he reaches over and puts his hand over yours. Instantly, you flip your hand over to lace your fingers with his. When he feels the way your hand is shaking, he gives it a soft squeeze.

“Don’t listen to him,” Eddie says. “You’re okay now.”

You nod, despite knowing it’s not quite that simple. But for now, Eddie’s right. You’re okay.

When you get to Eddie’s, you change into a pair of the pajamas you’d stashed there. He’s in the kitchen, boiling water for “tea or hot chocolate or whatever you want.” Padding down the narrow hallway out to him, he gives you a small smile when you walk into the kitchen. You’re not sure how to tell him that you need a hug, so you’re grateful when he opens his arms as you get even closer. Eddie’s hold tightens around you and you bury your face in his chest. You inhale the comforting smell of laundry detergent and Eddie’s deodorant as you slip your arms around his small waist, holding yourself closer to him. The weight of his head rests against yours and the safety and contentment you feel almost overwhelms you.

“What’s your hot drink of choice?” Eddie mumbles against your hair.

“Chocolate,” you speak against his shirt. “But don’t let go yet.”

“I’ll hug you as long as you want me to.”

Eventually, you loosen your grip on Eddie, and he lets you go as well. Grabbing two mugs that were hanging on the wall, Eddie prepares a hot chocolate for each of you and leads you over to the couch. Holding the steaming mug in your cold hands, you snuggle up to your friend’s side, which causes him to hide a smile behind his mug.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” you say softly.

“I’m glad you called me,” Eddie says. “Was afraid you would think I was just trying to be nice and didn’t really mean it.”

“I know you did.” You take another sip of your hot chocolate and lay your head on his shoulder. “You’re pretty amazing, Eddie.”

It feels like the hot liquid he’s just swallowed breaks off and turns into butterflies as it meets his stomach. He feels his face heat up and he’s glad you can’t see him from your angle.

“So are you. And you deserve so much better than living in a house with that insanity,” Eddie says. When you stay silent, Eddie asks quietly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

A soft sigh leaves your lips before you respond. “I feel like if I don’t talk about it then I don’t have to deal with it. But I know that’s not true.”

“Unfortunately not,” Eddie agrees.

“I just don’t know what to do,” you admit. “I’m scared in my own home and my mom won’t listen to me about it.”

“Do you want my advice or do you just want me to listen?” Eddie asks. He’s slightly disappointed as you lift your head from his shoulder; he already misses the contact.

“Actually… You know, I don’t think I really want to talk about it at all. I know I have to deal with it. But not right now. Right now, I want to relax. I’m not sure when the last time I did that was.”

“Relaxing?” Eddie asks with raised eyebrows. “I think that’s most of what I do.”

A small giggle leaves your lips as you turn your head to look at him. “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

Frowning, Eddie shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything. Saved me, actually. I was practicing this damn solo over and over again on the guitar. Pretty sure one more time and my fingers would’ve started to bleed.”

“Can I hear it?” you ask, a hopeful smile lighting up your face. As if Eddie could ever say no to you.

“As long as you bandage my fingers when they’re bloody.” Eddie sets his mostly empty mug down on the coffee table and pushes himself off the couch.

“Deal,” you say, standing up next to him. He leads you to his room, where his beloved sweetheart is still resting on the bed where he laid her before. Gingerly, he picks up the instrument, as if it was made of glass or porcelain. You go to take a seat on his floor but Eddie nods at you to sit on the bed next to him.

Eddie pokes his tongue out of his mouth as he concentrates on where his fingers need to be positioned for the start of the solo. He begins to play and your eyes can’t help but watch as Eddie’s hands glide effortlessly over the strings, each note ringing out into the air in pure perfection. The way his fingers dance along the neck of the guitar, contorting to change chords has your mind drifting to some less-than-innocent places. But the music itself is mesmerizing. You’d be the first to admit you don’t listen to a whole lot of the same stuff that Eddie does, but there’s no denying the beauty in what Eddie is playing.

“Ah, shit,” Eddie says as he messes up. Truthfully, you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t berated himself over it.

“Eddie, that was amazing,” you tell him. He’s about to tell you that you don’t have to lie to him, but when he turns his head to look at you, he can see the awe on your face. No one has ever looked that way when he’s been playing guitar before. It makes his head feel light and his heart all fuzzy.

“Thanks,” Eddie says, feeling his face heat up. “Um…are you tired? Because I’ll just set myself up on the couch and you—.”

“No,” you interrupt him with a frown. “Eddie, I’m not kicking you out of your bed.”

“And I’m not making you sleep on the couch,” he answers matter-of-factly.

“Then I’ll sleep on the floor,” you say with a shrug.

He lets out a bark of laughter and shakes his head. “No way, sweetheart.”

The pet name flusters you more than you’d like to admit. But it doesn’t mean he’s going to get his way. “Fine. Then we can both sleep on the bed.”

“No,” Eddie says again, and this time you roll your eyes.

“And why not?”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says sheepishly.

“Eddie,” you say with a giggle. “I’m the one who suggested it.”

“Fine,” he says with an over dramatic sigh. But he gives you a wink to let you know he’s only playing. “I’m gonna go get changed.”

You watch as he snatches up some pajamas from his bedroom floor and heads off to the bathroom. Meanwhile, you pull down the blankets of his bed and slip underneath them. You’ve never slept in the same bed as a boy before. The tingling in your tummy tells you it’s more about sleeping next to Eddie in particular, rather than just a boy.

He steps back into the bedroom and quickly climbs under the blankets with you, making sure to keep a respectable distance between the two of you.

“You okay?” he asks.

“All good,” you reply.

Eddie nods and turns off his lamp before properly getting cozy next to you. He’s so close to you, yet so far. All you want to do is reach out and touch him, but you don’t want to make him uncomfortable now.

“Eddie?” Your voice is tiny and you’re surprised he hears it at all.

“Yeah?”

“Can I move…closer? Just, for comfort, ya know?”

“Of course.” Eddie lifts an arm, and you don’t hesitate to snuggle into his side. The smile on his face tells you that he’s enjoying it too. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Eddie. You’re the best.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #Eddie Munson fic #eddie munson fan fiction #request

628 notes · View notes

greenbergwrites · 12 days ago

Note

Just so you know I would read literally any thoughts/prompts you have about Buck and Eddie! Those two never leave my brain

You somehow divined that after those stills dropped yesterday, I spent every spare moment I could grab writing tit worship for Buck, didn't you?

[AO3 Link]

Buck’s shirt was off.

Buck stands on the ramp leading into the moving truck in Bobby and Athena’s new driveway, grinning, and his shirt is off.

The team had come together to move their captain into his new home, built on the ashes of the one that had burned down. The children play in the yard as the adults worked, Denny and Christopher—now officially teenagers—in charge of keeping the younger ones from being underfoot. Chimney is standing inside the truck itself, shifting a piece of furniture onto a dolly that Hen is holding steady. Bobby is on the other side of the dresser in front of Buck, ready to help him lift, and—

And Buck’s shirt is off.

Golden skin gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, droplets of sweat sliding down his flushed face. Every time he moved, his abs tensed, showing off the muscle he’d worked so hard for in the gym.

Buck picks up his shirt, tucked into the waistband of his pants, and mops at his brow. He claps his hands together, nodding at Bobby, and then the two of them lift the dresser between them.

Buck’s biceps bulge and that’s—that’s hot, sure, but it’s nothing compared to the way the movement of his arms has pushed his chest together.

Eddie’s frozen in place.

He’s somewhere between unbearably turned on and irrationally jealous, because—because anyone can see it. Everyone can see it.

Logically, he knows that no one here is giving it a second glance. They all have their significant others that they’re hopelessly in love with, and Buck is either a son or a little brother to all of them. It doesn’t stop Eddie from wanting to snatch one of the moving blankets from a piece of furniture and throw it over Buck’s—everything.

The perfection of that sight should only be for him. And it is perfection. That big, gorgeous body and warm, pink skin and those perfect fucking tits on display, looking so lonely without his hands to hold them, his mouth to suck on them, his cock to—

The blood in Eddie’s veins turns molten, rushing south as a bloom of heat tightens his gut.

Fuck. Fuck.

Why was he out here again? He’d left the interior of the house for a reason. No, he’d been sent out here for…something. He just couldn’t remember what it was.

Buck shifts, his elbows tucking into his body further. It only further accentuates his chest, pushing his tits together even more, showing off those pretty pink nipples.

Eddie can’t fucking breathe. God, he wants those tits in his mouth.

“Uncle Eddie!”

“Dad!”

Pain explodes on the side of Eddie’s face, right at his hairline. He jerks back, literally knocked out of his spiraling thoughts. Something clatters on the porch at his feet and when he looks, it’s a neon green Frisbee.

Before he can register much more than that, Buck is there. Big, warm hands cradle his face, Buck’s concerned blue eyes filling his vision. Just over his shoulder, Chimney helps Bobby right the overturned dresser.

Buck must’ve abandoned it the moment he heard the kids shouting. Warmth fills Eddie’s chest.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs. “I’m okay, Buck.”

Buck touches his hairline, and it’s gentle, but it still hurts. He shows Eddie his fingers; they’re wet with blood.

“You’re bleeding,” Buck says back, just as softly, the rest of the world forgotten in their little bubble.

Athena appears beside them, frowning. “What happened?”

Eddie means to respond, he really does, but it’s just about that time that he realizes that Buck is still shirtless and just inches away from him now. His hands clench into fists, Eddie forcing them to stay by his side, because if he moves—

If he moves, he’s going to grab onto Buck’s chest and that would be embarrassing for all of them.

“First aid kit is in the guest bath,” he hears Athena say distantly, because while Eddie’s been distracted, Buck has explained the mishap. “Eddie, did you tell everyone about lunch?”

Lunch. Right. That’s why he’d been sent out in the first place; Karen and Athena set up a late lunch on the back patio so that everyone can take a break and refuel.

“No,” he says belatedly. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t look anywhere but somewhere around Buck’s neck region, because again, if he moves his eyes, they’re going only one place.

“Come on,” Buck says softly, nudging Eddie inside. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Eddie moves slowly, as if he’s stuck in molasses. He’s pretty sure the only reason he lets himself do it at all is because some part of him realizes that if they go inside, Buck will be out of everyone’s line of sight.

That’s good. That’s the way it should be. No one should be able to look at him like this.

Buck herds him inside, down the hallway and around the corner into the guest bathroom.

Eddie shuts the door behind them and locks it as Buck fishes out the first aid kit. He frowns, looking between Eddie and the door knob as he sets the kit onto the sink.

“What are you—”

Eddie’s composure finally snaps.

He hauls Buck up against the sink, stepping between his legs as he pulls Buck in for a searing kiss. Something clatters to the floor as Buck scrambles for balance, and Eddie doesn’t care enough to figure out what it was.

“Baby,” He asks, his voice more steady than he feels. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

“I got hot,” Buck says, the pink of his skin deepening. “Eddie, your head. Let me—”

“Fuck my head,” Eddie counters, rather reasonably he thinks.

It doesn’t even hurt anymore. Whatever tenderness there might be, it’s lost to the need pulsing through him now that he has Buck flushed and half-naked against him.

Heat radiates from Buck’s skin, the scent of him nothing but sun and sweat. It’s like a drug to Eddie’s senses, clouding his mind until the only thing he can think about is licking Buck all-fucking-over. He can just barely remember why that’s not possible.

His hands trail up Buck’s sides, fingers shaking and cock throbbing.

“You were hot,” Eddie repeats, cupping Buck’s chest with both hands, letting his thumbs graze over peaked nipples. “So you decided to show off your tits to everyone in our family?”

Buck blushes furiously, the tantalizing pink of his skin turning red.

“Eddie,” he protests, but it’s a weak admonishment when his cock jerks against Eddie’s own.

Eddie smiles and it feels…fucking feral.

Buck will never admit it or bring it up outside of the moment—too embarrassed, Eddie thinks, and that’s okay—but he loves when Eddie does that. Refers to his chest as tits. It makes him squirm, makes him so fucking whiny.

“These are mine,” Eddie whispers, leaning down to press feverish kisses along the expanse of Buck’s considerable chest. “Mine, baby, and you show them off to just anyone?”

God, his tits are so pretty. So perfect. Buck is so perfect, big and broad and melting into Eddie’s touch so beautifully.

Buck’s hand is in his hair, running his fingers through it feverishly.

“Eddie,” he pants out. “Eddie, we can’t, not here—”

But even as he says it, he’s shoving his chest into Eddie’s hands, his mouth. Buck wants it. He wants it and so does Eddie and he can’t fucking remember why they shouldn’t.

Buck loves having his nipples played with. They found out, quite by accident, how sensitive he is there. Incidentally, that was also the night Eddie realized for the first time in his life that he was apparently a tits man. They just have to be a very specific kind of tits, attached to a specific kind of person.

Eddie leans down, laving slowly at Buck’s nipple. It’s peaked and tight, tasting of salt and so good on his tongue that he can’t help but do it again. And again and again.

When it isn’t enough anymore, he closes his mouth around it and sucks. Sucking is good. Sucking them has Buck’s hands tightening in his hair, has him making those helpless, breathy little noises that drive Eddie fucking crazy. Their hips rock together, shocks of pleasure racing along Eddie’s spine.

Eddie makes his way to the other nipple, placing sucking kisses along the way. He can’t seem to lift his mouth from Buck’s skin. Just the idea of it makes him bite at the meat of Buck’s chest, his teeth scraping harshly against golden skin.

“Oh, fuck,” Buck hisses, shoving up into his mouth. “Oh, fuck, Eddie—Eddie—”

“Say it,” Eddie demands, biting again, just because he can. Because his teeth ache for it. “Say they’re mine, say they’re just for me, God, baby, you make me fucking crazy, don’t want anyone to see them but me—”

“No one else,” Buck promises breathlessly. “No one else, Eddie, I swear, Eddie, fuck, please, please—”

They rock together harder, faster, so close Eddie can almost taste it. He has one arm around Buck’s back now, keeping them steady, but his other hand is still on Buck’s chest, massaging, squeezing, pinching, while his mouth lavishes attention to the other side. The only way it could be better is if they were naked.

He thinks about shoving their pants down, feeling Buck’s thick cock against his own, his precome slicking the way, how good it would feel to rut together while Eddie sucks on his tits.

Before he can make that thought a reality, someone bangs loudly on the door and rattles the handle, ripping them out of the moment.

“I know what you two are doing in there,” Chimney hisses through the door, sounding furious that he has to say it all. “It doesn’t take that long to slap some disinfectant and a bandaid on a shallow cut. If Athena catches you christening her house before she gets a chance to, you’re both dead.”

Slowly, Eddie pulls back, drinking in the sight of Buck dazed and trembling in his arms. He’s breath is fast and shallow, his chest heaving in a way that makes Eddie have to look away if he wants to clear his head.

“We’ll be out in a minute,” he calls hoarsely.

“I’ll be counting!”

They both listen as he walks away.

It’s probably for the best that they were interrupted, even though Eddie mourns the lost potential of Buck fucked out and loose-limbed in his arm.

He kisses Buck gently.

“We’ll finish this when we get home tonight,” he promises. “Until then, you might want to put a shirt back on.”

Because Eddie, in his possessive, lustful haze, has littered Buck’s heaving chest in a smattering of hickeys. Now, there’s no way to look at him shirtless and not know that he’s taken.

Looking down at himself, Buck blushes.

“You’re a heathen,” he says, but his voice is still thick with pleasure, his gaze still a little hazy.

He takes his shirt out of the waistband of his pants and tugs it back on. It’s a sleeveless number that he usually wears to the gym, showing off his biceps.

Eddie hums, cupping Buck’s face to kiss him lightly.

“I’m your heathen,” he says, unrepentant.

In the quiet of the bathroom, Buck picks up the first aid kit and tends to the cut on Eddie’s forehead, which has long since stopped bleeding. By the time they’re done, they both have their bodies under control enough to join everyone else on the back patio.

Chimney glares and Hen snorts quietly, a knowing smile on her face, but thankfully no one actually says anything. They eat and get back to work.

Buck doesn’t take his shirt off again for the rest of the day.

#nani asks #greenberg replies #911 abc #buddie #possessive eddie #slight feminization #tit worship #i definitely meant for this to have more dirty talk but eddie REALLY didn't want to unoccupy his mouth long enough to do it #(also slightly sad I did not get to include tit fucking but alas)

30 notes · View notes

evercelle · 1 year ago

Note

Sorry, I know you've sort of answered this before, so you don't have to answer again if you don't have anything more to add, but how do you pick your particularly bright color schemes? Your latest piece, and several of your past pieces of Shuichi or/or Kokichi feature these gloriously bright neon colors that would probably be right at home in a cyberpunk cityscape, but they still don't feel overly eye bleeding, just particularly striking.

Your art reminds me of a similar thing I've noticed with Splatoon's artsyle, where it feels very bright and colorful without becoming overwhelming.

Longwinded way to say "how do you construct a piece to look good with neon colors without veering into eyeball stabbing territory"

BIG disclaimer that i haven't read much about color theory, so a lot of this is purely anecdotal, as usual

for me, i think it comes down to managing contrast in your hues and value/luminosity :thinkingface: for example, this draw feels like there's a lot of neon blue, red, and lilac, but in actuality, these colors aren't very saturated (blue/lilac), or if they are, they're toned down in value (red). it's the placement next to areas of darker value that make them appear really bright or more eye-popping:

can't speak for the sploon art, but i feel like you can control eyestrain by making things appear brighter than they are via managing contrast... it's not actually super neon, but it feels that way! contrast makes things easier to "read," and your perception of color is influenced by the colors next to it (see: white/gold blue/black dress lol). check values as you go, consider how hues complement/oppose, think about contrast and where you want a picture to feel punchy... hope that helps...!!

#ASK EVER #disclaimer also value and luminosity are technically different things in two color spaces but the general concept of #how light or dark is it applies #coloring remains a big “dude idk yolo” for me most of the time haha

296 notes · View notes

brewstersbru · 8 months ago

Text

More radioapple with ace Alastor (cont. of last 📻🍎 fic) sorry if its a little ooc im sappy

“No.”

Alastor’s voice comes out quick and staticky as he expertly dodges Lucifer’s hands trying to pet down his waistcoat. Lucifer immediately steps back, eyes wide.

“Sorry! Sorry, Al, was that not okay?” He asks, still keeping his distance. Alastor’s expression is inscrutable, nose wrinkled as he smiles at the ground.

It’s quiet for a moment before Alastor shakes his head.

“I need to be alone for a bit.” He grits, then, just as Lucifer goes to respond, his shadows envelop him and he melts from the room.

“That’s-“ Lucifer sighs, “fine.” Leave it to him to somehow fuck this up. “This” being the unspoken, ever so slightly romantic thing he and Alastor have had going on ever since that night in the bathroom.

It started with meals; after figuring out that Lucifer was bearing his wound, Alastor- for lack of a better term- threw himself into feeding him.

Lucifer thought it was sweet that he used his, surprisingly human, ways to care for him through recovery. The food probably didn’t do anything tangible in helping Lucifer’s body patch itself together, but it made him feel warm, loved. Better than he has in an age.

The food, of course, was delicious, but what Lucifer liked most about taking meals with Alastor was the quiet sense of simply being with another person, without expectation. Without an unspoken asking for something in return. Lucifer had already done his part, and the pulsing pain in his chest each night was infinitely worth each peaceful hour.

At first, Alastor didn’t touch him if he didn’t have to, but just him being there, acknowledging Lucifer’s presence and doing his best to care for him through the pain was enough. Lucifer thought it would be over when he was finally healed, that Alastor would consider his debt repaid and leave him to his own devices once the bleeding stopped.

It was almost too much to imagine.

Lucifer has a nasty habit of getting attached, which is really quite unfortunate given his circumstances. Still, he hasn’t been able to shake it quite yet, and in a shameful moment of spiraling weakness, he had torn through his stitches, hoping to elongate the healing window, even just slightly.

He left the three green X’s alone, tried to keep it secret, but somehow Alastor figured it out, like he always seems to.

Furious, he’d marched Lucifer right back to the bathroom and redid his stiches, this time entirely with the neon green thread he is able to manifest at will. The thread was warm, a little biting against his skin, but Lucifer liked it. Liked that it meant Alastor would pay attention to him.

God, what a pathetic thing to do. He still cringes when he thinks back on it, but loneliness will make a wasteland out of you. And Lucifer was desperate enough to bleed for the company, his blood is a mere pittance, after all. He’ll never run dry.

The longer they spent together, the more comfortable Alastor was touching Lucifer; little brushes against his shoulder as he passed behind his usual seat at the kitchen island, a steadying hand on his side when he checked his stitches.

It was bliss.

There was a starving, gnawing part of him that basked in it; that took the offered touches like scraps from a table and still wanted more. Another part of him, cold and still burnt from the last time, told him not to get stupid, not to ask for more than he was worth.

Never to beg, because begging is unbecoming of a king.

They fell into a rhythm, small touches, loaded glances, oh so subtle forms of care. Lucifer was healed before he wanted to be, but Alastor didn’t stop. Didn’t leave, even when he checked his stitches one day and, grinning, snipped them away to reveal a shining pink scar.

Even healed, Alastor cooked for him. Even on days when he couldn’t force himself to leave his room, a covered plate would be left just outside his door, food incomprehensibly warm even hours after being made. The touches- maddening, lovely as they were- continued, chaste and addicting as ever.

Lucifer began to feel wild with it. Something inside of him- frayed at the edges, and torn in the middle- couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. Why? He thought. Why, still? Why me? He never got the courage to ask, too afraid of Alastor realizing his mistake.

So, they continued like that. Alastor got more comfortable touching Lucifer who was more than happy to let him. It seemed like he didn’t get much practice with it. Touching.

The more Lucifer fell into the lull of security, the more he noticed the tentativeness of each touch, the careful laying of each finger against pale skin, as if Alastor were exploring touch for the first time. As if it fascinated him.

Lucifer never asked- always afraid of doing something stupid to make the final shoe drop faster- but he did notice. And he began coming up with a plan. Alastor is not the only person in hell who sees their relationships as transactional. Good deeds must be paid back. They must, or you’re indebted. Or, more frighteningly, at least to Lucifer, they will grow bored of you.

They will see that you are ungrateful, and they will leave.

Unwilling to let that happen, Lucifer devised a plot. Alastor has very obviously never been very intimate with anyone before, which is totally ok, if not confusing given his objectively handsome features. But he evidently, somehow, feels safe exploring intimacy with Lucifer, which is so incredibly heartening (it makes something hot burst in his chest every time he thinks about it). Lucifer can use this to pay Alastor back, slowly introduce him to different touches until he feels more comfortable with them.

It’s perfect. Or- he thought it was perfect. Until today. Until Alastor got that wide, panicked look in his eyes as he shouted “No!” before running off to recover. Father Above. How did Lucifer manage to fuck up this bad? There’s no way they recover from this.

He takes a second to mourn the relationship before squaring his shoulders and heading to his room to write about a hundred drafts of his apology letter. He can’t believe he so brazenly stepped over a boundary, not even realizing it was there!

He’s the king of hell for godssakes, he should know when one of his subjects is on edge, or uncomfortable. More than that, he’s spent enough time with Alastor that he should know his tells, as well.

Some king he’s turned out to be, huh? Fuck.

***

It takes Alastor two days to appear before Lucifer again, and not for lack of trying on his part. Lucifer had forced himself from his room each day, wandering the hotel’s grounds looking for him. Several times he would sit at the bar for hours on end, watching, waiting.

Not for nothing, though, he’s learned something quite interesting about the bartender, Husk, and Angel Dust, the porn star.

Over a series of poorly hushed conversations, and not-so-surreptitious glances, he’s learned that they’re dating. Have been for a good few weeks, and somehow no one’s noticed. They seem glad of that fact, though, so Lucifer resolves not to tell anyone.

More interesting, though, is that Husk has been urging his boyfriend to ‘go for what he wants, for once’ which Lucifer hadn’t really understood until he looked over and caught both of them hurriedly looking away. Super unsuspiciously. It was almost enough to make a grown man blush, the sudden knowledge that he was wanted. That despite what he tells himself in his worst moments, he is desirable.

Angel is an attractive man, Lucifer’s not too insecure in himself to admit that, but something curdles in his gut at the thought of pursuing anything with him while he and Alastor are still on the rocks. Which… Is new, and a little terrifying.

Plus, he doesn’t exactly seem like the type to take charge, if you catch his drift, and while Lucifer is happy to play any role his partner wants, he doesn’t know if he’d be any good at it. Not anymore. He just can’t see himself as a figure of authority, not when he knows what it’s really like to be himself. Pathetic, and lonely. The thought of embarrassing himself like that while vulnerable is excruciating, so he pretends not to have noticed their intentions. Thankfully, Angel hasn’t approached him yet. He’s not sure what he would say, anyway.

Back to the most pressing matter, Alastor knocks on Lucifer’s door late at night, two days after the awkwardness of Lucifer’s unwanted touches. When Lucifer opens the door, he’s smiling calmly, and holding two covered plates, one in each hand.

“May I come in?” He asks. Lucifer nods, doggedly, then flushes when he remembers the state that his room is in, after several nights of wallowing. Being the king of hell does have its perks, though, so he snaps his fingers and the place rights itself.

Not before Alastor gets a good enough look to purse his lips disapprovingly, though.

Lucifer manifests a small table and two chairs, which Alastor makes immediate use of, placing a plate in front of each chair, and pulling one out for Lucifer to sit in.

“Please, take a seat. I think we need to talk.” Great. That’s always a good start to a conversation. Not like that’s ever gone wrong for Lucifer before. Nope.

With a sigh- internally steeling himself against the impending rejection- Lucifer sits. Alastor hums, and follows suit, snapping his fingers to disappear the lids to their food as soon as he’s seated.

It looks delicious, as it always does. Some sort of colored rice dish with meat and veggies mixed throughout. Lucifer smiles and thanks him, snapping to manifest some drinks- a champagne for himself, and a rich red wine for Alastor.

It’s quiet for a bit as they take their first few bites. Lucifer hums his appreciation, which Alastor’s smile ticks up at.

Finally, stomach knotting itself enough to disrupt his enjoyment of the food, Lucifer speaks.

“I’m so sorry, Al. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but I did, and if there’s anything I can do- anything at all- to make up for it-“ before he can finish, Alastor cuts in, voice staticky.

“It wasn’t your fault, my dear. You didn’t know. I’m afraid I…” He trails off for a bit, mulling over his next words. Lucifer waits patiently, eyes wide.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that specific kind of touching. I don’t like it.” He’s not looking at Lucifer anymore, head turned to the side as he taps his claws against his wine glass. Lucifer tilts his head.

“By ‘that kind of touching’, do you mean on your torso? I don’t want to mess it up again.” He asks. It’s a little presumptuous to imply that he’ll be able to touch Alastor, after this, but he’s too on edge to censor himself correctly. Alastor scoffs.

“You did not ‘mess anything up’. There was just a simple miscommunication. By that I mean sexual touches. Or anything meant to lead in that direction.” Ah, Lucifer’s hand had been quite close to his navel, and his intention was most definitely to take the touches further if Alastor was comfortable with it. He nods, apologizing once more.

“Got it. Sorry again, Al, I know you don’t think I need to say it, but I still feel bad. Thank you for telling me.” Lucifer- infinitely relieved and brimming with ill-advised hope- smiles up at him and rests his hand, palm up, in the middle of the table. Maybe he can salvage this. Maybe he doesn’t have to lose everything again.

Alastor’s grin softens at the edges as his eyes rove over Lucifer’s expression. He ‘tsk’s but places his own hand on top of Lucifer’s, gently intertwining their fingers and bringing them up to press a small kiss to Lucifer’s knuckles.

A giddy laugh bursts from Lucifer’s chest and he buries his face- or what he can manage to obscure of it- into the palm of his remaining hand. It’s okay. Alastor’s not angry with him, it’s okay.

A few tears gather on his lashline, but he blinks them away before they can fall. Alastor’s other hand leaves his wine glass to brush just underneath Lucifer’s eye.

“Oh, don’t cry, dearest. It’s alright.” He says, voice softer than Lucifer thinks he’s ever heard it. It occurs to him that this must have been hard for Alastor, too, so unused to being vulnerable, but still showing this part of himself to Lucifer, and for what? So that Lucifer feels better? To put his mind at ease?

It’s so stupid.

It’s so kind.

Lucifer shakes his head, “Happy tears, Al. Thanks for trusting me.”

Alastor’s thumb swipes against the apple of his cheek as he hums.

“As if I could do anything else.”

85 notes · View notes

abibliophobiaa · 2 years ago

Text

Begin Again: Chapter Two

Summary: The year is 1988. After the loss of a beloved family member, you find yourself inheriting an old coffee shop. The quiet bartender at the Hideout across the street just so happens to catch your eye.

(18k+ words; eddie munson x afab!reader; sunshine!reader x grumpy!eddie vibes)

Warnings: Vignette style (sorta); Eddie’s post S4 trauma; panic attacks; nightmares; family member loss; grief; alcohol use; mild smut in later chapters so 18+; additional warnings to be added.

(AO3 Link) || Master List || PREVIOUS CH | NEXT CHAPTER

Summer, 1988

Before long, spring bleeds into a balmy summer and the Fourth of July inches closer.

While spring brought along with it new opportunities, new friendships, and new beginnings, you’re excited for warmer weather.

Excited for colorful dresses, walks around the town, smelling the freshly cut bouquets at the florist next door, ice cream cones that melt between your fingers, and watching the sunset from your apartment windows.

You wake with the sunrise on the third, spine cracking as you lift your arms up over your head to stretch the soreness from your limbs.

Your alarm clock blares bright neon in the early morning sunrise, reading 4:30 where it rests on the pile of books you placed next to your bed as a makeshift side table until you can purchase new furniture and really spruce up the apartment.

With a sigh, you slap a hand along the alarm clock and start your day. You tug on a pair of jeans, don a summery top with flowy sleeves, and drape your apron over your hips. The lights flicker on in the shop and the place illuminates, ready for a new day.

You prep the coffee pots and turn on all the machines. Croissants are prepared and placed in the oven, along with various other treats, and you wipe down the surfaces of each table accordingly.

The sign hanging in the window flips from ‘closed’ to ‘open’ and you assume your routine.

Every day just like the one that came before.

But there’s a comfort in it. An ease in which you live your new life here in Hawkins.

It’s familiar and it’s constant, with little diversion.

That is, until the girls start their shifts and probe you about plans for the weekend. Apparently one of their friends is planning on hosting a barbecue for the holiday with a small group of their closest companions.

And it seems they’ve invited you.

Max crosses her arms over her chest, one of her braids dancing over her shoulder as she does so. “You never get out of the shop.”

“Because I own the shop,” you remind her.

El hands a cup of coffee to a customer and glances over to where you and Max are presently cleaning up a coffee spill.

“It’s a holiday, just come ,” Max says.

“I don’t even know your friend!” The exasperation in your tone rises, the mop in your hand trailing more water along the floor.

“He’s your age, so is Robin, and we’ll be there. What’s more to know?” Max reaches down to lay a few towels onto the mess you’ve made, adding, “Plus, they are customers. I’m sure you’ve actually met them before.”

You're considering it. You’re actually considering going. “And he’s going to be just fine with me coming over to his place?”

Max nods. “His parents are never home, so we basically have the whole place to ourselves for the day. Just come.”

“Please…come,” El says, slipping out from behind the counter. “You’ll make friends. Actual friends.”

Your brow arches at that one. “As opposed to?” El slinks backward, giving you a tight smile.

“Your customers are not your friends,” Max says. “Well, they are. But these could be real ones. Come on. You’ve been in Hawkins for months and I don’t think I’ve seen you go anywhere even once.”

“I go places!” you reply hotly, your skin burning aflame in embarrassment.

The Hideout, but they don’t know about it.

“Okay, fine, so I don’t go places. I spend my afternoons in my apartment.”

“So you’ll come?” Both girls look at you expectantly.

“Fine!”

Three months.

Maybe more. He can’t remember the number anymore.

The amount of time that has passed since you moved into town and effectively uprooted his life.

His normalcy.

Before that, it’s been easy to keep people at arms length—to stay far enough away that they don’t ask questions.

Most people do tend to stay far away.

No one wants to be associated with the Freak, the murderer, the man who made a deal with the devil.

It didn’t matter then when they abolished his name from the news and he was cleared as a free man, and it certainly doesn’t matter now; people still look at him with disdain, whisper when he passes, step away from him when he gets too close in the supermarket.

He knows, though, there’s something about you that draws him to you.

Magnetic, you’re magnetic. That’s what it is, this feeling, this tug.

He hasn’t felt that way in a long time. This pull to another human outside of his core group (The Party), this desire to want to open up.

It’s coupled with fear but the urge is there.

It hasn’t been in a long, long time.

Before that, it’s two years.

Two years since the events of the Upside Down.

Two years since Chrissy died in his damn trailer home. Two years since he watched her bones break like twigs against his ceiling. Two years since he found out monsters lurked beneath Hawkins.

Two years since he watched Max fear for her life every day before that day. Two years since he became forever bound to The Party.

It’s been two years since he heard Dustin’s screams rattle his bones as he cut that rope.

Two years since he felt the first rip of his own flesh as those mouths full of teeth cut into his skin. Two years since he felt them attack from every angle. Two years since he laid there in hell on earth and pleaded that he’d just die.

Two years since he felt that blinding, agonizing pain as he shook in Dustin’s arms, taking what he thought were his last breaths.

Two years since he said goodbye.

Two years since he thought he had died.

Two years since he wished he had.

Two years since he woke up in that damn bed, and was poked and prodded by an endless team of doctors with wires sticking out every which way from his body. Since they tried to salvage what they could of his shredded skin.

It’s been two years, but when he closes his eyes…it’s as if it’s only been two minutes.

It’s why he doesn’t let anyone close.

The last time he did so, it set into motion the week that changed everything.

You’re not sure what to expect as you get out of your car. But what you definitely don’t expect is the large expanse of property and the gorgeous home that stands there surrounded by endless green lawn on that bright summer day.

It looms in front of you, intimidating in nature, and not only due to the size. On the patio outside is a group of people awaiting your arrival, a group of which you haven’t met all of.

Tray of cookies in hand, you start the slow shuffle to the side entrance where Max and El told you you were to enter by. Luckily, the fence already sits open, and the sound of chatter immediately greets your ears, mixing in with the sound of the radio spilling from a speaker and someone jumping into the pool.

You can smell the food cooking before you see it on the grill. Steve Harrington stands in the distance waving a spatula around as he talks. You recognize Robin next, with her short hair and glowing smile. The girls are in the pool with Will, Mike, Dustin and Lucas. You know the latter portion of the group that is not currently employed by you because they frequently spent time at Sunshine Coffee, trying to get a glimpse of their friends while doing homework together.

The most surprising, however, of all the guests at the barbecue is none other than Eddie Munson.

He sits in a lounge chair nearest to the pool, a cigarette between his lips, his bare arms on display for the first time ever , with his hair back in another one of his low hanging ponytails. You notice first the dark ink sprawling along his arms. Some newer than the others, judging by what you know of tattoos. Your eyes catch on the scar you can still see on his left bicep, like a little sun on his skin mixed in with a swirling array of black and gray that shifts and moves as he does. Seemingly aware of the kids now waving to you in earnest, he shifts his head over his shoulder, and though his gaze is obstructed by sunglasses, you can tell he’s surprised you're there.

I’m surprised too, you think, suddenly uncertain of where to stand, what to do, what to say. You fidget on the spot with a hand curling in your dress, tempering the urge to flee. It’s what you might normally do in a moment like this, what you’ve done long before moving to Hawkins was ever set into motion.

There isn’t much time to think, however, before Robin’s rushing over to your side and offering to help you with your things. She’s kind and pleasant—surprisingly so. She even goes so far as to give you a tour around the Harrington home, making you aware of where you can use the bathroom, get a new drink from the fridge, or a snack from the pantry. Not that you’ll need it with all the food cooking, but you’re appreciative all the same.

Once back outside, Steve greets you shockingly enough with a warm hug. Says he’s happy you finally showed up, as though he’s been waiting all day, and tells you food will be done in a few minutes.

It gives you a moment to get accustomed to your surroundings. Robin remains the perfect host at your side, prattling on about what she’s doing for college. She’s heavily intent on becoming a music teacher, and studying at the local community college. When she asks if you’ve ever thought about schooling, you mutter that you’ve never really thought to try.

Going to college meant staying in one place for a long period of time, and thus it’s never been a thought in your mind. Maybe in another life, another time, when you felt like you were ready to settle.

But now…no.

Now you’re content with your coffee shop, with training up the girls to do all the tasks you need to keep it afloat, and deciding how you feel about Hawkins later down the line.

She pulls you along beside her to plop down in the lounge chair across from Eddie, her foot kicking against Eddie’s ankle to draw his attention.

“You’ve met Eddie, haven’t you?” Robin asks, and your eyes shift to his face. It’s hard to see what he’s thinking behind those sunglasses, a mask settled across his features.

“We’ve met,” Eddie says softly, tipping his head down towards you.

“Hi, Eddie.” You wave his way and Robin glances between the two of you awkwardly, hands on her knees.

“Well, there’s the pool obviously, Steve has karaoke for later if we want to do any, you know where the snacks and drinks are, and, uh, food will be ready soon,” she announces, standing tall to her feet. “I’ll leave you both to it, then! Enjoy!”

It’s…well, it’s silent. And though that’s not entirely unusual for Eddie, it’s still striking to you at the moment. His arms rest on either rest, body slouching into the chair.

“You took the day off?” You practically wince at the small talk, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind in the endless silence that settles between you.

“Was going to work, but Steve is big on his family get-togethers,” he tells you, taking a sip of his beer.

So the fact you’re here makes your heart warm.

“I…uhm, I’m glad you’re here,” you say, turning your head slightly to catch his profile. He’s looking out into the pool, mouth a thin line. You let out a slow breath. “I didn’t know you’d be here, but it’s always nice to see you.”

He’s quiet. So quiet.

You get the impression the sentiment isn’t returned.

You try to not let it sour your mood. “Well, uh, I’m going to see if Robin needs any help. Want me to grab you anything?” You rise to your feet, hands swiping along your dress. “A water? Beer?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” he says, and you catch the faintest curl of his lips.

Okay then , you think, and march off.

You show up to the party in a summer dress.

Of course you do.

It’s yellow with all these little flowers all over it. Bright, just like the summer day.

Suiting for you.

You, who quite literally radiates the sun, even on the gloomiest of days.

He remembers the night you slipped into the bar and tried to pretend no one saw you—that he never saw you.

Even water logged as you were, he’s pretty sure he’s never seen anyone so pretty.

People notice it. They’d be foolish not to. Whirl around in their seats and look your way, trying to catch a glimpse of the girl with sunshine in her heart.

But since you’ve met, all the times he’s been around you have been on his terms, and now you’re in the middle of Steve’s patio with a beer in hand and your head tipped back in a laugh as Robin tells you a lively story.

“You invited her?” Eddie asks, turning his head to Steve.

“Actually Max invited her. And El,” Steve explains, spatula swirling wildly as he speaks. “She seems nice. We’ve gone to the shop a bunch. Robs and I. But she’s always so busy. This is the first time we’ve really gotten to really meet her. Why? You got a personal vendetta against baristas I should know about?”

Quite the opposite, he thinks, but he’ll never admit that to Steve.

They immediately love you.

Of course they do; how could they not?

You match their golden retriever energy, bodies swaying—and surprisingly so, since none of you are even tipsy—as Steve sings (incredibly off key) along to “Super Trouper,” and you and Robin try to steal the microphone every couple words. All in all, it’s a stunning display of a lack of singing talent, but the kids are loving it, and Eddie hates it because it’s like a punch to the gut.

It’s been this way since you arrived. Your endless charisma, that light that seeps from you, the way you flit in and out of conversations with everyone at the party.

Everyone except him .

That’s his fault, he recognizes. He’s not really made it an effort to pull you aside, offering nothing more than little comments here and there.

He can see it on your face. The way you recognize he’s distancing himself on purpose.

It’s easier when you’re at the bar.

There, you’re quiet. You’re unassuming. You talk between the two of you, sure, but it’s on his terms. Here, you’ve injected yourself into his world—into this group that he trusts with all the parts of himself that have changed since what happened two years ago.

They’re a safety net. They’re the only people he feels like he can still be himself around, and you’ve breached that, you’ve entered in and made yourself a home.

They love you, and they should , but it’s another reminder of the fact the last time he let someone close to him they died in his home. The last time he let someone get close to him, the kids were in danger, Dustin got hurt, Max almost lost her life because of Carver interrupting their plan, Robin, Steve and Nancy almost died.

He can’t let another person get hurt from knowing him.

He can’t let you get hurt from knowing him.

He’d never forgive himself.

It’s sometime later that you end up sitting with your dress hiked up a bit on your thighs and your feet in the pool as the kids talk around you. The sun has set in Hawkins and the sound of crickets and cicadas blends into the gentle hum of music spilling from the radio.

Robin appears with Steve, her chin coming to hook over Eddie’s shoulder and smacks a kiss to his cheek. “Can we keep her?” Eddie groans as she shakes his shoulders, trying to get a rise out of him, and stands at Steve’s side.

“She’s not a pet, Robin.” He tries to keep his tone neutral. Unaffected.

“You like her,” she points out, grin turning wide and wicked.

He shakes his head, earning a look from Steve. “Don’t even start with that. I’m not hearing it.”

She’s practically bouncing in front of him. “But it’s true. I can see it. You can't keep your eyes off of her. She’s beautiful, though, so totally understandable. How did it happen? When did it start?”

“Rob,” he warns, feeling his chest tighten.

“Eddie, this is good . It’s really good ,” Steve says. Robin nods enthusiastically beside him.

“And why is that?” He challenges with a narrow stare, standing to his feet.

“You looked happy today. We can excuse this moment of assholery and chalk it up to your denial speaking, but she makes you smile. I haven’t seen you smile like that in ages,” Robin says, voice high and right with emotion.

He knows she wants the best for him, knows she wants to see him happy , but he has the guys from Corroded Coffin, he has Uncle Wayne, he has the kids, he has her and he has Steve, and that makes him happy.

“It could be gas.” His reply is deadpan, sunglasses obscuring the crinkle around the corner of his eyes at the look on Robin’s face that says ‘shut up, asshole.’

“Eddie,” she warns, arching a brow up at him.

“I'm serious. Steve’s cooking can be questionable.”

“I'm going to choose to ignore that. My cooking is fine,” Steve argues, cheeks aflame.

“So how long has this been going on?” Robin’s relentless. He supposes he should know this about her by now, but it makes his head spin all the same.

“There is no this because all this is is that I’m her customer and she visits the bar sometimes and we talk.”

“She visits you at your job and you visit her at hers—that sounds like interest,” Steve says, a little too pleased with himself.

“Mutual interest,” Robin agrees, beaming so bright she mirrors the summer sun.

“Look, I’m not even going to venture there because it’s only a matter of time before she figures out why you guys are the only ones left in Hawkins who don't run away at the sight of me. I’d rather not be there when she puts two and two together and hates me anyway.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, fingers at the bridge of his nose to pinch there. “So I’ll keep her at a distance and remind myself that I think she’s annoying as all hell most days—”

Because he doesn’t know what to do with the feelings that stir otherwise. So now it’s push them down, tuck them away, sweep them under the rug.

The sound of your ankle banging against the side of a lounger greets his ears, and his head jerks your way. Steve and Robin’s looks of amusement drop into sorrow as your eyes flash between them and him, disappointment clear on your features. He catches the way your bottom lip wobbles, how your eyes widen, shoulders dropping. There’s a small “oh” that spills from your lips, as if you’re only realizing now you have stumbled in a conversation you were never meant to hear in the first place, but he can sense your embarrassment all the same.

You deflate, and Eddie proves himself right once again why it’s futile to get close, because he catches those first glittering tears on your bottom lashes, unshed now, but there all the same.

And he knows you heard him.

Let someone close… hurt them. Just as he predicted.

“I, uh, was just going to say goodbye. I have to wake up early to set up the shop.” You step forward to hug Steve and Robin. He doesn’t expect you to come close to him, but it stings all the same when you simply glance away and mutter, “Goodbye, Eddie,” before slipping away, and out of the yard.

Steve watches him as you go, eyes scouring every inch of his face, head shaking lightly. “Aren’t you going to, oh I don’t know, follow her? Make sure she’s okay? Come on, man.”

“She said goodbye,” he says, catching your fingers struggling with your door handle in your haste to leave.

“Go,” Steve reiterates, and Eddie grumbles his way across the lawn, catching your door just as you’re about to close it.

There’s a little huff that spills from your lips and there’s a part of him that has to temper down the thrill that jolts in his chest at the way your eyes narrow up at him expectantly.

You’re always challenging him.

Even now there’s a protest in your stare—on your tongue.

But you focus your eyes ahead instead and lift your chin, trying to conceal the hurt swirling behind your eyes.

Asshole, asshole, asshole.

“I have to go,” you remind him.

“I’ll, uh…I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, and he shuts the driver's side door.

And as he walks back to his group of friends, he scolds himself the whole way, because the best thing he could come up with in a moment of stupidity was say ‘I’ll see you around, okay?’

Eddie doesn’t come by for five days, and you don’t visit the Hideout for just as long.

It’s not that you’re angry at him. No—the initial hurt is long gone. Now you’re left with this bitter emptiness. A feeling of questioning, as if every truth you had thought you’d know to be a certainty was really a lie all along.

For weeks you were led to believe whatever this thing was growing between you and him had been real. This tangibility you could tend to, could nurture.

Yet at the first sign of struggle, he ran away. Pushed you aside without a second thought. Said those hurtful things at the party.

He’d run after you, sure, but only after he registered your pain.

Only after his friends looked at him like he’d absolutely lost his mind.

You want to believe that there’s more to the story, that there’s a reason why he said what he said and did what he did.

But the worst part of it all, the part that twists the knife deeper in your chest, is the thought that maybe there isn’t, and maybe you trusted him too fast. Dove headlong into a dead end friendship with the one person in town you felt most free to be yourself around.

That part hurts the most.

Eddie feels like an idiot.

You are an idiot, he tells himself as he stands in that flower shop near Sunshine Coffee , asking the owners for some sort of arrangement that speaks to an apology of sorts.

“What kind of an apology?” the husband asks, looking over at Eddie wearily. His wife stands in the back, watering the flowers about the room.

They must know you’re upset with him, and for good reason, too. It’s normal that he frequents the shop, but for the past few days he’s stayed away, not wanting to see that look of hurt across your features ever again. It’s bad enough that when he closes his eyes he can picture it.

How your foot tripped over the edge of the lounger, the way your words tumbled from your lips, your skirt rustling about your ankles as you sped away…and sped away from him.

Steve caught up with him the next day over the phone, trying to talk more sense into him. Trying to tell him there’s nothing wrong with opening up to a new friend, especially when that person was trying to go at his pace, respecting his boundaries, and never pushing him further than he was willing to go.

You’ve always been patient, and friendship is a two way street, where equal participation is expected from both parties.

Steve reminds him that this is a good thing.

His government ordered therapist does, as well. Reminds him that part of healing is doing the uncomfortable things, stepping out of his comfort zone, coming out from the shadows he’s shrouded himself within.

He’s not meant to live in solitude.

“It’s for a…I was a total asshole who took advantage of your kindness, and I deserve your rage kind of apology,” he admits, and watches as the older man regards him carefully before thinking to himself quietly.

“You can do pink roses.”

“Aren’t roses for love?” he asks, wanting to be clear. He’s always seen them around Valentine’s Day when all the couples at Hawkins High wanted to be all mushy and show their undying devotion to one another. “I’m not trying to say I—I love her or anything. I barely know her.”

“Pink roses mean gratitude. Seeing as you took advantage of her kindness and hurt her, pink roses are a perfect way of showing that,” he explains, putting together an assortment on the countertop and tying it off with a ribbon on the front. “Do you want me to write her a card?”

“Can I…take one to go?”

“Sure thing,” he says, ringing him up and sliding a blank card across the countertop. “And word of advice, boy: that girl is wonderful, so you better do better.”

I’m trying, he thinks, slipping out of the building.

And it starts with the little bouquet he has one of the girls deliver you later that day, with a little card affixed to the ribbon.

The words on the letter read: Fact of the day—Eddie Munson is a giant asshole.

Then beneath, in tinier lettering: Do you think you can forgive him, maybe?

Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley are always a welcome sight within the walls of Sunshine Coffee. Even before the Fourth of July barbecue, you’ve particularly liked them. The two would come in, often bantering with one another, bright smiles on their faces.

It always spoke to a close bond between the two; you don’t know them well , but that kind of bond is clear and attests to being tried and tested in the fire, and only made them stronger for it.

You’re a little shocked to see them here now, however.

The last time they saw you, the three of you were happy and high off of life, cheeks warm from the summer sun, arms looped around each other's necks as you sang ABBA, smelling of suntan lotion and lips stained from cherry popsicles.

You glance over your shoulder to Will and ask him if he’s good to let you go on your lunch break, and he’s immediately nodding his reply. The three of you slip out into the street, sights set on the local ice cream parlor, because Robin reassures you ‘ice cream is the perfect lunch for a day like this.’

It’s sweltering out. Sweat slicks your skin, the back of your neck, your hands. That first swipe of your tongue along your chocolate and vanilla swirl has you humming in delight, sandaled feet kicking out beneath you.

“I’m actually so shocked to see you two,” you admit, just as Robin sticks her spoon into her cup.

“We told you there’s no getting rid of us now,” Robin says, and she’s right, but it makes you smile all the same.

Makes you warm, and it has little to do with the heat shining down from the sun above.

“I’m actually planning another get together,” Steve says, tongue already cherry red from his ice. “You’re invited, obviously.”

“Thanks, Steve.” You swipe your tongue along another line of rainbow sprinkles, glancing out into the street.

You can see the now-quiet Hideout. It won’t be busy for a couple hours now.

“So, uh, that’s actually kind of why we ambushed you at work,” Steve says, catching your wandering gaze.

“Hmm?” Your head snaps back their way, wrist lifting to your mouth to catch the ice cream sliding down the side of your cone.

“He really likes you, you know? We know he can make a fool of showing it, but he does,” Steve starts.

“Who?” You’re playing coy, hiding your nervousness behind your ice cream.

Robin’s quick to answer with, “Eddie…we just ask you to give him a second chance, okay? He’s been through a lot. And I’m sure we’re literally breaking a thousand rules of friendship right now by approaching you like this, but he’s already been so much happier since you’ve been here. You, like, challenge him and make him come out of the little shell he’s put himself into and it would really break my heart—both our hearts, really—if that stopped.”

“I planned on it,” you tell them sincerely. But you also know it has to be on his terms.

He’s already started with his apology, and now it’s just a matter of…waiting to see what happens.

You can’t force yourself onto someone who doesn’t want you to be prevalent in their lives. And yet, you respect his past; you understand that there are parts of him you’ve not privy to that his friends are, and the fact that they may reveal why he is the way he is at his core.

Knowing that, being made aware of that, is something you want to happen on its own time. In the right time, and by his discretion.

It’s his story to tell.

So the three of you stand to your feet and walk through the town, talking about the upcoming weekend, planning things for dinner and dessert. And you plan for the future with the sun at your backs, bright and vibrant smiles as bright as the beams that dance along your skin, with nothing but hope to guide you all.

He doesn’t come the next day. Nor does he come the day after. And soon it’s a week since you’ve seen him in the four walls of your coffee shop. Which surprises you, because he left that apology bouquet of flowers with El to give to you.

You can only imagine his dark figure hulking as he entered that little flower shop, filling the vibrant room with a streak of black and gray. It makes the corners of your mouth lift simply thinking of it—imagining him having to order the plants and write up his little note card.

If you beamed when you read his little fact of the day, you’d never admit it. But the girls certainly caught it, pointing and laughing at the way you lit up like a Christmas tree at the prospect of Eddie Munson getting you apology flowers.

It’s what they babble teasingly at you, at least. All wagging fingers and pouty lips over the fact he had gone out of his way to make a gesture as he had in hopes of getting back into your good graces.

Only, you’ve not seen him since.

You thought maybe he would come see you— talk in person about why the way he behaved like a proper imbecile that evening.

You’re sorely disappointed, and the sting of fresh rejection ripples and dances along your skin, cracks between your ribs and curls around your heart.

Max catches you one evening, hours before you’re set to close up for the day. Normally, it’s your job to make sure the shop closes up. You’ve always wanted to make sure the kids are ahead on their schoolwork anyway, but now with summer here, they’ve offered to stay later more often.

Extra pay, they remind you.

Extra help, you remind yourself.

But on this day she glances over the glass case wherein all your freshly baked cookies lay, a fresh bar towel in her hand as she wipes the case clean and sparkly. You catch the flash of red hair before she huffs out a sigh and tosses the towel onto the countertop.

“Just go over there,” she says, and you don’t even need her to clarify, despite the way your brows arch in feigned confusion at her words, because you know exactly where she’s referring to. She humors you all the same, nearly barking out, “To the Hideout. And don’t make that face, because we all know you go over there. Right?”

“Yeah, we’ve known,” El says, counting the tips in their ‘College Fund’ tip jar you made for them.

“It’s…kind of obvious.” Will winces, putting a lid over a fresh latte.

Max lets out another sigh. “The fact of the matter is, you’re moping around and he’s moping around, and if you’re going to do that, why not just—oh, I don’t know—mope together?”

You level them all with your best stern look, hands on your hips, but they only hide their giggles behind their palms. They’re enjoying this; they’re actually enjoying your struggle in this very present moment. “I think you three forget I’m technically your boss.”

“But…we’re also your friends,” El says, and Will nods in agreement, passing you a smile over his shoulder.

“We kind of crossed over into friendship territory when you came over Steve’s,” Max reminds you, shrugging.

“So it was a trap, then?” you tease, backing up until your shoulders press against the glass case. “You three will be good to lock up?”

“You’ve taught us everything we need to know,” Max says, and the other kids nod in agreement.

“Fine,” you agree, raising a finger to scold them when they all smirk at you. “But if anything happens, anything at all, you come get me.”

“Go!” El lets out an exasperated giggle and you slip out the door.

The Hideout isn’t as busy at this time, you discover. Normally you’re there past eight at night, and it's just after four thirty now. The sun still has yet to set, but there’s no light in here, except for that of the neon lights that glow blue above.

There’s only the quietest of conversation around you. A few people spread throughout the place, an older couple in the corner, two acquaintances at the bar. And then there’s you, sliding up onto a stool and pulling out the worn copy of The Fellowship of the Ring Eddie let you borrow.

He eyes you cautiously as you do so, as if he expects the worst. But you’ve already made up your mind; made it up long ago, if you’re being honest with yourself. “You didn’t warn me that Gandalf died.”

His mouth drops open momentarily at that, but a slow smile spreads across his lips and he props a forearm against the bar across from you. He leans into it to get closer. “That would ruin the story.”

“Yeah, but you know I loved him.” You told him as much numerous times. You were fond of him, the way he cares and loves for the fellowship. The wisdom he harbors.

“I know,” Eddie says, sounding regretful. “Can I convince you to keep reading…under the promise that maybe things will get better?”

You huff and pout, sliding your finger into where your bookmark presently rests at the back of the book. “I don’t see how they can.”

“Well don’t you want to know what happens next?”

“I do.”

“Then will you trust me?” He pauses, catching himself before he continues. You watch him rub a hand along the back of his neck, rings glinting in the light. “Actually—don’t answer that.”

“Why not?” You press him, mouth settling into a firm line.

“Because I…damn it, I messed up, okay?”

“I know, and I got your flowers. I forgive you.” You nod in earnest, already resolute in your decision to forgive him and move on from it.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t change the fact I was still an asshole,” he says, sounding a little mournful. “You just…you didn’t hear the whole conversation.”

You try to offer him an easy smile as he walks around the bar and sits down beside you on another stool. It’s the closest you’ve been to him, you think. “Did I walk in at the wrong time?”

“Something like that.”

Your answer is simple then, “Okay…then I forgive you for that, too.”

“You shouldn’t,” he says quietly.

You shake your head at him. “But I do.”

“Yeah, but why do you do that?”

You’re not understanding. “Why do I do what, Eddie? I’m trying to forgive you for being an ass and you’re not letting me, so are you rejecting your own apology?”

“You’re just…damn it, you’re—and it drives me crazy. That’s why I said you annoy the shit out of me.” He groans at the end of his words, palm sliding down his face. “I’m just—look, I’m not used to people being like you.”

“Like me?” You point to yourself with your thumb, head tilting to the side.

He’s staring straight at you when he says, “Nice, sweetheart, nice.”

You ignore the little flutter that gives way at his nickname.

“Why is that?”

“Because of all the shit that happened two years ago,” he drops an elbow onto the counter and rests his forearm along the top. He’s close enough just the slightest shift on the stool will mean his fingers brushing the sleeve of your work tee shirt.

“I know,” you tell him. “And I’m sorry for that.”

His eyes shift to your face. A worry line forms between his brows, out of place on such a youthful face. “Oh, so you, uh, looked into it?”

“No,” you reassure him softly, resting your hand on the back of his. He flinches at first, but doesn’t make an effort to pull away. You offer him a slight squeeze and continue, “no I didn’t, Eddie.”

“Why not?” It’s as if he can’t believe you wouldn’t.

As if he wonders why you haven’t.

“I figured one day you’d tell me,” you reply, thumb shifting against his palm in a slow swipe before you pull away to rest against his book instead. “When you’re ready, of course.”

“Oh…o-okay.”

“Yeah, so will you let me accept your apology? This way we can start over.”

“I’d like that,” he agrees, moving to stand to his feet as a customer taps a few dollars against the bar.

“Go—back to work for you,” you tease, adding out in a quick rush, “and get me the second Lord of the Rings book!”

“So you are going to read?”

“You asked me to trust you,” you remind him, watching as he starts walking to his customer. “This is me trusting you.”

Things… change after that.

You were friends before your mild tiff, sure—but Eddie starts to change from that point on. You wonder if it’s a wish to try and maintain what he says, about trusting him, about him trying to appreciate what you’ve been to him these months. But your adventures travel outside the four walls of the Hideout and Sunshine Coffee for the first time one humid Saturday a few weeks after you restart your friendship.

After Eddie lends you The Two Towers and you breeze through it in a week’s time, you tell him you really want your own set of the books. “You know, to mark up and stuff,” you tell him, to which he calls that, “A crime that requires jail time, unless you buy two copies so you have one to keep for rereading and one to annotate,” and you shove at him as you sit beside him in his van on the way to a thrift store just outside of Hawkins in search of a new bookshelf.

You briefly wonder if this is the town he lives in, what with the way he navigates so smoothly, no question to what roads to take.

You don’t press him, however.

You’re patient with him. You want to see him grow in your presence. To pull back those layers of his rough exterior and find the gold within. You know it’s there; you’ve seen it sparkle numerous times now. Can sense it behind every secret smile he offers you.

Your first store leaves you empty handed. You slip and out of aisles in search of the perfect piece to put in your home, but find nothing to your liking. Nothing that would even do well with a nice coat of paint or a good staining.

The second shop has a nice carpet you end up purchasing, with Eddie’s awaiting arms there to carry it back to his car, but again no bookshelf. So it surprises you a little when you both climb back inside after Eddie shuts the back doors and says, “I could try and build you one?”

“Really?” You shift your head to look at him. He’s gone with a short sleeve shirt today. Red, the vibrant deep kind that makes your marrow sing because of how stark and stunning it is against his skin. “I couldn’t ask for you to do that. It’s too much, I—”

“I want to. How hard could it be?”

It leads you back to your apartment, where you sneak around the back so as to not disrupt the kids that you’ve left alone for the day while you enjoy a day off. The first in months, really. Eddie watches you fumble with the key, chuckling when your trembling fingers struggle a bit.

“Here,” he says, moving around you and filling the space beside your bodies with his own. His chest brushes your back, fingers dancing against yours as he pulls the keys from them. With a swift ‘click’ the lock slides open, and he pushes inside. “Good to know the lock still works.”

“The guy who installed it is really humble,” you tease and his eyes roll, shoving past him to inspect the apartment. “Look—I…it’s a little bit of a mess. I haven’t gotten around to fixing the place up yet. Taking care of the coffee shop comes first right now. Hence…all the stuff laying around in piles and boxes.”

When Eddie looks around, however, there’s no judgment there. Only curiosity in his dark stare as he glances around your space. You catch the mess in the sink, the boxes on the countertop beside it. There’s your unmade bed, with its burnt orange pillows and white bedspread, kicked down toward one end. To the side of that are your piles of books with your alarm clock and lamp set on them. Luckily, your clothes are unpacked and stored away in your closet, kept hidden behind a curtain you remembered to pull shut that morning.

“Well, here’s…my place,” you raise your arms in a sweeping circle. “It’s not much, but it’s…well, it’s mine. Needs a good coat of paint, some furniture, and a little love, but it does what it needs to.”

“I could help, you know?” he offers, giving the place another once-over.

“Eddie, you’re already here to measure a space for a bookshelf you’re going to build with your own hands,” you laugh out, a little shocked by his offer. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“We could do it together, lighten the burden,” he says evenly, hands on his hips. Suddenly it strikes you as odd seeing him there. The quiet boy from across the way, now your friend offering to help you get more comfortable in your new home. “We’ll need to go to the store and pick up wood for the bookshelf anyway. Why not grab some paint while we’re there?”

“Really?” you ask, and he nods. “I—if you’re sure. I’ll make you all the cookies, just wait.”

He smirks. You think you like that look on him best, because one of his dimples pops when he does so. “I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

You plan for the next weekend, then.

You don a simple tee shirt made to get dirty and a pair of shorts as you climb down the back stairs and slip into the coffee shop unannounced.

The kids seem a little intrigued by your plans two weeks in a row as you hurry to put together a coffee for your friend, but you remind them that you’re, “Simply conducting business, as usual.”

Max gives a little smirk to Will and El. “Oh, I'm sure there’s loads of business happening.”

The kids all burst into a fit of giggles as you splutter out a huff, tossing a pair of sunglasses over your eyes and calling over your shoulder for them to have a good time while you’re gone, and slip out the front door. Eddie’s there with the windows rolled down, metal music streaming from his windows, his hair free and in wild waves today. He’s gone with a ratty white tee and jeans, and he thanks you softly as you hand him his cup of coffee and whips down the road.

“Who is this?” you ask, listening to the words spilling from the speakers. “Take a look to the sky, just before you die. It’s the last time you will. That’s…well, it’s really chilling.”

“Metallica,” he says, chuckling as you wrinkle your nose in confusion. “A metal band. One of my favorites. You can add that to your collection of random facts about me.”

“Already written down,” you say with a soft roll of your eyes at him. “What does the song mean?”

“It’s based on the poem by Ernest Hemingway. About the Spanish Civil War. There’s basically this moment where the soldiers are surrounded on a hill and it’s their last moments before…well, before dying,” he explains, sounding a little far away. “I think the song all in all is about death, though. I mean, the part you mentioned is a thing someone does right before they die. That last look up at the sky, knowing it’s the last time they’ll see it.”

You almost want to ask him ‘ how do you know,’ but he continues quickly with, “If you like this one, I’m sure you’ll like more of their stuff. We may turn you into a metalhead, or at the very least someone with a little more refined taste, yet.” You open your mouth to give him a witty retort when he pulls in front of a hardware store and pushes his door open. You reach over to unbuckle yourself and grab the door handle, but he’s already there, offering a hand to help you down. “Okay, what color are we thinking of for the walls?”

You shrug as the two of you walk toward the store, bell jangling upon entering. “Maybe off white to match my bed?”

That’s how you learn there are approximately a thousand different shades of white to choose from. You suddenly regret asking Eddie to come along with you, even despite it being his idea, as the two of you stand in the store and thumb through a book full of different colors to choose from, turning what you thought would be a quick trip into an hour-long stay. Each one looks only minimally different from the one before it, and each one leaves you all the more confused.

“What about this one?” you ask, nudging Eddie with an elbow.

“It looks just like this one,” he points out, rubbing a hand along his jaw, his coffee cup still in hand though it’s long empty now. “How about you close your eyes and just…I don’t know, poke whichever one and go with that? And while you do that, I’ll go ask that nice looking employee over there what kind of wood we think we’ll need for your bookshelf.”

The two of you rejoin some twenty minutes later with your cash at the ready as a nice cashier rings up your purchases and glances between the two of you, smiling softly.

“Sweet that you’re building this young lady a bookshelf,” the older man says, eyes more on Eddie than you. He’s the same man who helped Eddie pick out the supplies he’d need to make you one in the first place. A pretty dark wood, with a gorgeous grain. “That young, summer love. I remember when I was your age.”

“We’re, ah, we’re friends,” Eddie clarifies with no delay, cheeks red at their highest point.

“Just really great friends,” you tell him, thanking him as he hands you back your change.

“My apologies then,” he says, but there’s a smirk along his lips that makes you believe his words were definitely intentional. “Have a great rest of your day, you two! Stay safe out there; it’s a hot one.”

It’s certainly getting warmer here, you think to yourself, sliding your money back into your little purse.

Still, you pick your paint up off the counter and watch as Eddie palms the handle of the shopping cart, spirit bright as you wish him a wonderful day and head out the front door.

And if your heart races a little bit, well there’s no point in pondering that.

The room is ready in no time for painting. Summer sun seeps through your open windows, air filtering in through the screens. You took down the curtains to keep them from getting messy and helped Eddie pull all your furniture into the center of the room to try and prevent any spills.

It doesn’t take long before you’re helping lay out tarps around the space to protect your floors, laughing when Eddie struggles a bit getting them to unfurl fully before draping them around the room. There are tins full of rollers and paint strewn about the floor, ready for usage, and music drifting from your record player hidden within your closet. A little Dean Martin, one of your grandfather's favorites, croons in your tiny space, bringing joy to your heart.

And then there’s Eddie, with his hair back in a low bun, taping around your windows and cabinets to ensure you don’t go over any of the areas you intend to keep as they are with the off white you had chosen.

“What’s your favorite song?” It’s a random question he asks as the song changes and “Everybody Loves Somebody” plays. “If you had to pick one, what would it be? The one you can play over and over and never get bored of.”

You’re mid-emptying your dish drain into your kitchen cabinets when you pause to think about it. The question catches you off guard, but you’re always excited when Eddie asks questions to get to know you better. And right now, in this moment where it’s just the two of you in your home, seems like the perfect time to do so.

“Uhm…” You trail off, running a towel over the inside of a still-wet bowl. “‘Lay All Your Love on Me.’ I could probably listen to it forever.”

He’s throwing another one of those smirks your way and you stick your tongue out at him, earning a low chuckle. “Sorry, okay, ‘Lay All Your Love on Me.’ It is a good song.”

“So you do listen to ABBA,” you tease.

“I can appreciate their songs, sure. Especially since Steve and Robin listen to them all the time,” he says, coming to join you in the kitchen, tossing the painter’s tape into your kitchen drawer for safe keeping.

You shove your bowl up in its proper cabinet, draping the towel over your shoulder. “What about you? What song can Eddie Munson listen to on repeat for the rest of his life?”

He seems a little caught off by your question. Face morphing from momentary shock to thoughtfulness, brows pinching together, mouth taut. “If I had to pick just one, I would probably go with ‘The Trooper’ by Iron Maiden,” he says at last.

“They’re the ones who sang ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls,’ right?” you ask.

“No that’s Metallica, but you’re learning, Young Padawan,” he replies, pulling out a fresh paint brush and holding it aloft. “Are you ready to paint?”

It’s easy to work with him in the confines of your apartment. The two of you mingle here and there amongst yourselves, but there’s a comfort in the silence that stretches out between you. It’s not the kind that needs to be full of conversation, because it’s more the feeling in your heart simply having him there.

The gentle brushes of your arms when you both reach to wet your rollers, the accidental splash of pale color you accidentally get on his arm when you do so, the gentle caress of his laugh that tickles the hair along your neck when he says ‘it’s okay.’ It goes on like that for hours, the two of you working in tandem, the sounds of Dean Martin and brush strokes intermingling with Eddie’s commentary, on his praise of how your work is coming out, his guidance on the hardest to reach areas.

You pause only to eat some pizza, kindly brought up by Will, who asks if you two need any help before he heads out for the afternoon. You thank him and offer him a slice to go, but wish him a nice rest of his day to rest and relax. And then you’re alone once more with Eddie, commenting on how this pizza isn’t like your pizza back home.

“Better?” he asks, picking a pepperoni off his slice and dropping it onto his tongue.

“Definitely better,” you hum delightfully.

“Where is ‘back home?’”

It’s your turn to smirk, shrugging. “That’s a long story, and we have work to do, my friend. Now eat up.”

It’s not long before you’re both sitting in the middle of the room, paint brushes laying in little cups, rollers in their tins, your hands supporting your upper bodies as you look up at your work. The room looks perfect. So much brighter than it was before, even despite the slowly setting sun over Hawkins. It’s a beautiful cotton candy confection; oranges, pinks and lavender visible through your window. You stare ahead and Eddie does too, chests heavy from exertion, sweat slicking skin, basking in companionable silence.

You jolt briefly as the pad of a finger brushes along your jaw, settling when you shift and realize it’s only him, staring at you with a look unnamable behind his eyes. “You got a little paint…right here,” he says, answering the question already stewing in your mind before you can even voice the words.

You glance down to where his hand rests against your skin, and then back up to his face, trying to hide the shaky breath that struggles to escape. It’s a short moment, but does little to quell the rapid turn of your insides as they do a flip within you, cut even shorter when a knock at the door sends Eddie jumping to his feet to glance through the peephole.

You suspect it’s someone you know, because he opens the door and greets El on the other side, her small wave and ‘hello’ greeting your ears soon after. “I just wanted to let you know I finished closing up. Money is all counted, and Max helped me set up for tomorrow.”

You climb to your feet, coming to step around Eddie and curl your hand around the door. “Thank you, sweetie. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for helping out today.”

“Anytime!” she says, and you close the door behind her, leaving you alone once more with your dark haired friend.

The two of you clean up in silence, that brief moment of touch long forgotten as he helps you get rid of all the paint supplies and tosses them into a garbage bag. Your furniture and other things will have to stay where they are for now to keep dry, with a promise that he’ll come help you once more.

“Well…it looks amazing,” you say, doing a slow spin about the room as he finishes washing his hands in the kitchen sink, admiring your work. “Thank you again for helping, seriously. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.”

You watch his hand reach around him to fumble with his car keys in his back pocket. “It’s no problem. I should go though; I have to stop somewhere before heading home. Little bit of a drive, you know?”

“Oh—y eah, of course!” Your head nods rapidly, stepping backward a bit so he can move to the door. “Can’t exactly keep you here all night.”

“Goodnight,” he says, palm curling around the door handle.

“Goodnight,” you reply softly, hand coming up in a little wave.

You shut the door with a sigh and trail back over to your closet and lift the record, flipping it back over to the first side. The stylus settles where you want it and the familiar beginning notes of “Everybody Loves Somebody” fills your apartment.

Everybody loves somebody sometime. Everybody falls in love somehow...

You smile as you ready for bed, brushing a finger along the picture resting in a box for safe keeping of your grandfather, placed there lovingly by Eddie. Your fingers press against your lips and rest along his smiling face, voice quiet as you whisper, “I had the best day…”

Chance tells you he’ll be at your apartment by six, but he shows up early in a freshly ironed button up and a pair of slacks, hair perfectly styled on his head.

Chance buys you flowers and sets them in your awaiting arms as you approach that night.

Chance opens the door for you when you walk up to Enzo’s.

Chance compliments you on your features, tells you how good you look, brushes a kiss against your temple.

He stares at you the whole night through the candlelight glow, fingers dancing along yours ever so slightly.

He buys an expensive bottle of wine and makes sure you order whatever you want. You settle on pasta, and he orders a steak. Comments on the fact you didn’t need to be shy and order something cheaper. But you smile and bat your eyelashes, answering his questions as enthusiastically as you can.

It should be perfect. In all reality, it really should be.

It’s just…not fluid.

He talks about his work. About handing out tickets, arrests, the parties he’s broken up where underage kids got a little too rowdy. And you talk about your shop, your workers, your quirky customers. But it all feels very surface level, all very forced.

Stilted.

It’s not even to say he isn’t nice, because he is.

Maybe a little arrogant, what with the way he talks highly of himself and his achievements fresh out of high school only a couple years ago now, but you can write that off as him being excited and overly eager to spend time with you.

He’s just…not for you, and you can tell very early on into the date he’s not.

So as he drives you home and walks you to your apartment door, you press your fingers against the center of his chest when he leans down to kiss you and whispers how beautiful you are near your skin. Because while he’s nice and he’s perfectly fine, there’s no denying the fact he doesn’t rouse those feelings that a friend of yours does.

There’s no spark, no flame, nothing to kindle a connection with.

“Thank you for tonight, Chance,” you whisper, and lean forward to kiss his cheek.

He nods, resolute, and wishes you a goodnight at your door. Tells you he’ll see you around. You trudge up your stairs and slip inside your apartment, readying yourself for bed. You scrub the remainder of your makeup off from the evening, slip out of the dress you had worn to look nice at the fancy restaurant. It spills from your body into a messy puddle on the floor, and you toss it into the nearby hamper as you yawn, making your way across the room to where the lights from the Hideout dance and pulse against your skin. You press your fingers against the glass briefly, longingly, and shut the light on your book pile near your bed, dousing the room in darkness.

“So Eddie plays at this bar with his band from time to time. They used to play at the Hideout, but when Eddie moved out of town, he found this new spot, and instead of their five drunk people that used to be in majority of their crowds, they actually have a little bit of a following now,” Robin explains, leading you into the dark bar behind her. Steve’s there as well, but he’s standing off in the distance with some other guys dressed in dark colors, heads nodding as they talk. “Over there with Steve are…Jeff and Gareth. They’re Eddie’s band mates. And then there’s Kevin—he’s the one up on stage. He’s another. And Eddie…well, Eddie is probably in the back mentally preparing himself or something. He’s very passionate, like, very passionate about his music.”

You nod silently, finding yourself a little overwhelmed in the dark room. Not only is it in an unfamiliar town, but there’s a sea of swirling faces around you, melding together in the dim red lights dangling above. It’s definitely a younger crowd than that of the Hideout, and a lot more upscale. It seems like the kind of place people gravitate to, bodies pushing into yours as you try to force your way through the crowd behind Robin, her hand a vice around yours as she leads you to the bar.

She orders you both a round of tequila shots that you down swiftly, head darting around the area in search of the familiar head of wavy brown hair. He’s still nowhere to be found, however. “I can see if the guys know where he is.”

“I—I can wait,” you rush out, raising your voice above the music. “They’ll be starting soon anyway.”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to see you anyway,” she yells back, earning a glare from a woman standing close to the bar. She places an order for your next round of drinks and helps you back over to where Steve and Eddie’s band mates are.

Steve immediately raises an arm and tugs you into the crook of his elbow. “This is our newest friend,” he says, and tells them your name. Jeff and Gareth nod their heads, looking to you and then to each other, where they pass one another a quick look. It’s so brief you think you’ve mistaken it, and instead hold your hand up in a quick wave. “You’re probably looking for Ed, right? Here, let me show you around.”

Steve Harrington is kind and caring, first and foremost. You don’t know the full nature of his friendship with Eddie, but you know enough that you can tell they’re close. That whatever happened two years ago, from the brief snippets you’ve heard of it brought up in conversation, became a sort of catalyst for what they are to one another now. And because of that, because of the friendship between Eddie and yourself, that kindness and immediate love has been extended to you. You find yourself grateful for it as he leads you down a dark hallway, passing a break room you assume is for the workers of the actual bar, before he raps his knuckles on a room furthest in the back.

Eddie’s there a moment later. Dark hair loose about his shoulders, a lightning bolt earring dangling in one ear, tight jeans fitted to his thighs, Corroded Coffin written across his black tee shirt in white letters. He’s foregone his leather jacket, his bat tattoos, and another tattoo you’ve not seen before on the inside of a scarred bicep flashing before your eyes as he steps backwards into the room. You realize he only goes without when he’s outside of Hawkins, and you only briefly get a chance to wonder why before he’s gesturing for you two to come inside.

“I actually am going to check up on Robin. Make sure she’s not ordering too many drinks for them,” he says, pointing to you. “You know how Robs gets.”

“Oh I know,” Eddie says, but it’s accompanied by a fond chuckle, likely full of memories filled with Robin’s escapades.

You’ve only hung out with her a handful of times and can easily admit she’s a lot of fun. She’s also quite a bit more ambitious in social settings than even you are. You love that about her, though.

Steve leaves the two of you to it, door clicking shut and leaving you alone with the man. He drapes himself over the small couch situated in the far corner of the room, all long limbs over the top of the couch, one foot hooking over his thigh. You catch the barest hint of pale skin and lean muscle as he does so, catching your stare drifting before he says anything about it and focusing in on his eyes instead.

“This place is crazy,” you say, a little breathlessly.

“Definitely beats the Hideout, huh?”

“Definitely,” you agree, flopping down next to him when he pats the couch near his hip.

You were shocked when he brought up the show to you initially. Told you in passing at the bar about the show coming up mid-July, as if you’d talked about the fact Eddie plays in a band prior to that evening.

You want to press him further for not opening up about it sooner, but you suppose you should have picked up on the signs. His random strumming when you sat in the car together and his music played in the background, the tapping of his fingers, the random humming of songs and scribble of lyrics in a notepad when he thought you weren’t looking.

“I’m happy you invited me,” you tell him honestly.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he replies, his fingers spread along the top of the couch tapping your shoulder in a tune unknown. “I’m almost done with your bookshelf, by the way. Got my uncle to help with it, actually.”

“Oh no, don’t tell me that,” you whine, cupping your hand over your face.

“He wanted to help,” he reassures you, pushing at your wrist so he can see you. You shove at him jokingly, his laugh a rumble in your ears. “I’ve been keeping it at his place. Should be done probably by next weekend, if you want me to come to the apartment.”

You nod. “Next weekend is perfect. Maybe I’ll make us dinner. Like a little…celebration. We painted my apartment, replaced that hideous rug, and you built me a bookshelf. That place is actually starting to look like my place.” You pause, immediately rethinking your words, spluttering out, “Only if you want to, of course.”

“Sounds good to me,” he says, staring into your eyes just as a knock sounds from the door. A voice calls Eddie’s name from the other side, vaguely familiar to you, and Eddie shouts back, “Come in!”

Gareth appears with his longer hair flopping about his head, pausing when he catches you sitting on the couch beside his band mate. “Sorry. We just go on in five. Wanted to make sure you were ready.”

You shift away from Eddie on the couch, wiping your hands on your shorts as you stand to your full height. “I’ll let you guys get ready. I’ll see you out there.”

“See you out there,” he says, ignoring the way Gareth’s lip twitches upward when you duck around the boy and slip out of the room.

You wade through the sea of bodies once you’re back in the main area, catching sight of Steve’s floppy head of hair first before you see Robin hopping up and down beside him. They’ve managed to secure a little table and chairs, high enough over most heads that you’ll be able to see the stage. Robin hands you a margarita as you sit down, the drink chilling against your throat as you take your first sip gratefully.

She passes you a knowing grin, murmuring, “Where’d you run along to?”

“Stop instigating,” you huff out, but you giggle all the same, grinning when she pulls you into a hug. “But if you must know, I went to go check up on Eddie.”

Steve turns to look at the two of you then, explaining, “Robs snuck another shot while you were gone.”

“My friend over here has to catch up!” She jostles your shoulders a bit, and you hug her tighter.

“Your friend here has to work tomorrow, hon,” you remind her, running a hand down the back of her head when she pouts. “But I’ll have one more with you, okay? And then it’s off to bed for me.”

“Compromise,” Steve says, nodding enthusiastically.

Robin seems okay with that, plopping down onto the stool beside you as Corroded Coffin comes out onto the stage and gets into position. You briefly scan the band, their outfits all an array of black and white, with Eddie catching your eye the most. Him with his hair back, his band tee on display, ripped jeans tight against his thighs. And when they begin, you can only watch, completely enraptured, by the way his fingers move along his electric guitar. He moves like he was born to move on stage, head moving to and fro as he dives into the music—as if he’s one with it.

“He’s really good, isn’t he?” Robin asks low in your ear, sliding your shot of tequila in front of you.

You quickly swallow it down, following it up with your lime wedge. Your heart rackets against your ribcage as his fingers dash along the strings, movements precise and practiced, like the instrument is another part of his body, blending seamlessly into the rest of him.

“Yeah,” you mutter quietly, sipping the remainder of your margarita to chill your nerves that dance and hum with life beneath your skin, “he is.”

The fact you’re even here now means the world to you. This part of him he’s willingly choosing to share, something so deeply and uniquely his, that only his friends are privy to. It’s not lost on you, the meaningfulness of the evening. Being able to be there for him, in support of him.

You won’t take that for granted…this little glimpse of Eddie that you know has been entrusted to you for safe keeping.

It’s a day like any other. And by that, the girls are once again stirring the pot and trying to get a rise out of you and see what they can say to get information about the happenings of your personal life.

You should expect it by now, you suppose.

“Eddie’s been coming around more and more,” Max points out that afternoon as you and the girls close up shop.

El remains from a safe distance, as always, listening in on the conversation.

“Don’t think I forgot about what you girls did with the whole Fourth of July situation,” you warn them, brandishing your broom like a weapon.

“What do you mean?” El asks, and as much as you want to pretend she’s playing coy, you know he’s genuinely innocent.

“So you two aren’t trying to instigate anything between Eddie and I?” you press, looking in Max’s direction as she whistles to herself, suddenly highly intrigued by a spot on the ceiling.

“I know nothing about that at all,” Max says, holding out the dust pan so you can flick your collected dirt into it. “But if something were to happen, that would be pretty cool.”

You scoff disbelievingly. “There’s nothing going on with us, though. We’re friends; really good friends these days, honestly, but just friends.”

“Are you aware you just said friends three times in that explanation?” She seems way too happy with herself. “Seems excessive if you say you’re just friends.”

But you were.

You are.

There’s never been an indication as to anything that would suggest otherwise. He’s never given you any idea that his feelings are outside the boundaries of platonic friendship. Plus it’s only been five months since you’ve known him, and even less since you’ve been spending time with him.

You chalk it up to the girls wanting to have their fun and play it off once more like it means nothing—like there’s not a hidden part of you that does like Eddie more than you’ve let on, and finish cleaning up the coffee shop.

Eddie arrives as expected with your bookshelf at the ready. It’s beautiful. All dark brown wood with the prettiest natural grain, almost like it’s come from the forest itself. He helps you place your collection in their proper places on the shelves, taking a step back to admire your new set of Tolkien books, lovingly suggested by him. A little influence of his own self injected into your life.

You’ve settled on spaghetti, the smell of fresh sauce filling your apartment as Eddie takes in the place, now a lot different than when he saw it last. You've unpacked more of your kitchen, trying to ensure the place feels more like home. There’s a warmth to it now that you feel it lacked before. That, paired with your citrusy candle burning on the tabletop, and you feel your grandfather would be smiling down from wherever he is now.

You talk about the banalities of life as you finish up the cooking. His work, the building of your bookshelf, the minute updates to your apartment. You tell him about the kids and then business, how it’s prospering more than you could ever imagine. You’re making actual money now; enough where you could earn a decent living in Hawkins, though that part you leave out.

It brings him once more to the question you know he had intended to ask you last time he sat in this same space. His question to you is, “Where was home before here?”

As you told him before, it’s a long and winding tale. It’s like the stories in Middle Earth you’ve been reading about, these constant travelers, unable to settle for long in one place. So you settle for that, the abbreviated version, the simpler tale.

“My family moved a bunch when I was younger,” you explain, shoveling some spaghetti down onto his place and yours. He pours you a glass of wine as you move to sit, eyes not once leaving your face as you continue. “So, I, uh…bounced around a lot. You know, from school to school. It was kind of always that way for as long as I remember. As a kid I hated it. Never really staying in one place meant not really having a solid group of friends or people I could build any sense of community with.”

“I understand that,” he says, twirling the noodles around his fork.

“As I got older, though, I learned there were positives to that arrangement. I could get to know new people, experience new things, try new foods, learn new cultures,” you explain, memories of the various places you’ve lived. Warmer, tropical places; bustling cities; beach side apartments; quiet towns. “I had friends in…many places all of a sudden. I learned to sort of just seize the moment for what it is and make the most of it.”

“So how’d you end up here? In Hawkins out of all places?”

You swallow a bit of your noodles and down some of your wine. “My grandfather always wanted to see me slow down. I loved coming here as a kid, honestly. I have so many memories of this shop, just running in here and smelling his fresh cookies. The coffee. He’d sometimes sneak me some before my parents would let me have it. I’d spend my summers here with him, pretending to work for him, just…watching him. And he had such a, uh, joy for helping people. So when he died and gave me this place, I thought it was only right to uphold his name here.”

He nods, eyes soft as he regards you across the kitchen table. “Do you think you’ll stay?”

“Ah…that’s hard. My whole life I’ve sort of been running, I guess. Leaving before I could get too attached. I want to say I will, I just—”

“Don’t know any differently,” he says, and it sounds like he understands. “Running gets tiring, though. Trust me.”

“It does,” you admit, biting your lip.

You want to stop, you do. There’s just this fear that accompanies it. Of opening up enough to let people in and form a true community. Laying yourself bare to those who can nurture and also hurt you if you let them. But you’re trying. Sitting there, in that moment, with Eddie staring at you like he is, you find that you’re trying.

“If it helps your case in staying,” he says, climbing to his feet to toss his dish in the sink, “I’d be happy…you know, if you did. Steve and Robin would, too. The kids.”

Your heart warms as he says so, moving about your kitchen like he’s been doing so forever. He works in silence, even despite your protests as you tell him you’ll clean up, but he’s not having it. Instead he forces you to go pop on a record. Not ABBA, for the love of God (his words). You settle instead on Mötley Crüe, which he says is only marginally better, but he quiets after that. You can only hear the sound of a sponge against dishes and plates as he works, his arms shifting as he works. You try to keep from looking, but he’s all honed muscle and dark ink swirling across skin.

He goes to turn the sink off and starts to walk your way when the sound of a thump and a skitter of claws and wings meets your ears, loud enough over the music that it makes you jump out of your chair.

But Eddie’s reaction has your blood running cold. The way he lets out a strangled cry and stumbles backward into your counters, dropping down onto his bottom on the floor, hands around his kneecaps.

He’s not breathing.

You can hear the rasp of lungs that won’t fill, of his struggle as he turns in on himself, hand clutching at his chest.

You drop onto the tiles in front of him, gently crawling across the floor so as to not spook him further. He’s gasping like he’s in pain and you reach out to brush your fingers over the bats along the back of his forearm, along the curve of wings, trying to get him to look at you.

“Eddie?” You whisper his name, and his eyes shift just enough to meet yours.

Horror rounds those dark swirls of anguish, full of something you can’t quite see within them. Flashes of memory you’re not privy to. But you know it haunts him all the same, you can tell from what he’s told you, what his friends have, the events that no one speaks of and only alludes to.

“Eddie, it’s me,” you try again, watching his teeth clench. You want to reach up and smooth the tension from there, but instead keep your fingers connected where they lay against his skin. “It was just a bat or an animal or something. Hit the window. Silly little thing. I just washed the windows, sometimes they get confused. I’ve got you, I promise.”

You move even closer, sliding to hands up along his shoulders, up and down his arm until his focus trails to that instead of his shuddering breaths. “You’re having a panic attack,” you say out loud, though you’re sure he already knows that. “Do you want me to leave? I want whatever you want right now, okay?”

“N-no,” he heaves out, his expression fearful as he finally fully looks at you. His hand clasps around yours where it rests against his arm.

He’s pale.

He's so pale.

“Okay, yeah, I’m here,” you reassure him, his hand loosening so your palms can continue sliding up and down his arms slowly. “Try and match your breathing to mine. Slow inhales and exhales. I’m not going anywhere.”

You sit like that for a few minutes. Your legs bent so they can curve around Eddie’s broken form, your hands along his skin, his forehead against his knees as he gets a hold of his bearings.

He matches your breathing, slow inhales for five seconds, and then an exhale for just as long. Over and over again until he’s breathing normally once again, until the tension radiating from his form dissolves into a slower simmer.

You part from him only for a second to grab him some ice water, dropping back down to the floor to press the glass into his awaiting palm. He thanks you through a rasp as he sips eagerly, hands still shaking in doing so.

“Do you need me to do anything? Do you need anything?” you ask him, thumb still stroking his skin even now.

“This is fine,” he says. “Thank you. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“You’re sorry? Eddie, I’m your friend. That means if you need me, I’m there for you,” you remind him, stilling in your movements. “That means the good, bad, and the ugly.”

He gives your hand another squeeze before standing to his feet. He drops a palm in front of your face and pulls you up with him. Your form teeters a bit, but he catches you before you can slam into him.

“I…that hasn’t happened in a while,” he says, still sounding a little regretful. “I just—ah, I’m sorry.”

“No apologies.”

His features soften a bit at your mock scowl. It soothes your heart to hear him laugh. “Thank you again for talking me through it.”

You want to say ‘anytime’ or ‘always,’ but those words don’t seem fitting when it’s clear he’s still struggling. But you don’t get a chance to say anything at all, because he’s brushing the topic aside in favor of pulling out the VHS he brought of Star Wars: A New Hope, and dragging your old electronics from your closet to set them up for your viewing party.

And as the opening theme song plays and Eddie’s face illuminates beside yours in the dark, you can’t help but to question just what happened to him in March of 1986?

July 30, 1988 dawns warm and bright. Today’s adventures involve a night out at the local Fun Fair. A grandiose carnival full of lights, candy, food, rides, and games galore. Everywhere you look there are new sights to see, from the Ferris Wheel at the very rear, to the chair swings that spin high above the rest of the crowd, feet kicking as people laugh and trill from above. You see vendors passing out cotton candy as you go, boys passing their dates oversized stuffed animals after showing off their heroic prowess that normally you’d scoff at, but find yourself grinning over instead. Your heart swells because it just screams summer and you’re surrounded by the people who’ve become so very important to you in almost half a year’s time.

You wear a yellow summer dress, littered with pink flowers that match the neon lights glowing as far as the eye can see. The world is doused in color and life, children giggling as they pass excitedly from where you’re tightly pressing against Eddie as you walk behind Robin and Steve, who are already in search of the Gravitron.

The kids have already run up ahead. Mike and El go to make out in the photo booth—a fact you only know because Dustin practically taunted them into submission for being disgusting—and Lucas and Max to go try their own hand at some games. Will remains at Robin’s side, telling her stories about his studies at high school, while you simply let Eddie lead the way for now.

It’s been two weeks since his panic attack in your kitchen, and he seems more or less his typical self. At least from what you can tell in the months he’s been a constant in your life. He’s happy. Happier now, according to Steve one evening in passing as the four of you play Charades in his backyard over a couple of beers and burgers. It’s not the first time you’ve been told as such, and yet there’s something that sparks to life and cracks like lightning behind your ribs at the idea Eddie is opening up once more.

“Come this way,” Eddie whispers near your ear, stealing you away from the group to lead you down a side strip of the fun fair.

People grumble as you pass, your body colliding with another here and there as Eddie drags you behind him, soft mutters of “sorry” spilling from your lips. You’re bumping against his shoulder when he stops. You laugh out, “Bumper cars, really?”

“Get in,” he chuckles, and you’re practically racing him to clamber inside one. It’s a flurry of tangling limbs as you go about it, hands reaching between hands to try and buckle yourselves in before the hustle and bustle of moving vehicles begins at the sound of a buzzer. Your hands move to the steering wheel, his voice high and tight as he says, “I’m driving, sweetheart.”

“I’ve seen you drive,” you tell him, pushing at his elbows with your own to keep him from moving you away from the wheel. “Plus there are kids here. We don’t want to hurt anyone.”

One of which slams into you both from behind, and just so happens to be a grinning Max and Lucas, looking a little too devious for your liking.

Eddie whips his head around and shouts, “The Party doesn’t attack other Party members.”

“Maybe if you two would stop flirting you’d have seen us coming,” she drawls, and they are driving away, leaving the two of you giggling in her wake.

Lucas yells over his shoulder, “Sorry, Eddie!”

You turn to look at the very disgruntled metalhead with a smirk, elbow digging into his ribs lightly. “You can drive.”

You like to think you don’t have many regrets in your twenty-two years of life. You’ve always been one to try something once, maybe twice. But this? Letting Eddie drive the bumper car, with revenge behind his eyes intent to be dealt to Max, rank up there alongside those few that do make your list. Because he’s a dizzying swirling mess, whipping arms, screeching tires if this thing had wheels. And yet you’re laughing, ribs aching from the burn from the force, as he slams into Lucas and Max over and over and over again until she’s cursing at him from across cars and an attendant reminds you this is a kid friendly ride and that all fighting should be taken off the premises.

Your body bumps his as you split away from the other couple, trying not to linger on Max’s words. Trying to not think about the way they made something like excitement bubble up into hope.

Where you’re standing now, your hands brush every few steps. The gentle thrill of fingers against fingers, the sides of palms kissing, wrists knocking in the spaces between you. But he doesn’t stray from your side, instead pulls you closer when someone bumps into your arm in passing and you wince, nearly arm in arm now.

“Chair swings?” he asks, the blue of the neon lights flashing in his eyes as he looks down at you. He points upward and you can see them in all their splendor dangling from up above. Your head tips back briefly to take them in, a slow swallow sliding down your throat. Sensing your hesitance, you feel his hand lightly brush your arm. “We don’t have to.”

“No—no, I want to.”

It’s how you find yourself in a chair beside Eddie, him looking like he’s ready to take on the world, lighter than you’ve ever seen him before. Whereas you? You’re gripping onto the metal of the chair so hard you’re certain your knuckles strain from the effort, heart hammering away in your chest. Because you wanted to see him happy, you wanted it so badly, but there’s the matter of your own fear welling up. The feeling of being high above the ground, of flying, of soaring like you’re about to be.

Eddie’s hand stretches over the spaces between you and you glance down, brow arching instinctively. He brushes his fingers with yours and waits for you to twine them with his, your fear dissipating knowing he’s there to tether you.

“I’ve got you,” he says, and you trust him. “I promise.”

They’re your words to him in your kitchen.

Your breath hitches, lips spreading into a slow smile.

Maybe you keep your eyes closed the whole ride. Maybe you simply listen to the sounds of others' joy around you. Maybe you pray every second you’re up there for the ride to be over. But as time goes by, with his palm resting warm and solid in your own, you open your eyes and glance out over the crowd. They’re small, they’re so small and you’re infinite—at this moment at least. And to your right, when you blink, Eddie’s there…just as he promises.

Running seems tiring like this, when you’re high above the world, free from it all.

Back on the ground, he leads you to the endless rows of games where the two of you fail miserably over and over again to secure any prize. But you can’t fault his persistence all the same, the way his tongue sticks between his lips as you stand before the ring toss and he loses over and over and over again.

“Eddie, come on…there’s more games this way,” you tell him, tugging at the fabric of his shirt.

You glance over to the attendant, as if he’ll have pity on the poor man’s soul, intent on trying to win just one game. He doesn’t though, and asks for another fee to play again.

All in all, Eddie ends up following you over to play a game of balloon darts, and you find he’s actually much better at this one. So much so he wins you a teddy bear definitely too big for your bed back home, and shoves it into your awaiting arms for safe keeping. Your fingers brush against the plush of its soft head, grinning down at the chocolate brown eyes that mimic Eddie’s.

“Teddy, meet Eddie,” you say, mostly to yourself, but Eddie reaches over to squeeze the arm of the bear all the same. “What do we think about grabbing some funnel cake and going on the Ferris Wheel? I know it’s not my baking, but it's practically a rite of passage for these kinds of things.”

You feel like a teenager all over again with the boy you find yourself giddy around, climbing onto the bench for the ride. With the way he tucks Teddy into the space near his hip to keep the bear in place and shifts you closer so he can reach over to rip parts of the sweet treat from the plate between the two of you. Hawkins grows smaller and smaller beneath you, the fear of the free fall long gone from your mind when he pins you in place with his stare, doughy sweetness flooding your tastebuds. And as you pause at the very top, a bit of powder spills over onto his chin, mingling with the scar that creeps along his skin there.

You lift a thumb hesitantly, explaining what you’re doing before you do so to not spook him. “You got powder…just there,” you explain, brushing your thumb across his chin, then further along the slightest bit of puckered skin.

He releases a shaky breath, but doesn’t pull away from your touch. In fact, he leans into it, as you tentatively slide it along the bottom of his jaw.

“Does it hurt?” you ask quietly.

He shakes his head. “Not anymore. Not now.”

Words hang in the spaces between you. You keep your hand against his skin and glance up to the sky, counting the stars in the sky, counting them like little blessings. Tiny secrets.

Of all the days you’ve spent here so far, this one has to be your favorite.

A reason in your ever growing list of ‘whys’ in your constant questioning of whether or not you wish to stay.

“So,” Robin says, fingers carding through a stack of vinyls. The way she says it immediately signals to you that she’s up to no good, though that’s hardly surprising since she and Steve are some of the biggest instigators you know.

Your white shoes tap against the carpet covered floors, tongues still cherry red from the ices you consumed with your friend before heading to the local music store. You tug at your tank top, trying to let the air filtering from the fan positioned in the corner of the room chill your skin.

It’s a scorcher today, and while most people seem to have gotten the memo to stay inside, you and Robin spent the day thrifting for new fall clothes for you and walking around town.

You’re confident this will be your last stop though before heading back to your apartment to watch a movie with her.

“You and a certain friend of ours seem to be getting pretty cozy lately,” she says, peeking up at you innocently through her lashes.

You flip through a stack, pulling a Blondie record from the bunch to potentially add to your collection. “We’re friends. Friends…hang out.”

“Friends that go on the ferris wheel together and share dessert,” Robin says, raising a brow. You shake your head, snorting lightly before moving to another bin of records.

“I share food with you and Steve all the time,” you point out. “You and the kids are meddling lately.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You chuckle. “Of course you don’t.”

“You have to admit, it would be so cute—”

“Robin!” you warn, smiling wide at her.

“You dingus, you’re smiling because you like him so much. You can’t even fool me—” You rush around the bins between the two of you to clap your hand over her mouth, bursting out into louder girlish laughter as the two of you meet eyes.

“Let’s just get out of here,” you tell her, holding your record close to your chest. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

You both leave the store arm in arm, faces to the sun, world at your fingertips.

Gramps, you think , I’m starting to feel like this could be home, and that both terrifies me and excites me. Wish you were here…

It’s August 17th and Eddie is finally twenty-three. His Uncle Wayne wakes him with a cup of coffee brewed to his liking, and an omelet with all his favorite things. There’s a card on the kitchen table and a cheery balloon with a weight attached to it that sits beside it, Happy Birthday written in sprawling letters.

When he was younger, he’d probably have protested when Wayne reached down to curl a palm around the side of his head and kissed his head of waves, but now he’s only happy he’s still here to spend birthdays with him.

And judging by the smile on Wayne’s face, he feels the same. “You have any plans today, son?” he asks, sliding his Garfield mug before him, swirling a sugar inside.

“Just seeing Steve,” he says.

“Good kid, that one,” his uncle agrees, and it’s how Eddie finds himself walking toward Sunshine Coffee with Steve, wondering why the hell they were there now when the place closes at this time anyway.

The lights are out; he can see the dimness of the room from where they’re standing, but Steve’s telling him to hurry up because they have to meet up with Robin for game night and they’re about to be late.

“I don’t understand why we needed to stop here anyway?” Eddie huffs out, long legs carrying him as swiftly as possible.

“We need to pick up dessert. Your little lady friend baked a whole bunch and said we could come get them when ready,” he replies, tugging Eddie closer by his arm.

He’s about to curse Steve for pulling his arm like he is, but they’re opening the door and a light flickers on and all Eddie can do is stand in the doorway mute for likely the first time in his life as he takes in the scene around him.

The coffee shop has been completely transformed. The tables all moved together to make one giant seating area. Streamers of all colors hang from the ceilings, a banner that says Happy Birthday dangles from the front register counters. Music spills from a loudspeaker further into the room. And all about the room are the people who mean the most to him. From his Corroded Coffin friends, Hopper and Joyce, Jonathan and Nancy, the kids, Robin, his Uncle ( who gives him a knowing smile), Steve to his left…and then there’s you.

Standing with a cake in the middle of the room, his name written out across the white frosting in a bright red, with your makeshift attempt at drawing his guitar on the side.

Everyone’s shouting happy birthday, and when he looks over to Steve, he only gives him a nod and he’s stepping further into the room. It’s overwhelming, the fullness that floods his heart. The way the kids all step forward, wanting a chance to wish him happy birthday, to hug him. His friends do the same, each offering him well wishes and a pat on the back or a tight squeeze. Over and over again until his head spins, because he’s not used to this sort of affection.

Not used to being celebrated—not like this.

His Uncle steps forward as the crowd clears, reaching forward to bring his nephew close to his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me about this, pops?”

“I was held under strict guidance from that young lady over there to keep it a secret,” he explains, throwing a thumb over his shoulder to where you’re standing, head tilted back in laughter as Max and Dustin wave their hands wildly before you, clearly deep in some sort of tale. “You know, you’ve never introduced me to her before.”

“She’s a good friend,” he says, calling your name above the crowd. Your head immediately darts his way, before turning to the kids to excuse yourself. He tries to quell the rapid flutter in his chest as you draw nearer, as your skirt dances about your thighs, as your infectious curl smiles when you approach him. “I wanted to introduce you to someone.”

“Formally, at least,” Wayne says, passing you a little wink. “Seeing as we spoke a couple weeks back.”

You waste no time in reaching forward and hugging the man, shocking both Wayne and Eddie, but Eddie supposes it’s really not that shocking at all. You’ve always been warm. You ooze life and make people feel like they can be open, without any worry as to what you might think of them. It’s one of the things he admires most about you, so he simply smiles as Wayne shares in that embrace with you and pulls back after a while with a giant smile, murmuring something so quietly to you Eddie doesn’t quite catch it.

Your reply is a nod and you settle back at Eddie’s side, glancing up at him through your lashes as you wrap his side in a hug. The first hug you’ve given him. “Happy Birthday, Eddie.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says sincerely, glancing at his Uncle. “Uncle Wayne…this is…” He tells him your name, and then does the reverse, finally introducing the two of you. But it’s as if you’ve known each other for years as the two of you split away from him and talk over the coffee pot, showing him how to work it.

He doesn’t miss the way he misses your warmth soon after it's gone.

Steve appears to his right, arms folded across his chest. “It’s okay to admit you like her, you know? Also, in case you were wondering, it was her idea to do this in the first place. We promised you wouldn’t get mad at her. We thought it was a good idea.”

“I’m not mad,” Eddie promises, and chooses not to acknowledge that first part.

Because he’s not even yet had a chance to process the feeling bursting from beneath his ribcage whenever you’re near. The way his stomach dips, chest tightens, palms start to sweat. He’s never really had many opportunities throughout his teenage years, always too weird, too loud, too much for most girls. Sure, he’s kissed a few here and there, maybe had a make out at the Hideout here and there in a dark corner.

But nothing like this, nothing of this nature. And he especially never expected it happening after the Upside Down.

For so long he’s seen himself as some beast. As some monster that lurks in the shadows.

Now…well, you’re different, he supposes. You draw those parts of him forward. You make him step forward and into the open, pulling him from the shadows he prefers to hide in.

He’s not quite sure what to do about that yet. So for now he slips into conversation with the kids about DnD. He listens to Hopper and Joyce regale him with stories he’s not yet even heard about Robin and Steve. When they later gather around to have cake, he ties his hair back and tugs you to his side so you can sit beside him when you place the cake down before him, candles flickering against the faces of those across from him.

He feels loved.

He feels undeniably and truly loved.

He inhales and wishes for this year to be the best one yet, and exhales hopeful that it will be.

The end of summer finds you sitting in the back of Eddie’s van with Eddie, Steve and Robin. Eddie’s gutted the thing, all his usual things cleaned out for now, and placed a makeshift bed of blankets beneath. Pillows are strewn about the place, creating the perfect outdoor movie watching atmosphere.

Robin and you have been left to your own devices as the guys collect your various drink and snack orders, staring out the mouth of the van up at the twinkling stars in the sky.

You don’t have those back home. The sky is always too congested, always obscured and blocking out their pretty light. Tonight, however, the sky is full with an endless sea of them.

“That one, right there,” Eddie says all of a sudden, popping up beside you on the back of the vehicle, “is Aquila…then look up, up, up— yeah, right there. That’s Cygnus.”

You turn to look at him, and the stars reflect in his eyes. You can hear Robin and Steve talking to your left, sure, but Eddie’s swallowing up all the air in the space.

All the attention.

“Are there any others?” You tip your head back up to the sky, feeling a flutter when Eddie’s fingers curl around your wrist and he unfurls your pointer finger.

“Okay, so a little bit to the right of Aquila is Hercules.” He drags your hand to the right, outlining the square-like shape in the center and the spindly, broken limbs from the four points. “Right to the left of that… is Lyra.”

He drags your finger to the left and points out the other small constellation, his breath dancing along your bare shoulder, making your breath come out in short puffs. His fingers unfurl from around your wrist and you shift a bit on your bottom, further away from Steve and Robin, your bent knee and leg hanging over the edge of the van bracketing Eddie in place.

He’s wearing a Metallica tank top tonight, and those dark jeans he favors, hair loose and wavy in the humid September air. He’s smiling at you, you realize, bright and open in the dimly lit space.

“How do you know so many constellations?” you probe, head tipping to the side.

You watch as his eyes drift back to the sky. With Steve and Robin so caught up in their own conversations and murmuring their need to go to the bathroom before the movie starts, Eddie regales you with a story about his parents. That his father had been in and out of jail his whole life, and that his mother always struggled because of it, seeking comfort in alcohol and other substances. At a young age, she actually ended up dropping him off at his Uncle Wayne’s house here in Hawkins and…never came back for him. It breaks your heart as he tells you. The idea that she could just leave the child she grew and loved within her own body at one time.

He tells you about those beginning years, learning to navigate each other's new spaces. The way his Uncle became a constant, when he’d been so used to people coming and going in and out of his life before that.

“My uncle and I got close. Like…ah, really close,” he admits softly, with the shyness of a young boy, shocking for the twenty-three year old man sitting before you. “That involved learning new things together. So there was a time where we’d sit outside and just look up at the stars with a book and see what we could find.”

“Your Uncle Wayne is really special,” you tell him, your voice soft even on your own ears. “I’m really happy you have him. He was…so wonderful when I met him.”

“Yeah, he’s…” He leans back onto his hands, chest parallel with the sky. From here you can see the soft outline of his face, the line of his nose, his jaw, the bump of his throat, the chains that rest in the hollow. “He’s really important to me. We’ve been through a lot together.”

You swallow thickly, the importance of this moment not lost on you. “Thank you for sharing that with me, Eddie.”

His palm slides across the van floor and you’re about to ask him what he’s doing when those fingertips brush your own. They just rest there, not seeking or holding, simply touching . Simply sharing in the closeness of proximity. You follow the trail of his forearm down to where your fingers lay, index tapping against his thumb, when Robin announces boisterously that the movie is about to begin.

Your group slides further into the mouth of the van. You settle down on Eddie’s right so you’re closest to the wall, hidden away from the rest of the group, your knees close to your chest as you watch the opening scenes spill across the screen, showing two young boys moving into a Santa Carla, California.

The Lost Boys is interesting enough and moves swiftly. The premise of vampires always seemed intriguing anyway, these creatures of the night not bound by the innate human morality code.

And as you get further into the movie and Michael finds himself drawn into David’s motorcycle gang because of his growing interest in Star, you lean over to Eddie and mutter, “You should be a vampire for Halloween. You dress like these guys on a daily basis.”

“Are you making fun of my clothing choices?” he asks, tugging at your forearm so you thump bodily against his shoulder.

“I’m just saying, it would be an easy costume,” you chuckle, just as Michael is offered some sort of wine that you most definitely know isn’t actually wine.

“Would you drink a random chalice like that?” he asks you. The sound of Star telling Michael not to do it greets your ears.

“Absolutely not,” you say, chuckling. “You know that boy is about to become a vampire. Easy.”

“You two!” Steve hisses loudly, making you jump from where you rest beside Eddie. “Stop with the chit-chatting! There’s a movie playing!”

A group of people in cars around you “shhh'' Steve, his hands lifting in exasperation. “I’m trying to get them to shut up and you’re all trying to get me to shut up? Come on, people, be grateful here!”

“Steven,” you raise your head from up where you’re hidden by Eddie, snorting when Eddie shoves your shoulder lightly. “Quiet down, there’s a movie playing!”

“This,” he says, pointing a finger between the two of you, “is a scary thing.”

None of you are able to ask what he means by that, because a worker with a flashlight comes by and gives you a final warning that numerous people have made noise complaints, and one more will result in your request for removal from the premises.

You’re giggling to yourself, shoulder against Eddie’s with your hand over your mouth as they walk away. His face presses near to your ear, his own laughing warm against your skin, as he whispers, “Thank you.”

Your head pops up in confusion, eyes clashing with his. “What for?”

“Just thank you,” he says, and there’s a poignant sincerity there that makes your chest ache with sudden sticky fondness.

You take that moment to shift closer to his side, your back against the side of his chest, his arm coming to drape around your shoulder. He’s warmth and comfort, protection from the chill of the soon to be fall air. And if you lean closer to him as the movie goes on, as Star and Michael explore the intimacies of their relationship in the background, he only pulls you closer, thumb brushing along your skin, gooseflesh jumping to life.

“To keep you warm,” he explains, cheeks growing darker, as he looks down at your cuddled up forms.

“Of course,” you reply, trying to hide your wry smile.

So while spring marked a new beginning, summer brought along with it warmth and the stirrings of something more.

You’re excited to find out what that something more is.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x afab!reader #eddie munson fluff #Eddie munson post s4 #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic

748 notes · View notes