#but would sell it for drug money first shot

[s-4pphics]

cw; fratadjacent!ellie, mentions of prescription drugs and dealing, literally just for ‘23 tlou tumblr nostalgia 

attempt 747388282 of getting outta my block. barely edited bc i havent slept

How the hell do you introduce yourself to a dealer?

Initiating convos with a stranger with a hey, do you sell addies, seems a little rude for regular common folk, but do dealers actually care about introduction etiquette? Highly doubtful, but you despise assuming shit about people, much due to the fact that your brain has a deadly latching tendency, remembering everything it shouldn’t and forgetting everything you should remember. 

Dealers are driven by the dollar, aren’t they? Just like everyone else. Show the money, get the candy… or something? You doubt Mel would put you in harm's way. 

You came to your roommate in the middle of a breakdown: self-soothed through a panic attack with snot dripping down your nose and thoughts scattered like they always are. Always. Your brain never listens to reason and it’s torture. She held you while you cried and cursed the medical industry, all while your brain shattered to pieces, attempting to find solace in Mel’s softened whisper. 

I have this friend…

And of course, your brain never forgets. Your prescription is forever to blame for your shortcomings. Every unfinished essay, failed test, failed class — mindless scrolling — it’s all due to your lack of… candy. Brain candy. It’s fucked up how terribly you need it to get through school. If you don’t pop one at six in the morning everyday, every plan you make goes down the drain and into the sewers. 

Pharmacies are supposed to always have their shit together. Customers come in, grab their beans, and they dip for a month before doing it all over again. Visits are dandy until they aren’t, apparently. Out of all people, why did they have to fuck up yours? A year of going to the same location with the same pharmacist and they suddenly misplace the only jewels that keep your head on your neck. 

Sure, you could sue or commit arson to that entire building, but you decided spending the last bit of your free time bribing the go-to drug lord of campus would be much more beneficial. And less… endangering. 

Mel is close with drug dealers — a surprising fact to discover about your soft-toned friend. Ellie Williams is one of them, and she’s expecting your arrival, according to Mel. The texts between you and this faceless stranger were brief, aloof — quite business-like despite the topic of conversation. You only hear about her from the sidelines or your roommate, and everyone seems to have a consensus opinion. 

Evidently, she fucking sucks. And fucks. Literally and figuratively. Good for her? You don’t give a shit. She agreed to give you a month's supply of Dextro for fifteen bucks. Fuck the gossip and the pharmacy. 

That gets you knocking. It takes fourteen seconds for the door to open, and you're instantly hit with the wall of Mary. Jane, in particular, and she’s covered in red lights. 

The testy drug head doesn’t fit everybody’s description; her face is almost too sweet for her body. She’s literally wearing Spiderman PJs. What kinda dealer has freckles and rosy cheeks? Her eyes remind you of a deer’s despite the pink tint. Can deers even get high? 

One of the first things Ellie does is take in your Patrick Star slippers. Her grin is slight as she eyes them. 

“Huh.”

“… Hey.” 

“Hello.” 

You hate silence more than anything in the world. It’s so fucking awkward in this hallway. 

“Name?” 

… Maybe intros are necessary? “Oh. Uh. I’m Mel’s friend. I’m guessing y’all know each other? I’m—“

The a-ha she makes is very innocuous. This is the beast everyone always talks about? “My dex pickup, right?” 

You jokingly shrug, “in the flesh.” 

“Nice to meet you.” 

“You… you, too.” 

It’s silent again. Being shot in the face would be less painful than standing here. 

Soon, but not nearly enough, Ellie digs into her pocket to retrieve a very familiar looking orange bottle. It almost looks like yours minus the white sticker with your name and dosage. Just plain orange. And filled a hefty amount. A little over halfway. 

“Uh,” you stumble around in your jean pocket like an idiot. When you come up empty handed, you dig around in your back pocket. Then your other front, then your other back. 

Where the fuck is your twenty? 

“Uh… um…”

You check your bra and your shoulder bag and your sock, all while Ellie stares at you like you’re a walrus on stilts. 

“I’m… I dunno where my…” 

“Short?”

Flames burst beneath your cheeks. Too fucking short. If you were in a mafia film, you’d be strung up in front of Ellie’s door as a warning for loose pocketers. 

But Ellie’s not in the fucking mafia. She looks like she’s about to laugh. Before you can drown her in apologies, she hands you the clattering jar. 

“… Wh—“

“No offense, but… I think you needa fill.” 

This has to be a test. Ellie’s going to slice your hand clean off your wrist when you reach for your vice… Your prescription, you mean. Not vice—

“You want ‘em or not?” 

Impatient as fuck — very on brand. Just as your palm eagerly closes around the bottle, a shock of electricity pops from Ellie’s hand to yours. She flinches but you don’t. The horrifying screams from the little fuckers in your hand are too distracting. 

“Do I owe you?” 

She ponders for a second. Eyes you with curiosity. Snickers down at your slippers. 

“It’s cool. Just tell me if they work.” 

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Do I really have to explain the hierarchy to you?” 

“What do you think?” 

Ellie pins you with a playful glare, “I bought from someone new.” 

That doesn’t mean shit to you, so why are you attempting to make conversation? “Is that why you stocked me up?” 

“Sure.” 

“Are they laced?” 

She shrugs, “maybe.” 

That should induce fear… It never comes. You anticipate focusing too much to care. If you die, you die. 

This convo fucking sucks. And now it’s quiet because how the fuck are you supposed to respond to you potentially OD-ing? Your brain’s cranking but, just like every other time, you come up empty handed. 

“You can go now.” 

You try not to be bothered by her dismissing you. You shouldn’t be bothered by anything — she did you a favor. Ellie must really like your fucking slippers. She’s spoken to Patrick more than you this entire time. 

“… Thanks.” 

“No sweat. Get home safe.” 

Her door closes. Your chest opens. You convince yourself it’s with gratitude, and not at all due to the weird attraction you felt for that drugged-out freakazoid. 

[ashwhowrites]

can i request a little bit of angst?

eddie is in his late twenties, finally got his shit together, a baby on the way with reader! and eddie’s OLDER brother shows up. he’s an asshole, exactly like their dad, tries hitting on reader, crashes on their couch, makes eddies life hell then it all comes to a head and they end up fighting!

I really love this request!!! 🫶🏻

Never proofread

I hope this is what you wanted, thank you for requesting <3

Happy ending

~~~

If there was one thing in life Eddie didn't think he'd ever achieve, it was getting his life together. He never thought he'd make it out of the trailer park. And he definitely never thought he'd have a wife by his side and a baby on the way.

It took Eddie a long time to get on his feet. Selling drugs and living with his uncle was not the future he wanted for himself. He used his dirty money and got himself a shitty apartment, in the corner of the dirtiest neighborhood, but it was all his. And being on his own was something he could be proud about.

~~~

He was living in that apartment for around five years when he met Y/N. She moved into the apartment next to him, struggling to carry boxes through the front door. Eddie was happy he lived on the first floor, easily walking out behind her, trying his best to not seem creepy.

She turned around and screamed as she saw him. A hand over her chest. Eddie jumped at the scream, hands in the air to show he meant no harm.

"I am so sorry! I just wanted to see if you needed help." He offered with the friendliest smile he could manage.

Who would have thought in three years, he would have been marrying that girl.

~~~

Marriage life was the best thing Eddie has experienced, and he felt that fatherhood would be the same. He never knew how badly he craved a family until he was on the path of creating his own. He could start fresh, start a new family tree of the Munson name. A name that didn't have to be originated from prisoners, dealers, and being poor. He wanted the Munson name to be carried on through generations, with all good things behind it. Having a wife like Y/N take his name, told him he had a strong beginning.

She was around six months, her belly growing by the day. Together they made enough to buy a small home, in a safer neighborhood. Nothing too flashy, but it was their home and it meant everything. Eddie gagged at the thought of a white picket fence but he loved seeing it shine in the morning sun when Y/N watered the plants.

The nursery was nearly finished. The walls painted baby pink, and the furniture white. Eddie's favorite bands posted on the walls. He claimed their daughter needed to get her music journey started right away.

Eddie was the happiest he's ever been until an unwelcome visitor showed up at his door.

Y/N knew everything about Eddie, except his family. She knew Uncle Wayne and that was all. She respected that Eddie was private about his family and that he didn't care to share who they are.

So Y/N stood in shock when an older man stood at her door, the same shade of brown as her husband. A similar smile on the man's face, and a slightly bigger version of Eddie's nose.

"I'm looking for my brother," the man stated, looking her up and down. A tiny smirk on his face. But his smirk didn't give her butterflies, it made her stomach turn in a bad way.

She screamed for Eddie, a polite smile on her face. The longer Eddie took the more nervous she got.

"How far are you?" The man questioned, his hand reaching for her stomach.

She took a big sigh of relief when Eddie's hand shot out and stopped the man's touch from touching her. He stood in front of her. Completely blocking her view from the stranger.

"Little E, how the hell are you?" The stranger asked

"What are you doing here?" Eddie snapped. She watched as his body was stiff, she slipped her hand in his back pocket and stood on the side of him.

"Got out of jail, needed a place to crash. Wayne is going out of town and doesn't trust me alone in his place." The man rolled his eyes as he finished his sentence.

"I don't blame him since the last time you did you trashed it," Eddie said, his jaw was tight and his face was hard.

"Come on, E, help a brother out."

~~~

Eddie wasn't sure why he said yes, but he already regretted it watching the way his brother's eyes were glued to his wife.

"Quit staring," Eddie snarled, using his foot to kick him under the table.

Y/N hummed in the kitchen as she checked the chicken. Trying her best to keep her attention off of the two men at the dining table. She felt her body shudder underneath Michael's stare.

"Quite a woman you got there," Michael said, sipping on his beer

Eddie didn't say anything, accepting the silence instead.

Y/N smiled as she placed the food on the dinner table. Putting together a plate for Eddie and placing it in front of him.

"Gonna make me a plate, pretty girl?" Michael winked, his hand reaching forward to her wrist. She gulped and looked nervously at Eddie.

"Leave her alone." Eddie snapped

Michael put his hands up in surrender, making his own plate.

The three sat in silence.

~~~

Michael has been crashing on the couch for the past week, and every day he was getting on Eddie's last nerve.

Y/N worked from home and spent most of the day in her office, Eddie worked at a car dealership. He hated leaving for work and leaving her alone with Michael. He didn't trust Michael but Eddie's boss would also kick his ass for not showing up.

He kept his phone on him at all times, reminding Y/N to call the second she needed him to come home.

~~~

Michael said he found a friend to crash with and would be leaving shortly. Asking Y/N if she would help him clean his clothes and pack up his belongings. She honestly felt too scared to tell him no, silently scooping up his clothes and bringing them to the small laundry room. She excused herself to head into the shower. Eddie would be home within minutes so she felt safe to be in a vulnerable state, checking twice to make sure the door was locked.

~~~

Eddie pulled up in the driveway, bracing himself for another night of trying not to kill Michael with his bare hands. He walked in to see his house trashed, the cushion torn apart, and the cupboards all thrown open, he heard shuffling around in the bedroom. He raced to the noise to see Michael digging through their drawers.

"What the fuck? Are you trying to rob us?" Eddie asked in disbelief, Michael's backpack was filled with random items. Eddie yanked the bag out of his grip, dumping it all out on the bed.

He felt his blood boil when Y/N's ring fell out. But once his brain caught up with seeing the ring, his blood felt cold. She ONLY took it off when she was in the shower. Eddie turned his eyes to Michael, immediately shoving him against the wall.

"Where did you grab the ring?" He prayed with everything in him that she left it in the bedroom.

"She had it sitting on the bathroom counter, she couldn't see me with her back to me. Really hit the jackpot there, Eddie. Shes' smoking."

Eddie felt his stomach turn, he felt like he could throw up at any moment.

"You fucking pig. Don't talk about her." Eddie barked, twisting Michael's shirt in his grip.

"A really nice ass, I bet her tits ar-" But Eddie kicked Michael in the stomach before he could finish.

~~~

Y/N heard a commotion in the bedroom, fear in her stomach as she got covered herself in a towel and called Wayne. Racing out of the bathroom to see Eddie on top of Micahel, screaming and punching.

"OH MY GOD, EDDIE" She panicked, she knew getting in the way would put the baby in danger, but she has never seen Eddie so out of control.

The sound of her scream caused Eddie to freeze, and both men looked to see her.

"Eddie, stop," She said calmly. She placed her hand out, offering him to stand up. He took a deep breath and got off of Michael. Grabbing his bag and throwing it on him.

"You are out." Eddie snarled

Michael coughed as he tried to move his beaten-up body. Eddie rolled his eyes and dragged Michael to his feet.

"I have his clothes," Y/N said, quickly running out to the laundry room.

Michael smirked as Eddie looked over at him.

"What asshole?" Eddie asked.

"I see why you knocked her up. When she was bent over that washing machine." Michael groaned, rubbing himself over his jeans.

Eddie lost it again, immediately throwing his body on his.

Y/N came back with the clothes to see Michael unconscious, but the look in Eddie's eyes was unrecognizable.

She didn't fear him, but she was worried for him.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Wayne came through the door, yanking Eddie off of Micahel.

"Hey, hey, look at me," Wayne instructed, grabbing the sides of Eddie's face, forcing his eyes to look at him.

Eddie's body was shaking, his knuckles cut open, and his breathing was quick and harsh.

Eddie locked his eyes on Waynes, allowing himself to calm down.

"I'll take care of him, hug your wife and go clean up."

Eddie listened in seconds, turning around to throw himself in his wife's arms. Allowing her to hide in his neck. She rubbed his back and cooed in his ear.

She took him to the bathroom to clean up his hands. Kissing each knuckle as she cleaned the blood.

"I'm sorry I let him stay here." Eddie sighed, he couldn't believe he was that dumb. He watched Wayne do the same thing with Eddie's dad for years, and yet he did the same thing.

"Don't be. You wanted to help and that was sweet of you." She said, standing between his legs as he sat on the counter.

They heard the front door close, Wayne and Michael officially gone.

"I'm sorry my family is a mess, this I why I never wanted you to know them." He added. His hands reached down to rub her stomach.

"Wayne is your family, I'm your family, and she is your family. That's the only family I care to know. Wayne raised the man I love and he is the only one I need to know. I have the two best Munsons in my life." She said, leaning up to peck his lips.

"Well, I get to have three." He smiled, kissing her back and his hand stayed on her stomach.

This was his real family.

~~~

tags!

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @slightlyvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @manyfandomsfanvergent @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @thegemaqua @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila

[starlemons]

Coffee and Crime ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ PART SEVEN

Pairing ✦ mafia!bucky x reader

Word Count ✦ 1.8K

Warnings ✦ overall story has a 18+ content warning, MDNI, cussing, weapon caused injury resulting in a fake death, spicy thoughts, nightmares

A/N ✦ Here's part seven!!! <3 Thanks for your support y'all :)

PART SIX »»» Series Masterlist

You nearly spat out your hot chocolate, poorly timing a sip with Bucky’s declaration. 

“Uh what?”, you said looking at him, jaw slacked.

He breathed deeply, “I am the head of a mafia family.”

Part of you wanted to burst into laughter and part of you was scared of the possibility of him not joking around. Bucky stared into your eyes so intensely, searching them for a sign of how you currently felt, and you immediately knew he was being sincere.

“How–I don’t understand, I didn’t even think that was a thing anymore, like some 1940’s only type of thing.”

Bucky almost chuckled at you, finding himself glad that you hadn’t immediately run in fear of him. 

“We just have gotten better at hiding, staying out of the public eye.”, he shrugged.

“So Steve, Tony, Bruce they’re–”

“All also a part of the mafia, yes.”

You balked at him. Part of you finding this extremely hot, like one of your romance novels come to life, and part of you knew that hanging out with such a high ranking mafia member was probably a very, very bad idea, adding in the fact you hadn’t even made it through your first date without being shot at. 

You nodded at him, thinking some more.

Bucky felt like he was going to throw up as he watched your brain sort through your thoughts, trying to figure out the appropriate action to take. 

“Uh ...Okay.”, you started, “I mean it’s not necessarily a dealbreaker I guess, but I do have a few questions.”

He lit up like a match, “Of course.”

You quizzed him, asking about the business ventures he was involved in, owning clubs, a casino, and a few strip joints. You were relieved he wasn’t selling drugs to make his money. Bucky answered all your questions quickly and truthfully. Admitting that yes earlier the people who shot at you were a rival mafia family, the Pierces, who were controlled by a man and his adoptive son.

After asking him varying questions for over an hour, you realized how low the temperature had dropped and had a strong desire to go back inside to avoid the bite of the autumn wind. 

He noticed that you were beginning to shiver, softly smiling, he stood. 

“Let’s get you inside, you look like you're about to freeze.”

Nodding you reached for his arm, looping yours through his elbow, pulling his warm body closer to yours for the walk back to the house. Bucky’s heart swelled.

Once you guys were back inside, Bucky walked you to the couch, taking your empty mug, and throwing a few blankets over your shivering form.

“Thank you.”, you murmured.

“Anytime sweetheart.”

He turned and walked to the kitchen to rinse the mugs, returning a few minutes later. 

“Where’d everyone else go?”, you asked, realizing none of the other men were in the house anymore.

“They went to their homes, they’re not far, we all live on the same property, just not the same houses.”

“Oh okay.”

Bucky picked up a remote, pressing on. The large TV hanging on the wall illuminated the room. He switched off the lights, plopped next to you on the couch, and propped his feet up on the ottoman. 

He extended the remote towards you, “Here, you pick what we watch.”

You smiled at him, immediately knowing what show you wanted to watch. 

Over an hour had passed and the two of you were enticed by your show, Bucky finding himself surprised he was getting drawn into a season of The Real Housewives series. Throughout the episodes you both slowly inched towards one another, currently finding yourselves shoulder to shoulder. As the housewives got into a screaming match you found yourself yawning, eyes feeling heavy. 

You realized that it was extremely late and that you should probably head home. As if he read your mind, he spoke to you.

“Y/N, would you want to stay for the night?”

“Like in your bed?”, you asked, eyes wide.

Bucky did enjoy the thought of you in his bed very much, but he shook the thought from his head. You were so pure and innocent to him and so in respect he offered one of his guest rooms to you. 

After dropping you off at your room, which was almost as massive as Buckys, just with a smaller closet and bathroom, he bid you goodnight and left towards his room. 

You shut the door behind you and turned to walk to the bed. It was a full sized bed, a large lavender comforter covered the matching sheets, a large pile of pillows with silk pillowcases engulfed the bed, and a gray fluffy blanket was folded at the end of the furniture. There were two dark gray nightstands on either side of the bed, one decorated with a simple lamp and the other with a small digital clock, a box of kleenex, and the remote to the TV.

You flopped on the bed and immediately crawled under the covers, you reached for the remote to the TV, flipping it on. Selecting a random show you found yourself quickly falling asleep, your mind filled with nothing but Bucky.

The man in question however was finding it very difficult to sleep right now. He stared up at his ceiling, trying to stop thinking of you, but he couldn’t. You were beautiful, kind, and easy going, he adored you already. Bucky thought about how innocent you were compared to him. To him you were small, fragile, and needed to be protected at all costs, which is exactly why his brain was struggling right now. 

You were better than he would ever be, he didn’t deserve you, he feared he would ruin you by exposing you to his world at all. Yet, Bucky felt like being selfish, never having feelings like this towards the past women in his life, those women however were just hookups, never anything serious. With you he was very serious.

His mind flashed to earlier on the couch, when you guys were shoulder to shoulder, you were so engrossed in the show you hadn’t noticed him watching you. He adored the smile that adorned your face, the desire to kiss you had been overwhelming, but he had already scared you enough for one night and wasn’t about to bombard you with a kiss out of nowhere. 

Bucky’s need to kiss you consumed him as he lay in his bed. He imagined your lips would be pillow soft, how he would wrap his arms around you, and then his mind began to drift. He started wondering how soft your skin was, how it would feel against his hands and mouth, how you would react to his touches. 

Shaking his head, he rolled over and tried to push the R rated thoughts he was having about you out of his mind. However he began to imagine how small you would look beneath his massive body. 

“Shit, I’ve got to cool off.”, he said as he flung off his covers, walking towards the shower, hoping that a cold shower would wash the sinful thoughts of you out of his head. 

Down the hallway you tossed and turned in your bed, a nightmare overtaking your peaceful rest. In your very vivid dream you and Bucky were back in the car, fleeing from the shooters, however this time instead of Bucky getting shot in the shoulder you watched as the bullet passed through the driver's seat and through his chest. The car veered off the road, crashing into the ditch. You reached for Bucky, shaking him and screaming as his form slumped over, his pulse diminishing. 

Suddenly a figure appeared in your window, a weapon pointed at your face. The shadow pulled the trigger, the glass shattering. Before you knew it you were sitting upright in bed, screaming at the top of your lungs. 

Bucky's stomach dropped as he heard your yell of terror. He didn’t even bother turning off the shower, quickly grabbing a towel, and rushing down the hall towards you. Throwing open your door he looked around the room, trying to assess any danger. After not seeing any threats his eyes turned to you, shaking in bed, tears pouring down your face. 

“Sweetheart?”, Bucky spoke softly, inquisitive as to what was wrong. 

“Bad dream.”, you choked out.

You felt so silly, having cried in front of the man in front of you twice already in one night. Taking him in you realized he was wearing only a towel, droplets of water trickled down, lower and lower. You quickly snapped your eyes back to his, a blush forming on your face. If he noticed your gawking he didn’t acknowledge it, too focused on your wellbeing. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You contemplated if you wanted to tell him, you decided that yes you did, and nodded your head. He slowly approached you, squatting down beside the bed, reaching for your hand and squeezing it. You relayed your dream to him, he nodded along listening intently. Tears began to burn your eyes again as you spoke.

“Shhh”, he cooed at you, “You’re okay, it was just a dream. See I’m here and I’m okay, you’re okay.”

He softly stroked the back of your hand with his thumb, the other reaching up to brush away your tears. 

“Come on.”, he tugged on you lightly, trying to get you to leave the bed and follow after him.

You rose from the sheets, walking with him back to his room. 

“I’m going to finish my shower, you can sleep in my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”, he said stepping into his bedroom, jutting a thumb towards the small couch.

He went to pull away from you, but you clamped your fingers around his hand. His eyes widened as he turned back to you.

“Can you sleep with me?”, you whispered out, nerves wracking you.

Heat washed over Bucky, knowing you meant that you wanted him to sleep in his bed with you, not that you wanted to fuck him, but your innocent request came across as anything other than. 

You realized that slightly after the words left your mouth. 

“Not–Not like in that way—But–I–”, you stumbled.

Bucky chuckled, “Y/N, I know what you meant sweetheart. Go jump in bed, I’ll come join you once I’m out of the shower.”

You shyly smiled lightly murmuring an okay back to him. Climbing under the covers you nestled into the soft sheets. Bucky made his way back into the bathroom, not fully shutting the door as he entered, a slight beam of light peeking through the crack. You realized that he had in fact done that so you wouldn’t be drenched in darkness. 

Your eyelids felt like lead balloons, slowly closing, sending you back into a peaceful sleep. Several minutes later Bucky emerged from the bathroom, he had redressed in a pair of shorts and a soft t-shirt. 

Smiling, he climbed into the bed next to you and whispered, “Goodnight sweetheart.”

He swore he saw your lips curl into a smile.

PART EIGHT

TAGLIST IS OPEN!! LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT ADDED!

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[gossamerufansubs]

Two pages from HEROINE magazine Volume 2 (2004). This edition focused on independent heroine tokusatsu production companies such as Eiyu Club, Center Island, and more.

English translation below the cut:

Page 1

[Header] Eiyu Club

[TN: The kanji seem to mean “movie” and “amusement” together but 映遊 in itself is not a word beyond the name of this club, so I will use the spelling they use themselves in their works, “Eiyu”, here]

[Left of photo where Suzuka is being choked by a masked villain] The heroines from the club that has produced many masked heroines have gathered together! Let’s support these cute and cool heroines.

[In the blue box titled ‘data’] 

Cyber Lady Suzuka

Suzuka Power-Up Plan by Dr. Mori (1998)

Suzuka's younger sister, Haruka, has been captured by Zelda. Suzuka, along with her ex-boyfriend and pilot Yoshiyama Ryo, Haruka’s boyfriend Amemiya Akira, and the creator Dr. Todoroki, set out to rescue her. However, the enemy uses Haruka as a hostage and sends out three monster minions. Suzuka struggles and takes heavy damage as it happens to be the time for her regular maintenance. Dr. Todoroki decides to completely enhance and modify Suzuka. Can Suzuka defeat the three monsters and rescue Haruka safely?

Cyber Lady Suzuka 2 – Dr. Todoroki Speaks of Suzuka’s Secrets… (2000)

Zelda's officer, Kiri, attempts to control the girls with a “hallucinogenic hypnotic drug.” And the next target is Haruka… Haruka is in danger!! Dr. Todoroki reveals the secret of Suzuka’s birth, and what are the outrageous weapons that will be installed in Suzuka?

[In large blue box in bottom right corner]

About Eiyu Club

The Club's Devotion to Masked Heroines

In special effects works, there are heroines who support the hero and sometimes sacrifice themselves to help him. There was a group that wanted to make works centered around such earnest “heroines.” This is how Eiyu Club was formed. A few volunteers pooled their money to produce and sell works, using the profits to update equipment and fund the next production. This pattern has remained unchanged since the early days.

After shooting two films featuring "Cyber ​​Lady Suzuka," the Seria Project was launched with the next title character, and during that time, the relatively inexpensive film "Lila" was shot using mass-produced masks, which also served as a test for updated equipment. “Seria” had its character design outsourced, and the mask modeling was entrusted to one of Japan’s top sculptors, leading to the creation of a beautiful masked heroine. The work also marked the first time professional actresses were hired, and with the use of CG and special effects, it became a major leap for the club.

The next large project was the planning of “Auscensia Memoria,” which inherited the setting and background of “Seria,” featuring two characters and even further improved designs. During this time, the action team from Seria worked with the original character “Wind” created by team If for another production. “Auscensia Memoria” became the club’s first DVD work, and to aim for even higher-quality productions, future works would focus on “internal competition” to further enrich the content.

Works such as “Ciao,” “Kou,” and “Mother-Daughter Robot” were created following this approach, and attention will continue to focus on the “earnest” activities of charming masked heroines.

[Caption of three overlapping photos below blue ‘data’ box] Suzuka is cornered with no escape. What will happen next? A desperate, life-or-death pinch! It was a gripping fight scene that kept me on the edge of my seat. Since masked heroines don’t show facial expressions, conveying their emotions depends entirely on the skill of the voice actor. However, Suzuka is an android, so she doesn’t panic or make a fuss.

[Next to the photo of Suzuka lightly jogging] Suzuka stands out with her eye-catching costume color and distinctive mask.

[Next to a photo of Suzuka holding up a cinder block like a serving tray] I don't know why she's holding a block, but that miniskirt is captivating. Go, Suzuka!

[Next to a photo of Suzuka getting punched] Suzuka gets punched hard by the enemy. Even the way she takes a hit is done with passion. Hang in there, Suzuka!

[The block of text below the large full-body shot of Suzuka] Cyber Lady Suzuka is controlled by Suzuka’s former lover, Yoshiyama Ryo. Suzuka is now controlled as a “battle doll” by a remote control during combat. Emotions could negatively affect her performance, so her “fear” from her human past is no longer present. During battle, Suzuka has no speech function. It’s probably Suzuka’s wish that she remains an android, as her memory is transferred into the mechanical body, and she is revived in the form of a cyborg. Suzuka was killed by the evil organization “Zelda.”

Page 2

[Text in upper left of page] Lila (Red Lilac) - Dream of Shudder

[TN: I’ve seen this written as Lila and Lilac in various materials, making a strict translation difficult. So I will stick with “Red Lilac” as the name of the movie, but Lila as the name of the character in the movie.]

This is the form that Akane takes when she combines with a doll through "Musou Genshin," a power created by her father to fight against the dream invader "Baribas”.

[In red “data” box] Lilac (Red) Version “Dream of Shudder” (2001) - On one lunch break, Akane meets an unfamiliar man. After Akane sees a suspicious light from the man, she is plagued by nightmares that night. The man's true identity is the dream invader "Baribas." He plans to destroy the "Musou Genshin" created by Akane's father and enters Akane's dreams. Akane is attacked by the man in her dream. At that moment, the doll she had been holding suddenly begins to sync with her. Then, Akane transforms into "Lila" through "Musou Genshin" embedded in the doll and challenges Baribas.

[To the bottom left of an image of Red Lila crossing her arms over her chest] The thighs peeking from the hot pants are cute.

[Below the full-body image of Red Lilac] The pattern of a full-face mask with hair growing from it is the same as in the Mighty Lady series, but Mighty uses a bodysuit while this one is costume-based, showing the difference. Of course, there is no giant transformation.

[Small text next to Red Lilac’s left boot] Intense Heroine Feature

[Large header text] Blue Lilac - Pure Heart

[Text to the left of header text] A caring and cheerful heroine!

[Below circle-framed images] Lila Lapis Lazuli (Blue)

Originally a normal 1/1 figure [TN: a figure scaled to be human sized], she was given life by "the sanctuary of life" and begins to take care of her owner, Daisuke. She’s absolutely the "pushy wife" type. Surprised Daisuke is then visited by his childhood friend and idol talent Honoka, causing a commotion. A rivalry for Daisuke begins between Honoka and Lilac. 

[gunclaw]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐘

" so, you're tellin' me you took a liking to one of your clients and took him back to yours for a little extra ‘product’ ?! "

𒄬࣪݁ ˖ geto suguru x dealer!reader

contents. smut with some plot, no sex just eating out (hottest thing a man can do), petname (doll), mention of drugs, use of drugs, not proofread, eng isn’t my first language, bit of fluff here and there ✧ w.count 1.1k

a/n sorry this was a late post, i've been holding it for sooo long because writing smut is not easy for me. anyways, this was the most requested on my poll, requests are still open in my inbox !

also in the story i was supposed to mention that c.meth increases your sex drive buuuttt i forgot so..

+ i appreciate any reblogs and likes 💛

THE TRADE-OFF | 2:09PM

ᡴ੭ your apartment was only could only be so 'big', cramping you up, object between object along your boxes of carts. it was a mess, clothes everywhere and probably even some specs of white powder from previous clients. i mean who could blame you? you were only trying to juggle between a job and studies; to which you barely cared for anyway.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀your parents would be disappointed, sighing at the sight of your marks in contrast to the others in your batch. they wouldn't say anything specific — no — they would just ask how were doing, if something was distracting you; and something was. when you got into the business, it was only out of necessity, money was running low; now you do it out of habit, running back to the drugs you produced to test and sell.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀test and sell. that's all you had to do. no need to interact with your buyers, no need to give them more than what they ask for, - who is that benefitting? - and definitely no need to be staring at them longer than demanded. you hadn't meant to do it on purpose; gripping the pack while you stared at that loose string of hair in front of his face. where had this man been hiding?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"uh, sorry was that not enough?" he awkwardly pointed accordingly to the couple tens in your hand, still tugging at the plastic bag of crystal. "miss?" he leaned closer, trying to snap you out of whatever trance you were clearly trapped in. it took you a couple blinks, but you were out — finally — and gave him the drugs in exchange for sixty (even though it costs well over a hundred, especially since it was c.meth).

⠀⠀⠀⠀he waved goodbye, saving you from that god awful embarrassing encounter. you often forgot what was considered a good time to speak, this post-shame event certainly not being one of them. "I've got more back at my place," your finger leads behind you, unreliably locating your dorm, "its on the house."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"can't deny a smoke with a pretty lady," he turned back and smiled slightly, trailing behind as you walked (desperately trying to brush of the fact that he just complimented you). the whole time you two followed the rough concrete pathway towards your dorm, it was silent. "ah, you aren't trying to kill me are you?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀you shook your hands, as well as your head, denying his (obviously sarcastic) joke, "n-no! i would never.. uhm." in response, he only chuckled, looking at the way that comment strung you nervous. nearing your dorm, you had realised how messy you left it; you were sure that if the guy stepped inside, he would only be met with cups and dishes in every corner of the room, — and what's worse — was how hot the guy was. in an attempt to distract him, you overloaded the poor guy with questions.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"what's your name?"

"suguru."

"uh huh, first or last?"

"first."

"what's your last?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"geto- what exactly are you trying to do?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀finally getting a hold of the glass structure, designed for the crystal, underneath a pile of untouched textbooks, you threw one in his hand and continued searching for the other. "aha!" your hand shot up, clutching the twin bowl pipe, unaware of how much of a loser you looked (especially with the checkered pattern lied across your unbuttoned shirt; acting as a jacket)

PAYMENT | 6:27PM

how long had you two been wasting away on your thrifted couch? how long was this going to last? you examined his every move: following those sleepy eyes when he made even the smallest remark about your looks. he laughed, smoke dragging out his mouth. fuck, he was hot. at this point, you didn't know if it was the drugs talking or if was just, you. "sooo, how are you going to repay me?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀what was that? a fucking joke (not a good one definitely)? "thought it was on the house, doll," he took another hit — this time from your own pipe — as you palmed your forehead, "why? you looking for something else?" he blew the smoke onto the crevice between your head and shoulder. it was definitely the drugs talking. his tongue reached your neck, sending a cold shiver down your body while he lapped and sucked.

⠀⠀⠀⠀his body shifted on closer, the smell of his musk, vanilla cologne emitting from his hair. imagine how devastated your parents would be if they found out your time to time 'hobby' led to this? he was gentle with you, caressing your jaw while you felt his own creeping down your body. his unoccupied hand took out the tie in his hair, letting down the manbun that drove you crazy in the first place.

⠀⠀⠀⠀this wasn't like those wild-going porn scenes you would see online, no this was far, far more intimate (at least in your eyes). What was it about the way he touched you? Was it how confident he was; expertly navigating his way down your body? He had you clawing at his scalp, mouth crossing against your warm skin as he unbuttoned those nerdy, skinny jeans of yours.

⠀⠀⠀⠀he knelt on the carpeted floor, flashing you a comforting smile and staring up and down between your face and soaked panties, before pulling your sense of cover down. at some point when you closed your eyes or when he smiled, his lips started placing small kisses around your cunt; making you fully unravel, contorting your face at the feeling. it didn't help when he drew in your clit and soon, started dipping inside you.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"mhh.. want you suguru"

⠀⠀⠀⠀"no doll, this is only for you. not me" he mumbled, sending vibrations to your bundle of nerves. you tried to close your thighs at the sudden sensitivity, but his hands kept them open; the tip of his fingers digging into the fat of your cutis. geto wasn't the type of man to study bills and divide it with you to the dollar, you could tell he would look after you; spoiling you rotten and finishing it off with something like this.

⠀⠀⠀⠀he was driven inside, his tongue pushing against the rigid but gummy walls of your pussy until he finally found your sweet spot. the way you arched towards him was a pointer, or maybe it was when he felt how you clenched around him. he curled his tongue, shoving it deeper each time he writhed inside you.

⠀⠀⠀⠀oh my god. "f-fuck geto!" you had made an effort to push his forehead back and (fortunately) failed. his lips were glued to you, sweat from his cheeks accumulating and sticking to your legs. uncontrolled moans were escaping your throat as he pressed firmly against your g-spot and executing that last straw. you had been far gone from him; shaking as you released on his palate.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"you alright?" for some reason, there weren't any lewd thoughts in your mind. it was ust him and the way he made you feel so good. you came to the conclusion that it wasn’t the drugs, and that you has been absolutely infatuated with your client, suguru geto.

[ginnsbaker]

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (4/?)

Chapter summary: The night at the club - from your perspective. And we find out whether you came to the opening of Wanda's cafe or not

Chapter word count: 6.3k+

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader, Yelena Belova x Fem!Reader (heavy on this chapter)

Tags: fluff if you squint (did I just say fluff?)

AO3 | Masterlist 

Next Chapter: Five

Taglist: @blackluthxr | @esposadejoyhuerta | @secretbackrooms | @justgotlizzied , @casquinhaa | @marvelwomen-simp | @sunsol-22 | @wandanatlov3r | @kyaraderuwez

-

Four

The night at the club - from your perspective

The club Clint chooses for Natasha’s send-off is a drug deal away from being sleazy, despite its popularity. It’s significantly larger too, than the typical nightclubs you’ve been to in the past; there's a mezzanine for VIP members and celebrity guests; three bars are stationed at the corners of the main room, selling beverages based on a price bracket–with the most expensive ones near the steps leading to the VIP area. In here, you find all kinds of party-goers–from preppy high school kids with their daddy’s money and fake IDs to aging business men looking to score a high-end escort or a B-list actress in need of a sponsor for their lavish lifestyle. 

And then there’s you–newly single, unemployed, nearing your 30s and rooming with your best friend. Just with how you’re dressed–a white, velvet sleeveless cowl neck top and skinny jeans–you wonder what other people think of you, what backstory they’ve concocted in their heads. Whatever it is, it couldn’t be worse than your actual reality.

“How did you find this place?” you ask Clint after he returns with shots of tequila to start the night with.

He glances between you and then Natasha, who finishes her shot in a single gulp the second she snatches it from Clint’s fingers.

“Did you not see how big this place is from outside? It’s hard to miss the biggest nightclub in New York, Y/N.” His breath fans over your face, and all it takes is one whiff to know he’s already had some pre-party drinks in his system. 

“I prefer the dive bars we used to frequent.” you say, grimacing as the tequila burns down your throat. It immediately warms the middle of your chest, leaving you thirstier than before.

Clint raises his eyebrows at you incredulously. “We’re not here to talk and catch-up. We’re here to get trashed because our girl right here,” he playfully puts an arm around Natasha so she’s snug against his side. “Is returning to the front lines.”

“Damn right!” Natasha yells, raising her empty shot glass to no one in particular. She’s deadly as she looks for what she’s capable of–which you know very little about–and yet, astoundingly lightweight when it comes to holding her liquor. It wouldn’t take three more rounds to render her thoroughly incapacitated.

Clint looks so smug, and it doesn’t take a second more for you to realize that he gave Natasha a double. You weakly jab his side with your elbow and then proceed to swipe his credit card from his back pocket, making sure he at least pays for everything tonight.

“Come on,” you say, reaching for Natasha’s hand. “We can’t have you drinking on an empty stomach or you won’t last until midnight.”

Natasha shakes her head with a pout. “Gotta last much, much, much later than that.”

“For sure. But first, let’s–”

“Where are you taking my sister?” A voice behind you asks in a demanding but playful manner. You feel it being said right in your ear, causing goosebumps all over the back of your neck.

Whipping your head around, you find Yelena smiling at you as she staggers a step back to avoid you accidentally kissing her cheek in the process.

There’s tension from the last time you saw each other, and it becomes instantly obvious that it hasn’t gone away the moment you take in her plunge cocktail dress and the rose-colored smirk she has on. You don’t really mean to, but it’s easy to make the conclusion that anyone would easily find her the most attractive person in the room. 

“Little sis,” Natasha exclaims in barely contained excitement, hastily enveloping Yelena in a bear hug. “You came!”

“Hey,” you breathe out, failing to stop your gaze from straying below her collarbone and landing on her proud cleavage. 

“Hey, stranger.” she greets you back, and you catch the mischievous smile on her lips despite having half of her face squashed against Natasha’s shoulder. Yup. She’s definitely noticed.

“See you around, kid. I’ll take care of this one.” Clint says, already pulling Natasha away before she can suffocate Yelena further.

Helplessly, you watch Clint and Natasha disappear into the crowd, anxiety crippling your ability to decide what you’re going to do or where you’re going next.

Yelena lightly taps you on the shoulder to get your attention–which, for all intents and purposes–is already hers to begin with. You just don’t want to be too obvious about it.

“My sweater.” she simply says with an unreadable expression when you turn to address her.

“Sorry?”

“You still have it?”

And then it comes back to you. Your ruined shirt, borrowing’s Yelena sweater, Yelena joking about her first sexual experience, that happened to be with you–

You can always blame the tequila for the way your cheeks flush at the memories. 

Biting your lip, you say, “The truth is I forgot to mail it. With everything that’s happened–”

“It’s okay. Nat just recently told me the stuff you went through the past few months,” Yelena cuts in, and the softness in her gaze gives you a sense of calm. “Do you, maybe, want to drink about it? First round’s on me.” she reluctantly offers.

“Nah,” you dismiss her intentions to pay, as you hold up Clint’s Visa. “All our rounds on this.”

Yelena orders a frozen margarita, while you opt for a more basic choice of gin and tonic. You find yourselves sitting closely together, sharing a couch with random strangers in the most relatively secluded part of the club.

“So, what exactly did Natasha tell you?” you ask, letting your index finger dance along the rim of your glass. 

Yelena takes a sip of her drink and considers how she should relay what she knows. 

In the end, she goes for the unfiltered narrative, given that there’s really no way of making it sound less severe than it is. “That your wife cheated on you with her student.” 

You offer her a wan smile and clink your drinks togethers. “Cheers.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I can’t imagine what it feels like to be betrayed like that by the person you–I assume–trust the most.” Yelena says after some time. She’s not used to being the one to give consolation, especially with you. Growing up, you were a steady, ever-reliable presence in her life; her place of solitude throughout the pains of her youth. It’s pathetic how she’s wishing she had gone through the same ordeal if it meant she could give you the comfort and understanding you needed. 

“Me too. I don’t even remember how I was able to survive what came right after taking your sister’s call that day. Did Nat mention that I almost killed the kid? He’s only a little younger than you are.” you say.

“Yeah. It’s fucked up. But it doesn't compare to what she did.” Yelena tells you with a pained expression. “You’re okay now, though. Right?”

“I’m,” You search for the right word that perfectly describes your monotonous routine and lack of a meaningful purpose. But you figure that there’s no need for Yelena–or anyone for that matter–to worry about you. Life’s easier to live without the concern of disappointing people who care about you. “I’m better than I was yesterday.”

Yelena nods empathically, and places a hand on your knee. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Your smile is small, but genuine. Clearing your throat, she quickly puts her hand back over her lap. 

“Y/N?” Yelena starts.

“Yes?”

Yelena, for all her boldness and tenacity, has to put down her glass lest it accidentally slips from her shaking hands. 

“There’s something I want to say, and you can’t talk unless I say so. Understood?” she says as calmly as she can manage.

“Am I free to react?” A smile plucks at the corner of your mouth, eyes twinkling with mirth. 

Yelena has grown into a woman so different from when she was just Natasha’s little sister. She carries an air of sophistication, and from what you can tell, sasses her way out of difficult situations and knows what and how to get what she wants. Which is why it’s refreshing to see her display glimpses of the shy girl who spent her summers burning through classic literature in the public library. 

A husky laugh escapes Yelena’s throat. “As long as it’s a good reaction.” she says.

You playfully roll your eyes at her. 

“But seriously, hear me out,” Yelena breathes steadily through her nose. “First of all, I want to apologize about what happened when you were at my apartment.

“I didn’t know why I brought up losing my virginity to you, and it was terribly awkward–for me especially because the look on your face was…” Yelena trails off, pointedly avoiding your curious eyes. “It’s like you were recalling a bad memory–a memory that’s dear to me. And to be honest, it hurt me a bit.”

“Yelena–”

Yelena shushes you with a finger. “Let me finish. I was hurt, but I understood that I crossed a line that day. I was flirting with you the whole time knowing you were married. In a way, I was no better than–well, your ex-wife.”

Yelena pauses to look at you. She can’t read your expression, but at least you haven’t run away yet. Which is more than a good sign for her to continue.

“There’s no excuse for what I did. I could dismiss it as friendly between old friends, but could we even call ourselves that? We were never just friends. We had something that wasn’t official, and then I ran off to the UK before we had a chance to talk about that thing that wasn’t official, and then when I got back, I found out you’re already with someone else.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… that was a shitty move on my part and I’m sorry. But I’d be lying if I said I didn't mean to do any of that. ‘Cause I did want to stir the pot just to see if there’s still something there.”

You wait for her to continue, but eventually Yelena vaguely signals that she’d done speaking. 

You cover your mouth with your hand, thumb scratching lightly at your chin as you thoroughly digest her confession.

“Y/N?” Yelena asks when she feels you’re being silent for too long, fear lacing her voice. “Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not,” you quickly reply. “I accept your apology. And I do appreciate your candor–for not skirting around that incident like I probably would’ve, for…well, forever.”

Yelena is overwhelmed with relief.

“You were never great at confrontations.” she muses, and your minds both wander to the letter you wrote for her that she had missed, already having boarded the plane when you decided to drop by and hand-deliver it yourself.

“I’m working on it. I know I can’t keep putting things at the back of my head until I eventually forget them and then it’s too late.”

“Or maybe you just think it’s too late, and you use that as an excuse to not even try.” Yelena counters. It’s a fair point and somehow applicable to your shared history together. 

“You know what? I’m just gonna shoot my shot here while I’m feeling brave,” Yelena says, keeping her eyes trained on her almost empty drink.

“Go to dinner with me next Friday.” 

Before you can stop it, Wanda’s languid face in the mornings registers in your brain fleetingly. And then you blink once and the image of her is gone, replaced by Yelena’s hopeful stare. 

“Dinner, as in…” you try to clarify, just in case you’re misreading it.

“As in I’m asking you out,” Yelena confirms, and proudly smiles at how your ears redden at this point. “Or if you’re not ready, say so. I’m a big girl. I can take it. Then I’ll ask you again in a few months.”

“I-I don’t know. Can I sleep on it?” you say, suddenly embarrassed. 

“Take all the time you need. I just thought you should know that I’m an option.”

Your expression turns grim once you question the fact that someone like Yelena wants you.

She senses your internal conflict and asks, “What’s wrong?” 

“How could you want me? I’m damaged goods. You know that, right?”

“Y/N,” Yelena chides, and she looks positively horrified.  “Don’t you ever think you’re half the person you are just because somebody was stupid enough not to know your worth.”

You shrug your shoulders. There’s no point in arguing. Regardless of what other people think, it’s what you see in the mirror these days.

“Okay.” you mumble in reply and casually chug your drink to the last drop.

Yelena’s not convinced, but recognizes that it’s not the right place nor the right time to show you you’re more than just damaged goods. 

“Okay.” she says, then looks over to where people seem to be under the spell of eternal bliss. 

“Wanna dance with me at least? You know–as friends,” Yelena says, and then a second later adds, “For now.”

You don’t answer and merely allow yourself to be pulled towards writhing bodies moving to the beat of the music, like puppets on strings. 

-

You don’t remember the last time you’ve thoroughly enjoyed dancing with someone.

(That’s a lie though, because you do; if twirling your wife and enthusiastically swaying to her poor singing in the kitchen counts.)

Unbeknownst to you, a pair of green eyes darts to you and your dance partner, before they shut in reprieve.  

-

A surprisingly sober Natasha appears next to you as you’re getting the next round of drinks. You fan yourself uselessly with your hand after breaking out a sweat on the dancefloor. 

“Hey! Where have you been?” you say.

“Bruce was here. But that’s not important.” Natasha says.

“Are you guys–” you begin to ask about it, but Natasha brazenly cuts you off. 

“Don’t even think about it.” she says, her tone unusually stern, and you whip your head so fast in her direction your vision spins a little.  

“Think about what?” you say.

“Flirting with my sister.” 

“I wasn’t,” you say and Natasha lifts an eyebrow. “I swear.”

Natasha surveys you a while longer with an unreadable expression, and just as you start feeling uncomfortable, she backs off with a small nod.

It only bothers you more. “I-Is that something I’m not allowed to do?” you cautiously ask.

Natasha scratches at her nape. “Technically, you’re single now and you can flirt with whoever you want. But maybe not my sister, okay? I don’t want her to get hurt.”

“What are you implying?”

“Look, Y/N, I’m just trying to give you the big sister talk, and I hope you understand why I need to. Especially since Yelena told me not long ago about the R-rated version of your history together.”

Your mouth falls open in shock, already circling around the details of what Yelena might have shared with your best friend. “She what?”

“I wanted to smack you in the face when she told me that you were…” Natasha grimaces, trying not to imagine you in bed with her sister. “... her first.”

“God, Nat. I–” Your tongue feels heavy, and you wish you weren’t half-sober for this. “She–we–”

“Relax, Y/N. It’s not like I found out about it yesterday. I’ve known ever since she came back to New York.”

“I think I’d prefer if you’d still smack me in the face right now. But please consider how tiny I am compared to your usual sparring partners.”

Natasha lets out an airy laugh that gives you a bit of relief. “To be honest, I think I’ve always known that there was something going on between you and her. I was just too stubborn to admit it because I care about you both so much.”

“I care about you too. And Yelena.”

“I believe you,” Natasha says. “But Yelena thinks you hung the moon and stars and all that shit, and you’re–you’re kind of a mess, Y/N. No offense.”

“Do you want me to stay away from her?” you ask. 

“Not really. But as her older sister, I need to remind you to think about it carefully if ever it becomes more than platonic.” she says. “I’m leaving in a few hours, so I need you to promise me not to be reckless. That's all I’m asking.”

Natasha gives and gives and gives, and rarely ever asks for anything. 

And you suppose you owe it to her in some way.

“Promise.”

-

A couple of more shots (and an incident of restraining Natasha from punching the lights out of a guy who randomly grabbed your ass) later, you’re stumbling out of the club, reeking of smoke, sweat and alcohol. 

Your phone dies just before you could confirm a ride, and you blearily stare at it like you’re expecting it to suddenly come alive again by some miracle. Yelena has left earlier, mentioning an early meeting at work, and you can’t find Natasha since Bruce’s surprise appearance. An option is to walk to your apartment, but you can’t seem to move any part of your body with the intense throbbing in your head.

You deliberate your fate for the night, until you feel an odd sensation of being watched. 

Your eyes flit across the street and there she is.

Wanda Maximoff.

-

You get home safely with the help of your ex-wife. Once you reach your room, you don’t bother to brush your teeth or wash your face. You just mechanically strip down to your underwear before diving under the covers.

In your sleep, you dream about Wanda.

Dream Wanda resembles College Wanda, with her dirty blonde hair that falls in waves past her shoulders. She’s cradling your head on her lap, while you look up at her lovingly.

“Wands,” you whisper. “I miss you.”

She scrunches her nose as she smiles down at you. “I’m right here, baby.”

“You’re not.”

“Where did I go then?”

You shake your head and close your eyes. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Look for me, then. I only want to be found by you.”

“I’m not sure I want to.” you confess to Dream Wanda, and her brows stitch together into a frown. Then you feel something wet and cold drip on your cheeks. Your eyes flutter open but instead of seeing Wanda, you see Vision’s face covered in blood. 

Your mouth opens in a silent scream. In reality, you’re alone in Natasha’s apartment, thrashing in your bed and mumbling incoherently. 

The next morning, you don’t recall any of it, but you feel its echoes in your heart anyway.

-

You wake up to a text from Natasha, telling her that she’s already at the airport. The message came in at 1:30AM, and was followed by another text six hours later, saying that she has landed safely and that you won’t be hearing from her again in the next ten days at the minimum. A third message came in a second after that, and it simply read, “Look out for my sister. Don’t forget what you promised.” You text back a short “Take care, Nat.”, before tossing your phone somewhere on your unmade bed. 

Trudging towards the kitchen, you think about Yelena. 

There was a time when the blonde used to occupy your thoughts day and night, notwithstanding the thousands of miles you were apart.

But all that changed the day you met Wanda, and she never crossed your mind again except when she’d come up in conversations, and until that time you accidentally almost ran her over in Soho. 

You languidly stir together the milk and cereal in your bowl. It would be a lie to say that seeing Yelena, especially in that dress, didn’t do things to you that a married woman would normally stamp out before they could spread like wildfire. Except, you’re no longer a married woman. And Yelena let you look as much as you wanted–even encouraged it. 

It’s liberating more than anything, not because you’re free from the confines of marriage, but because you didn’t feel guilty having looked.

Is it time? 

You’ve always thought of Yelena as your ‘right person, wrong time’. 

Is it the right time?

-

The weekend passes in a blur of series marathons and Chinese takeouts. Wanda doesn’t text or call, neither does Yelena. You thought you had sufficient time to reconsider Wanda’s invitation, but Monday eventually comes around, bringing about an unexplainable anxiety you can’t curb and can only attribute to intuition. Even if you don’t tell Wanda the reason you won’t come, binge-watching another show instead of doing something meaningful for someone is at a level of pathetic you’re not willing to stoop towards. 

Besides, you said you’d come. Being steadfast in your word is both your strength and your undoing. And so, your intent to follow through with your promise brings you to a corner gardening store, after scouring the internet for ‘grand opening gift ideas’.

None of them suggested this. Though you knew Wanda enough to know better than those online articles.

“And this pretty thing? What does it stand for?” you ask, pointing at flowers of a variety of colors resembling a pompon.

“That’s a Chrysanthemum–or just ‘mums’. Very easy to keep them alive. In Chinese culture, it represents longevity and good luck. But it also simply symbolizes friendship and happiness.” the store keeper says. 

“Perfect,” you say, focusing on ‘longevity and good luck’. “I’ll get… Five of those in a pot.”

“What color would you like, dear?”

Without thinking, you pick Wanda’s favorite color. “The red ones. All of them.” 

The store keeper claps her hands together. “Excellent choice. Just give me a second to prepare them for you.”

A pleased smile works its way to your lips. “Thanks a lot.”

Mums in a pot. That's a good gift right? Not too thoughtful nor impersonal. It would look good displayed anywhere in her shop should Wanda decide to keep it there. Or she can place it at her new home near a window, as it probably needs six hours of sunlight a day. 

Perhaps you should also write instructions for Wanda on how to care for these mums. And will she need some fertilizers too? 

You’re busy putting together a mental list when the store keeper comes out with the final product. 

“Here you go,” she says and hands you over Wanda’s gift in a paper bag. “It’s $95.86.”

You pull out a hundred dollar bill from your wallet. “Keep the change.”

She does a little bow of gratitude and says, “Thank you, dear. She’s going to love it.”

“She?” you sputter, bewildered.

“The recipient’s a lady, I assume. Is it not?”

“It…is.” you hesitantly confirm.

“Good luck, ma’m.” she says with innocent cheer, unmindful of your sudden skepticism.

As you leave the shop feeling less sure of your gift choice, your phone’s ringing tone goes off in your pants. With urgency, you take your phone out of your pocket and find an unknown number calling. 

“Hello?”

“Y/N,” A husky voice greets you over the receiver.

“Yelena?”

“Hey. I, uh, got your number from Nat,” she says, hearing her heavy sighs in between sentences. “Is this a bad time?”

“No. Is something wrong?” you ask, swinging the paper bag back and forth as you meander about the busy alley on your way back home.

“I’m in the middle of a news article that’s due for tomorrow, and I heard that your former boss is Scott Lang?”

“You heard right.”

“I need your banking knowledge to go over some facts in my draft,” she says. “And maybe, get a quick interview with Mr. Lang?”

For a while, you don’t know how to answer. You haven’t been in touch with Scott or any of your colleagues since moving back, and it seems kind of rude to call him up out of the blue for a favor.

“Please?” you hear Yelena beg softly. You knew Yelena. Like Natasha, she almost never asks for help, not unless it’s a matter of life, death or career. 

“Okay,” you finally say. “Where should we meet?”

“I’ll meet you at Nat’s in an hour? It’s where you’ve been staying, right?”

You agree on the time and place, and hurry to catch a bus instead of your original plan to walk the thirty minutes back to the apartment.

It oddly feels good to be part of a Monday’s morning rush once again.

-

You end up spending the whole day helping Yelena and trailing after her to visit various places and meet financial executives just to put together a 1,500-word news article on The Wall Street Journal. 

“You saved me today,” Yelena tells you while you escort her to the lobby. “Let me make it up to you on Friday?” 

It’s tempting, especially after discovering that you both make a great team. You actually had fun running errands with her. 

But you promised Natasha.

“I’ll text you.” you answer with a small smile. 

Once Yelena gets inside her ride, it hits you right away where you’re supposed to be. You check your watch and the time displayed sends you in a panic. 

It’s almost ten. Wanda’s café is only open until nine. You quickly grab your gift for Wanda and hail a cab for Queens.

Your cab screeches to a halt right in front of Second Chances. You make sure to tip big for forcing your driver to beat the speed limit several times on the way. 

You get off the cab, and take in your first impression of Wanda’s café. The facade of the coffee shop is simple: the signage looks obviously hand-drawn, while the black awning underneath it gives it a Parisian vibe; a string of yellow led lights hang above the glass door and the full-length window next to it.

It has Wanda written all over it. And you can’t help the teary smile that creeps its way to your lips. Carrying the potted Chrysanthemum securely under your arm, you walk to the entrance that holds a ‘Sorry, We’re Closed’ sign. The stainless shutter is lowered down just barely, and it’s pitch black inside except for a beam of light coming from the back room.

You raise your fist, about to knock, when suddenly you catch a figure from the corner of your eyes. 

It’s Wanda, and she’s asleep with her arms as her pillow, hunched over the bar table facing the window. Curiously, you move over to stand right across her and push your palm against the translucent barrier. 

She waited for you to show. Your heart betrays you as it thumps wildly in your chest. 

For a moment you just stand there watching. There are still days when you randomly get angry at Wanda all over again. Some days, you bargain and simultaneously undergo depression. And you cycle over these stages in random orders but haven't–not even once–felt like you’re ready to accept all of it. 

Somewhere in the stillness, an ambulance siren could be heard wailing in the distance. Wanda is slow to come to, and even as you realize she’s waking up, you stay frozen in your position.

“Y/N?” you read your name being spoken from her lips. Wanda looks confused in her sleepy state, still deciding if you’re actually there. You beam at her and mouth a ‘hi’ in return. 

Wanda lights up right before your eyes. She hurries to unlock the door to her shop.  

“Sorry I’m late.” you say.

Wanda’s smile only widens, and then she says, “Better late than never.”

You choose to sit at one of the tiny dining tables for two near the open kitchen. There are congratulatory flowers arranged neatly by the counter, making you a bit self-conscious about bringing something similar on a smaller, more insignificant scale.

“How long have you been waiting?” you ask as you survey the interior of the cafe..

“Not long.” Wanda assures you, and then proudly hands you over the menu. Her writing is almost instantly recognizable. 

“Pick anything you want. On the house.” she says, tying back her apron. 

There aren’t many items on the list, but you’re familiar with each of them from Wanda having made them for you over the years. 

“I’ll have a Spanish latte,” you say, eyes still scanning the menu. “Do you have any cookies left?”

“Sorry, they are all sold out.” 

“Wanda, that’s awesome!” You exclaim, placing the menu back on the table.

Wanda endearingly chuckles at your excitement. You’re still a customer, and it’s very unusual for one to cheer when the item they want is unavailable.

“Have you eaten? I can whip something up.” Wanda says, peeking inside the fridge. 

You haven’t eaten since lunch, but you don’t want Wanda to go through the trouble of preparing something off the menu. “It’s fine.” 

“I’m kinda hungry myself,” Wanda chews on her bottom lip. “Does garlic pasta sound good?”

As if on cue, your stomach rumbles and Wanda tries to suppress a smirk.

“Sounds amazing.” you mumble, somewhat flustered by the sound you just made. The thought of a warm pasta for dinner, however, is already making you drool.

Wanda grins, buzzing with childlike enthusiasm. “Coming right up!”

Right before she gets to it, Wanda puts on some music and gives you her phone. “Play anything you want.” she says. A classical piano piece starts playing in the background, and it actually matches the mood and the vibe of the room, so you choose to stay on the current playlist.

Wanda already has some minced garlic and left over pasta from earlier, so it’s just a matter of reheating and then mixing the ingredients. In less than ten minutes, she’s bringing out two plates of Aglio e Olio and your order of a hot Spanish latte.

You haven’t realized how starving you are until the aroma of Wanda’s dish reaches your nose. 

“What’s that?” Wanda points to the paper bag sitting beside you after she settles in her seat across you.

“Oh!” you say. “I almost forgot. This is for you. Happy, uh, grand opening day?”

Wanda takes the bag, unintentionally brushing your fingers in the process. Her skin is warm from cooking and smells like the condiments she used to prepare your food.

You quietly eat your food, unable to keep yourself from moaning out your satisfaction. After months of living on takeouts, it’s a very welcome change.

Wanda, on the other hand, peers inside the paper bag, and her smile grows and grows until it reaches her watery eyes. 

“These are gorgeous, Y/N,” Wanda comments, taking the pot out of its hiding. “I love them. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Wanda stands up and walks towards the window near the entrance, the plant and a glass of water in tow. She places the mums in the corner where it will be least bothered by customers, but should receive the most sunlight at the same time. She then proceeds to water it, careful to cover the whole soil and sprinkle some on its delicate petals. 

A smile graces your lips as you watch her tend to the mums. 

It’s hard not to wonder if maybe this could work. Maybe healing can be possible while being friends.

“How much do I owe you?” you ask, after you finish your food. You subtly eye Wanda’s plate, which she’s barely touched. 

“Like I said, on the house.” she answers. 

You purse your lips in disapproval but don’t insist; the tip jar is right beside the register and you can slip some twenties later when Wanda’s not looking.

“So, any feedback? Is the latte too sweet?” Wanda asks with a devoted curiosity of a businesswoman. “For the pasta I added an extra ounce of minced garlic from the original recipe, but I’m not sure if it made the flavor too strong. And this table–don’t you think it’s too small? Cause they don’t look standard-sized to me, and I keep telling them–”

“Wanda, slow down,” you gently cut in, bringing the coffee mug to your lips for a taste test. It’s sweet but not achingly so. There’s still a hint of bitterness in the aftertaste, and the richness of the condensed milk counters it, resulting in a very comforting pick-me-up.

“It’s good. I’d say, better than the ones I always got when I was still working.”

“You’re not working anymore?”

You bite your lip at that, not really meaning for that information to slip out of you.

“I took a sabbatical,” you explain, refusing to call yourself jobless in front of your ex-wife, who somehow contrived to achieve greater heights following a divorce and a narrowly missed small town sex scandal.

You quickly try to change the subject. “Anyway, don’t worry about the furniture. As long as they’re comfy.”

“Half of your ass is barely hanging onto your seat, you know?” Wanda points out with a giggle. 

There’s no denying the tinge of jealousy you feel over the fact that Wanda seems to have her shit together more than she cares to admit. But that’s overruled by the natural joy of seeing someone you care about (because you do, you really still do) thrive, no matter how much they hurt you in the past. 

“Are you saying my ass is fat?” you ask, pretending to be offended. 

She laughs harder, resulting in tiny hiccups that never fails to trigger you into a fit as well.

“Honestly though, it barely fits mine as well. But that's all I can afford for now.” Wanda says as she keeps twirling the pasta around her fork without any intention of actually eating.

“You shouldn’t play with your food.” you chide, still smiling.

“Do you want some of mine?”

You shake your head no. “Not when you just implied I have a fat ass.”

Wanda snorts, her laughter building up again at your poker face. 

When she recovers this time, you sheepishly smile and take some from her plate and transfer it to yours. 

“I haven’t thanked you for coming.” Wanda mutters in a hoarse voice. You wordlessly fill her empty glass with water.

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure until this morning if I was going to.” you say.

Certain muscles on Wanda’s face visibly tighten at that.

“Why is that?” Wanda whispers, staring at her unwanted food, losing again the appetite she lied about in the first place.

You mull about it for a moment. There’s no point in denying that you feel things for Wanda. Abstract feelings that you can’t name, but feel regardless. And it’s still unclear whether they are beneficial or not to you moving forward. Just that, being in communication with Wanda again puts you at ease; brings back a sense of normalcy that you so crave. It could be because you can’t remember a time she wasn’t a part of your life, can’t remember who you were before her. Going cold-turkey only led to some impulsive decisions (not to mention, a cheap and random sex with a stranger who was spoken for).

“Because I want to do what’s right for me, this time. And I’m not sure if this is.”

“This?”

“Being in each other’s lives.” you coolly state, crossing your arms and leaning back on your chair. 

Wanda blinks a couple of times when wetness gathers around her eyes. You drop your head and sigh. It goes without saying that these meetings with Wanda are always volatile. But constantly crying around someone is obviously not an indication of a healthy bond. 

“I’m afraid you’re the only one who can answer your own question, Y/N.” Wanda swipes at the corner of her eyes. 

You hollowly laugh. “I was kinda expecting you’d convince me that this is a good idea.”

“The fact that I invited you here and never stopped trying to contact you says alot without me having to say it.” Wanda reasons evenly.

“And me doing exactly the opposite, must also say a lot. Is that it?” you retort. 

Wanda squints at your hard tone. “That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“Well, it’s what I’m hearing.” 

An impasse is reached, and Wanda wishes nothing more than to retract her statements and start all over again. 

“Why do I keep fucking this up?” you’re scarcely able to hear Wanda talk, more directly to herself than you.

You release a ragged breath and speak out, “You’re not fucking up anything, Wanda. There’s nothing to fuck up in the first place because we’re not supposed to expect anything from each other anymore, remember?”

Wands nods in understanding. “It just feels like I keep saying the wrong thing.”

You consider her words for a moment. “Maybe it’s because I keep waiting for you to.”

Wanda looks up at you with wide, limpid eyes. “So I am walking on eggshells.” 

“You don’t have to though. You can’t always worry about what will set me off. Let me worry about that.” 

“I’m scared, Y/N,” Wanda whispers. “I’m scared I’ll say one wrong thing and I won’t hear from you again for a long time. I mean, I just… I just found you. Inadvertently, if I may add.”

“I-I get where you’re coming from, and I don’t blame you for feeling that way,” you say. “But I can’t promise that I won’t disappear when something happens.”

Wanda hums and you lick your lips.

“I have thought about it.” you say, in spite of the delicate timing. 

She looks skeptical. “Thought about…?”

“Us,” you motion between yourself and her. “Being friends.”

“Oh,” Wanda tries not to sound disappointed. The problem is she wants too much too soon. And she needs to work on that or else she ruins her chance with you. “And?”

You’re nothing but truthful when you say, “And I miss the comfort of having you as a friend.” 

“Me too,” Wanda whispers thickly as you both share a meaningful look.

Maybe someday, she can have everything she has lost. 

Just not all at once.

[inkmemes]

never stop blowing up  (  2024-  )  e02 : and that's whirred up sentence  starters ↪  taken  from  dimension 20's 22nd season.  alter  as  you  see  fit  ♡

“i'm just a lanky boy.”

“hello! nobody's home.”

“don't mess with brooklyn.”

“and what if i swallow it?”

“i wish you wouldn't.”

“i'm not hearing no!”

“it's beautiful.”

“you gettin' a little fucked up already?”

“i mean, i feel pretty fucked up.”

“that's for… that's for me? you want me to put that in my body?”

“okay, why don't you try some first?”

“you all right? you're looking a little green around the gills.”

“we can't afford this.”

“oh, um… i'm just being funny today.”

“i didn't get it. it didn't seem funny to me.”

“when you do drugs, sometimes you have ego death and it doesn't feel like you're you anymore.”

“this is paid for? this is, we got this? this is fine?”

“what are you asking?”

“i actually thought we were bonding.”

“wait, so you're not mad at me?”

“nothing you could do would ever make me mad.”

“i'd date him.”

“god, cutie alert.”

“this guy brought dogs to a nightclub!”

“he's really old. he has like, no teeth.”

“just taking notes on a fucking conspiracy.”

“see, when someone doesn't answer right away, you feel the need to keep going.”

“oh, okay, so you're making accusations.”

“i'm like, a little nervous that we left things in a weird place.”

“i don't even know this guy.”

“snort some and then sell the rest for money.”

“i don't want me to be happy!”

“i guess let's have some more of these drinks.”

“i didn't write down where i was supposed to go.”

“what's going on?”

“oh my god, he's dead.”

“you're on top of a building.”

“wait, a man just jumped off of a building?”

“i think [name] is attracted to this man.”

“is this a gun?”

“wait! come with me!”

“did i love him?”

“it was all a blur. i was getting thrown around like you can't believe.”

“yeah, he really gave it to, huh?”

“i wanna go out on the town.”

“we don't have the same room?”

“he left me up here on the street?”

“that was cool, man. i don't know what you want me to say.”

“i've been shot!”

“i've never been in a hotel this nice.”

“it's so hot. it's so hot.”

“there's dead guys all over the ground.”

“the floor is sleek with blood.”

“don't know how to spell that.”

“what the fuck?”

“sneak is like their primary fucking thing.”

“it's crazy that they just straight-up advertise that.”

“dude, this movie fucking rules!”

“i'm gonna need that from you.”

“tell me what i was supposed to do.”

“i think he's just starting to sweat.”

“you are wearing a tuxedo, baby.”

“just getting my sea legs, man.”

“could you send me a ping?”

“come on, man. we got bigger fish to fry. you gonna get hung up on this right now?”

“i've watched this.”

“i can't wait to see you.”

“i'm not the only one feeling pressure.”

“i'm probably not even gonna show up to work.”

“you told me what to do, i'm gonna do it, no argument.”

“i hate doing what people tell me to do.”

“he didn't think you were a shithead. there was trust there.”

“you were given an impossible thing to do.”

“i'm going so fast.”

“i'm still on my learner's permit!”

“i don't know who you're talking about!”

“does it look like the car is like, toast?”

“get outta there. those guys are some bad dudes.”

“i fucking love it.”

“i didn't know!”

“i fucking think it's a great fucking choice.”

“none of these are good enough.”

“[name], i thought you were dead.”

“that's why he hates me and that's why he stabbed me.”

“that's why he hates me and in turn why i hate him.”

“that was a weird interaction you just had.”

“oh, don't worry. i'm not gonna do anything with it. i'm just kinda holding it 'cause it feels necessary.”

“they can take care of themselves.”

“i'm getting it under control.”

“oh my god. this must be my fault. what did i do?”

“i hate new technology.”

“how the hell did you get that number? never call me on that line.”

“they're dancing together.”

“why the fuck are you calling me at the bureau?”

“can i get a second one?”

“oh fuck, they're all dead. they're all fucking dead.”

“goddamn it! [name], did you fuck us?”

“no, don't you fucking hang up on me!”

“we are gonna find a way to make this right.”

“did you get nabbed by the feds? what happened?”

“what do they want you to do?”

“but you know who you are.”

“it made so much sense in my brain.”

“what are you talking about?”

“yes! oh my god, fuck!”

“you had it in you all along, kid.”

“it's crazy. it was crazy down there.”

“can't say i'm surprised.”

“you must not have been invited.”

“that's a really interesting question i'm not willing to open up.”

“don't tell me what to do.”

“and it's weird 'cause it's not… it's like an emotional feeling. it's not a logical thing, right?”

“you're the guy from the movie!”

“i have a motorcycle.”

“we should go to a bar or something.”

“let's go get a drink. i wanna see the town!”

“i'm already deciding that i'm making that for you.”

“i mean, we're in a fucking movie together.”

“it's the '80s, baby.”

“i'm fucking pissed.”

“i wanna get out and i wanna solve this crime!”

“oh, are you looking for companionship?”

“oh, she sounds mean.”

“i think you're getting your groove back.”

“i want an appletini.”

“we're doing a drink crawl or something like that.”

“you look awful. you look bad. worst i've ever seen.”

“what, you want me to pretend i'm happy to see you, [name]?”

“watch where you're going!”

“i was just trying to like, prank.”

“someone wants to decapitate you.”

“you're probably the strongest dude i've seen.”

“just really good to be touched.”

“i think you need it.”

i'll go find parking, but i'll meet you at the hotel bar.”

“oh my god, [name], how are you doing? you look great.”

“oh, you've been waiting for that for so long.”

“wait, what?”

[eddiemunson-reader-shame]

A Freak and A Basket Case: The Seven Inches of Satanic Panic Edition

Chapter 3: Here Comes The Feeling

“ Oh God, where were you when I needed you?

I know that you, no,

You would never have betrayed me… ”

A/N: I’m back, bitches.

I took a break between Gladiator fics to pretty up chapter 3 of my OC fic. This was a really fun one to gussy up, especially during the rewriting of the Dune flashback. I don’t know what kind of hold Dune has on me, but it’s very much still there. However I’m more hung up on the 1984 version, Kyle MacLachlan has me in a chokehold.

Hope you all enjoy. Thanks so much for sticking with me so far.

Masterlist | Previous

Credits: Dividers by @strangergraphics-archive

Tag List: @melodymunson @writhingg @jozstankovich @rxqueenotd @trashmouth-richie @i-trash-about-things @ali-r3n @somnambulic-thing @mothmans-left-buttcheek @theold-ultraviolence

Warnings: Direct reference to specific instances of period typical racism, references to drug use, some smutty themes

“You ever read Clan of the Cave Bear?” Alejandra asked.

It was such a non sequitur. She heard an obnoxious snort threaten to turn into laughter.

“No, what… what the hell is that?” Eddie was red faced. Giggling.

“Prehistoric science fiction, bro.” She said in a low voice, “Caveman shit.”

“Cavemen?!”

Eddie guffawed. Covering his face with his hands as his giggles threatened again.

“It’s not funny!” She whined, unable to control her own cackling.

The distinctly pungent, acrid odor of Eddie’s own stash of what he called “longbottom leaf” (really, just a bad code name for his own recreational reefer) had already gone stale in the enclosed space they found themselves in. The shared smoke had gone stale in her baby lungs, and Alejandra coughed as she laughed.

“I’m so… ha! I… I’m sorry…” Eddie insisted, taking a deep breath and exhaling through pursed lips. “I’m sorry. But you said… you said it’s about cavemen?”

It took Alejandra a while to maintain herself. Spittle had shot down the wrong pipe and made her nearly gag. Holding up a finger, she made sure it all hacked out, inhaled deeply, then nodded with a grin.

“Yeah like, a girl from the Cro-Magnon people gets adopted by a group of Neanderthals and she becomes this hunter who’s all bad, right?” She said, moving her hands as though she was holding a spear, “Then she gets kicked out of her cave after giving up her son to start her own path, and the second book opens up with her in this valley where she tames a horse and a lion cub. Real girl power shit. But it’s crap.”

“Why crap?”

“Because the girl then turns into this air headed romance novel heroine, and she meets her perfect jock caveman boyfriend.” Alejandra said. “And the book gets all torcido in the second novel. You wanna know what her boyfriend Jondalar’s biggest flaw is?”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by Alejandra’s retelling of the best selling prehistoric fiction novel.

"Lay it on me. What's the great character flaw of Jondalar, the Flintstone-era Mr. Perfect?"

“He’s sad because no girl on earth can handle his huge fucking wiener.”

Eddie screamed.

Honest to god screamed.

Screamed like a banshee being gutted, and then dissolved into the worst fit of laughter she had ever seen. Eddie collapsed against the van door, laughing so hard Alejandra could have sworn she saw his butt cheeks clenching in his worn Wrangler Jeans. The kind of clenching that comes from trying not to laugh so hard you accidentally fart.

Eddie took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, but the idea of a sad, dimwitted caveman crying over his mammoth dick was too much.

"I swea… I… I swear… Oh Jesus H. Christ!” he paused, wheezing before he finally inhaled and managed to speak, “God dammit. What the fuck is this… How in hell did edgy caveman sex even get the go ahead from a publisher?!"

“Evidently Jean M. Auel had a lot of money and a lot of free time to be traveling to sites where they dug up remains. So the first one was just creative enough to get published, then the second sold purely on sex.”

Alejandra sat up straight on the leather seats of Eddie’s 1979 GMC Gaucho. Her fingers danced along the leather of the back bench seat, silently enjoying the tactile wonderland where the top grain of the leather had begun to disintegrate.

“Like… imagine though?” She said, voice lowering to a conspiratory whisper, as if Jean M. Auel herself was squatting outside of the windows listening in, “You spend all kinds of money to actually learn how to make stone tools and a lean to, and then you go and fuck it all up writing about sad peepee man over here.”

Eddie laughed even harder, his shoulders shaking and his face now burning red as a tomato.

"Peepee man, oh my fucking God... all that free time and money to learn about the Stone Age, just to turn it into a cringe-fest with Jondalar and his mammoth-size... oh shit!"

There was a frantic scrambling to prevent disaster after Eddie’s muddy Reeboks knocked over a full ashtray— a yellowed glass relic perched haphazardly on the front seat’s armrest. A few old roaches flew with the stubby blunt in a sea of ashes onto the already filthy floor. Eddie looked at Alejandra, looked at the mess, then began howling again with laughter. She burst into laughter too, a delayed reaction when she realized what happened.

When they both finally looked up at one another after a moment of calm, she noticed Eddie was staring directly at her, smiling widely.

“Damn… you're a bundle of laughs when you're stoned, aren't you? I’ve never met a dork like you who was so captivated by prehistoric wiener.”

“What?! No! I don’t want Jondalar’s unwashed dong!”

“Oh you totally do. What, you like ‘em big like a third leg?”

Pressing his lips together in a firm line, Eddie made a buzzing elephant-like sound, sticking his forearm near his crotch and flapping upwards for emphasis.

“Stop it…” Alejandra threatened, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter, “Don’t make me laugh… I… I’m gonna pee…!”

He was about five seconds away from laughter himself. Biting his lower lip to stop the sound.

“Oh? You want me to stop? Because believe it or not, I’ve got a whole arsenal of stupid shit I can whip out to see how bad you really need to pee… I just don’t have the mammoth trunk package you want me to whip out—…”

A loud yelp erupted from his throat, followed by laughter when Alejandra began swatting him with her Carhartt jacket. The fabric made a snapping sound as it connected with his skin. Eddie wasted no time to hit her back with his denim vest.

They looked like two jocks in the midst of a locker room towel brawl, the jackets making a solid thwack against bare skin amidst their howling and animalistic grunting noises that started up after Eddie started screeching like a capuchin.

Before the van, before the two of them shared the reefer, Eddie had still been holding Alejandra by the waist back at Hawkins High. The two of them were hellbent on basking in the presence of one another, interrupted only when the bell rang to dismiss first period, and Alejandra had honest to god pouted when she heard the obnoxiously loud clanging.

“Don’t make that face.” Eddie had grinned, “Who says we’re going to second period?”

“Huh?!”

“You really think I’m going to let you go to class? Away from me? Hell no, we’ve got better things to do. You’re sticking with me today, lamb chop.”

His voice dropped down into a conspirator’s whisper, hot breath ghosting along her ear as he spoke again.

“Unless…” he teased, “You wanna… you know, be a good girl and go to second period…?”

“Hell no.”

“Didn’t think so.” He grinned. “After all, we only just started getting properly acquainted. What say you to us having a little alone time in my rather… unorthodox school hang out spots?”

He gave a light squeeze. A promise of an exciting adventure.

Alejandra scowled.

“… Bro, I don’t even wanna be at school.” she murmured. “I hate it here.”

His expression softened.

Maybe it was the hint of vulnerability in her voice, or the fact that she looked wilted and drained from her attempts at biting back at the masses. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Lamb chop said she didn’t want to be here, and Eddie seemed determined to make it happen. Desperately trying to please her, from the looks of things.

“Yeah, okay… no, I feel you. This dump was never designed for us cool cats. Let’s face it, we’re too cool for school, lamb chop.”

For a moment Alejandra looked around. Confused as to who Eddie was talking to. Who the hell around here was cool besides him? Certainly not her.

“New game plan: let’s ditch class and go on an adventure. Just you and me.” He said, holding firm to her waist.

“Okay but like… What’s there to do here?”

“Hawkins is our oyster. There’s a lot we can do. We could go cruising, drive to the park, or the lake. There’s even an abandoned scary house on Denfield we can break into. Perfect place to get chased by ghosts, while accompanied by a psychedelic synth number. Hell, sky’s the limit. Anywhere’s more exciting than this shithole.”

“… there’s a lake?”

Alejandra knew lakes. Liked them even. Abiquiu back home was a particular favorite. With the outcropping of mountains in caramel and umber surrounding the blue water in summer, it was a perfect wilderness retreat. Surely, this Hawkins lake would at least be as picturesque with its midwestern greenery and lush forest.

“Yeah. Lover’s Lake. It’s quiet there on a school day. Especially now in the morning. Perfect for an adventure. You in?” Eddie asked.

“I wanna go!”

She sounded like a damn kid. So eager…

No one had ever invited her anywhere before like this. Plenty of her classmates back home ditched class and never faced consequence. One girl back in Pojoaque took off during a pizza party in Geometry— simply because she didn’t bring any cash to chip in— instead she just walked out of the room like nothing while Alejandra sat there watching at her desk, gaping like a fish.

She always wished she had the balls and audacity that girl had. Now she had the opportunity to grow a pair.

Eddie was grinning at her attitude.

“Atta girl! We’d better be sneaky about it, though. I don’t feel like catching hell from dirty old Higgs for a joyride.”

He didn’t wait for her to put out her hand. Eddie grabbed her sweaty palm and began walking to the front doors, dragging her along to follow.

Alejandra laced her fingers with his, eventually grabbing onto his arm as they weaved through throngs of students. Every now and then they looked behind them to see if anyone noticed their flight from Hawkins High. For the most part students and faculty alike avoided Eddie like the plague. Especially now that they saw him coming; with his features set in a resting bitch-faced scowl. A mousy stage five clinger like Alejandra wasn’t even a blip on their radar.

Once outside, the humid summer air punched them both in the face. By the time Eddie led her over to his van, parked all the way in the far corner of the lot, Alejandra was sweating and dying to get in it. She wiped the back of her neck with her hand, letting the cotton duck fabric of her jacket soak up the sweat like a thirsty wick.

Eddie finally parked the two of them in front of the vehicle, holding out his hand. The “ta-dah” was silent, but implied heavily.

“Allow me to introduce my valiant steed: Large Marge.” He said in a deep voice, “Your white-… well, uh, green horse for the day.”

“Large Marge?!”

They both burst out laughing. Eddie even did the Paul Reubens laugh— the one that sounded like a drunk version of The Road Runner, and Alejandra doubled over wheezing.

“A la ve, eres muy pendejo, bro.” Alex laughed.

Immediately she tried the door handle. Just gave it a yank without even making sure the door was unlocked (it was) and hopped into the passenger’s side. Eddie didn’t hesitate either, he just did the Peewee laugh again before he hopped in, slamming the door behind him and making the engine sputter to life when he stuck the key in the ignition.

Without looking in the rearview mirror to make sure anyone was behind him, Eddie peeled out of the lot the second he put the gear in reverse. Alejandra hadn’t even buckled in her belt before he was doing fifty in the school zone lane, hitting every speed bump and pothole on the way out.

"Jesus H., all it took was a Peewee Herman reference to get you in my van?! You're either fearless, oblivious, or just damn crazy," he laughed, rolling down the driver’s side window. “Did McGruff the Crime Dog teach you nothing? I’m pretty sure the first lesson was: don’t get in a strange man’s big ass van.”

“At this point I wouldn’t even care if you were Baron Harkonnen himself.” she said, re-adjusting her belt so it wasn’t strangling her, “I’d still go with you.”

"Well, I promise I'm nothing as sinister as Baron Harkonnen. Just a humble dork who appreciates good humor. Although, I do sometimes dabble in the melange trade." He winked at her as he steered the van.

The ever turning record of thought in Alejandra’s brain scratched to a halt.

Hold on…

“Hold the fucking phone… you… you actually know who the Baron is?” Alejandra asked, looking incredulous.

No one had ever been familiar with her references to Dune, and here was Eddie just casually dropping lines about the Siridar-Baron, and spice melange…

"Of course. Who doesn't know who Baron Vladimir Harkonnen is?" he replied casually, one hand steady on the steering wheel while the other fumbled for a cigarette in the pocket of his denim battle vest.

He must have done it a thousand times. Mesmerized, she watched as— with practiced ease— Eddie steered with one knee, lit his cigarette with one hand using a dented Zippo lighter, sucked in the sweet tobacco of filtered Camels, and blew the smoke out of the window he was cranking down with his remaining free hand.

"Dune's pretty much one of the major foundations for like, every science fiction world out there.” He said nonchalantly, one hand returning to the steering wheel, “It’s got everything. Space, politics, giant sandworms... Without Dune, they’d have Han Solo pushing either booger sugar or disco biscuits instead of spice, considering it was what shaped the sci-fi genre of the 70’s."

“Yeah but…” she protested, unsure how to voice what she was thinking.

"But what? You seem surprised I know of Dune's existence," Eddie said, scratching his chin as he turned onto Mulberry.

“I kind of am.” Alejandra admitted, chewing on her jacket cuff, “I never met no one who could really keep up with my weirding ways…”

She had been buried deep in the desert sands of Arrakis ever since second grade; ever since her father had been tasked with reading her a bedtime story.

Sick with pneumonia and bronchitis, the doctor told her parents that she had to be kept home at least a week, possibly two if the antibiotics did not work. And they hadn’t worked all that well.

Alejandra was inconsolable.

Second grade was so fun because Mrs. Viola made it fun, and at recess Alejandra always played Candy Candy with her best friend Yesenia— and this week it was Alejandra’s turn to be Candy. Yesenia had even promised to let her hold her stuffed raccoon toy.

Instead, her parents kept her home, and force fed Alejandra this disgusting bubblegum pink antibiotic syrup that made her gag. Dad wasn’t working at the time, it would be another month before he started back up with hauling. So instead of dealing with just mom and Jaime, Dad was there to make caldito and read to her from one of his hardcovers from the Waldenbooks in Dallas that he’d bought two summers ago.

The way Dad played the characters was magical. Alejandra loved the gentle intonations of his voice as he read in the Voice of the Kwisatz Haderac: Paul Usul Muad’Dib Atreides, his very birth orchestrated by one of the fearless women of the Bene Gesserit space witches.

Arrakis was Alejandra’s second home. An escape from the world that did not understand her. When she grew into adolescence and longed to be accepted, she filled her lonely days with yearning to ride through burning sand dunes atop Shai-Hulud. She wanted to hold the Gom Jabbar with Alia Atreides as she killed the evil Baron Harkonnen, and to drink the water of life with Lady Jessica to become the next Reverend Mother of Arrakis, the cunning harbinger of an abomination.

She even wanted to join Stilgar and Chani in their holy war, feeling like a Fremen child herself as she had been born and raised in the desert dunes just as they were… Alejandra knew the sacred importance of water, of self sufficiency among the burning sands, and of a culture that often dealt with the realities of the drug trade and the higher powers that orchestrated them.

Six novels and eleven years later, on all levels except physical, she was still very much buried under the spice tinged sands of Dune. If one bothered to look closely, she fancied they might have seen the way the sclera of her eyes had begun to tinge just the slightest hint of blue…

"I've read the first book and seen the David Lynch movie, I went with one of my friends last year." Eddie smiled, glancing over at her briefly before returning to the road, taking a long pull on his cigarette.

“You’re not the only person in Hawkins who's been tainted by the Weirding Way. So I’ll be privy to any little Bene Gesserit mind tricks you try on me, you little space witch.”

"You know, you're really different from anyone I've ever met before. I mean that in a good way."

It took her a second to remember that she was in Hawkins, not on a desert planet or even a desert state. Instead she was laying back on a leather bench seat, in the back of a green 1979 GMC Gaucho named Large Marge, smoking pot with a guy that looked exactly like Eddie Van Halen.

“I’m different?”

She was shocked. Almost offended. What? Was it not normal to get philosophical about prehistoric caveman fiction?

“That’s… that’s kinda cliche, don’t you think…?” She groused.

Eddie shrugged, his smirk turning into a lighthearted grin.

"Maybe it is cliche, but I mean it. You're not afraid to speak your mind, even if it's about some fictional dude's wiener."

Alejandra couldn’t help the giggle that came out, covering her face.

“… I guess so…” she finally admitted bashfully. “I guess I just didn’t realize people don’t talk about book characters like it’s some hot school gossip. I… I don’t really talk to a lot of other girls.”

It sounded shitty. Even she could admit that.

“I… I don’t really have friends.” She whispered, her face red.

It sounded selfish and shitty, like she hated other women for simply existing. When in reality, she wanted another girl to talk to. Above all else, Alejandra really was just like any other young woman. She craved affection, and attention, perhaps even more than was normal.

At times, she wanted to be part of the cliques she was always excluded from. Cliquey friends came with so many benefits: at any given time, you had an entourage with which to laugh and look cool with. Someone always was free to go with you to the bathroom, sometimes everyone all at once.

Cliquey groupies giggled and gushed over cute boys, and fixed each other’s curls in the mirror before class started. They traded gum, scrunchies, and various fads that circulated in and out of the school halls. Last year, friendship bracelets were the big thing that everyone got into, and girls would have hundreds of them layered on their wrists. It was a caste system of the teenaged-mind’s creation; whosoever did not fit in was not always publicly humiliated, but rather silently shunned.

Alejandra had shamefully made her own to wear on her wrist, but it was awkward getting asked who she was matching with— or, god forbid, getting confronted for copying another girl’s “colors”— so she stopped wearing them altogether.

"Hey… hey, lamb chop."

Eddie’s warm hand brushed against her bare shoulder, raising the goose flesh against her skin. She looked at his hand, refusing to make eye contact directly.

"You shouldn't say that.” Eddie said gently, “I'm sure there's plenty people in Hawkins who want to be your friend. You just... you need to find your people.”

The hurt of his words stung in her heart.

Find your people?

All she had done that first day was piss people off, and look where she ended up. Shoved into a locker for it. Screamed at. Got called a “wetback Elvira”. Got tripped, and caught her jacket on a doorknob. With the way small town rumor mills ran, she knew any attempts she made here on out to make a friend would be FUBAR— Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.

“I don’t know… I don’t… I don’t think there’s really anyone on earth, let alone here in Hawkins, who wants to be my friend.”

Eddie paused for a moment, the deafening silence making Alejandra’s heart clench.

"I'd be your friend." He said after a moment.

Alejandra tensed up. Gulping. Not wanting to look him in the eyes.

“Really?” She whispered.

"Yeah. You're smart, you're funny, and you've got a love for fantasy. Those are all… that’s badass, dude."

She turned away. Looked at the bucket seat in front of her, thence to the parking break, thence to the floor and the scattered ashes infused with butts and roaches.

“Are you serious to me right now?”

Her voice was so small, so helpless. As if she couldn’t believe it. She said this as if she couldn’t even imagine Eddie, for all his laughter at her antics and his handsy nature, even wanted to consider being her friend. The idea was laughable. There was no way he liked her like that. Maybe she was just a fun time? Something silly to do on a Monday morning instead of school.

Maybe, she thought, maybe he was just secretly some deadbeat dude who wanted dirty sex and was promising friendship in exchange. Using promises of companionship and understanding as legal tender to exchange for her “goods and services”. Playing up acting like a good person, just so he could stick his smelly cock in some panocha, as her brother would often so eloquently warn her about.

For all she knew, Eddie could be just a typical pig. Wanting a warm hole in between looking for someone better looking, more conventionally attractive, to show off on his arm.

But Alejandra wasn’t sure what was more sad: the fact that she was making a judgement based on unfounded allegations, or the fact that she was so desperate for attention, that she was actually considering giving it up just so Eddie would speak kindness to her.

Eddie's grip on her shoulder tightened. After avoiding him so long, she couldn’t anymore when he turned her around to face him. Red rimmed, watery brown eyes bored holes into hers, curtained by black brown, wild curls.

"Yeah, really.” He murmured, “I'm serious. I'd be honored to have a friend like you."

He gave a soft, genuine smile, with his laugh lines cutting deep divots in his cheeks. Alejandra let out a breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding.

“Well that’s real cool because I really like you and-…” she immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, a squeak erupting from the throat when she realized she had just admitted the quiet part out loud.

The reefer had made her tongue loose. Ordinarily she would have kept the affection she felt for Eddie under wraps until the day she died. Old Alejandra would have made an ass of herself agonizing over shooting her shot. Probably would have gone to her grave regretting never telling Eddie that she was starting to feel the dreaded “like” feelings.

Eddie's smirk faded into a look of surprise as he heard the words come vomiting out.

"Alejandra..."

He said her name softly, his eyes searching her face and taking in the flushed expression.

"You... you really like me?"

She didn’t look at him, just kept her mouth covered as she looked down shamefully. Slowly, she nodded her head yes.

“You know… I like you too.” Eddie murmured.

“You do…?”

“Yeah, I do. I like you a lot.”

“… even if I’m the weird kid you just met…?”

“Especially because you’re the weird kid I just met.” He scooted closer, cupping her face in his hands.

“You think you’re the only one in this van that does weird, out there shit? We’re both weird. We’re both freaks. I don't care if you're weird. I like it. I like you."

Her hands hesitantly reached up, palms over his as she stroked his fingers. Every little sensation was like magic. From the worn feel of his callouses, to the jewelry adorning his fingers, it was all so uniquely him. So very much Eddie, that her fingertips finally moved of their own accord and ran along the grooves and ridges of his many rings, finding comfort in the shapes and feel of the metal designs.

“… really warm…”

Eddie's breath hitched as he felt her hands on his. He let out a low, soft laugh.

"What’s warm? My hands?"

“Yeah…” Alejandra nodded. “And your rings too… People… people say that rings are cold but… yours… the metal band is warm…”

She looked up at Eddie, and noticed something magical happening.

When the morning sun hit just right, his iris glowed a warm amber, like cognac. And when the cognac of his eyes illuminated his face, she could see all the beautiful little lines he possessed: the eye bags, the early signs of crow's feet in the corners of his eyes when he smiled, those goddamn dimple divots on either side of his mouth… Even the way he smiled was mischievous.

She couldn’t help herself. Brown eyes darted down to his rosy lips, chapped and a little dry, but plump. Kissable lips.

Did he taste like cigarettes? Weed? Maybe minty, like toothpaste?

Slowly, Alejandra’s hands left Eddie’s and cupped his cheeks, and she found herself pressing lips against his. Eager to find out.

At first he stiffened, totally caught off guard by the movements. It took a second or two, but at last he began to reciprocate, immediately wrapping his arms around her and pressing her further into his chest.

This didn’t feel real. Alejandra couldn’t believe she was really doing this… A moment ago the two were having the time of their lives. Nearly pissing themselves with laughter, enjoying the bantering back and forth and being real friends.

His lips were chapped. Bitten perhaps during a bout of nervous habit, but… oh, so warm…

His fingers tangled in her curly hair, a wet lathing at her bottom lip as his tongue gently stroked across. Eddie was pulling desperately at her too, as if trying to get her to hop onto his lap, and Alejandra responded by eagerly scrambling onto him. She frowned when she realized he was licking at her bottom lip sloppily, rapidly, as if he was an eager Saint Bernard looking for peanut butter.

“What are you doing…?” Alejandra asked.

Eddie blinked, pulled out of his momentary stupor by the question. He quickly tried to explain himself, a hint of guilt in his voice.

"Fuck... I didn't mean to! I just... I thought... Oh shit, I'm sorry-..."

“No like… what are you doing with your tongue?” She asked, genuinely confused.

Eddie shook his head and blinked at the same time. As if resetting.

"It's... I’m kissing you? Y’know, like, Frenching? You stick your tongue out and... and kind of…”

What the fuck was he talking about?

It took her a hot minute. A really hot minute to figure it out, and just before Eddie made like he was going to push her off him, she clung to his arms.

“Like wait no, hold on… is that… is that what they’re doing on tv…?” Alejandra asked softly.

Eddie nodded awkwardly. Unsure of what to say.

"Yeah... yeah, it is. When you kiss and... then you kinda slip the tongue. It's called... making out…"

“I mean I know what making out is called but like… I didn’t know that’s what was happening… inside.” She said, feeling a little stupid.

"Are you telling me you've never kissed someone with tongue before?"

“… I’ve never kissed anyone in my life… let alone done that tongue thing.”

“Jesus H. Christ, you’re a fucking virgin!” Eddie laughed loudly and obnoxiously, as though reveling in the revelation of the awkward secret.

Now it was her turn to huff indignantly, only staying because Eddie had put his arms around her and held her in place.

“I’m sorr… sorry!” He wheezed. “I’m sorry! No… no that’s not funny.”

“Pinche mamon!” She hissed.

He shook his head, wiping a tear from his eye as he smiled at you gently. His hands began rubbing at her bare shoulders, enjoying the sight of her in a sleeveless, linen summer dress.

"Would you like to try it again...?” He asked softly, “The tongue thing?"

She curled soft legs around his thin waist, Chuck Taylors pressing into the armrest of the leather bench seats of the van. His body responded automatically, intimates standing to attention in a single fluid contraction of throbbing hot flesh through denim…

When she felt him get hard, how could she stay mad at him?

“Yeah… teach me, how do you do the tongue thing…?” She asked.

He gently pressed his forehead to hers, faces mere inches apart.

"Well, it's pretty simple."

He paused for a moment, leaning in slightly closer as he spoke in a soft, low voice.

"Gimme the Gene Simmons, like this..."

He slowly stuck his tongue out, the tip brushing against Alejandra’s lips. She giggled, mimicking him and laughing when his long tongue flicked against hers.

“Then what?” She asked. Words were a bit garbled because her tongue was still lolled out.

"Well, lamb chop, once our tongues are out, we... we kind of… You know…”

He paused, his eyes locked on her lips before leaning in a little closer.

"Start licking each other..."

“O-oh…”

Eddie smiled at the quiet, accepting response.

"Don't worry, we'll go slow. We don’t have anywhere to be." He said, eyes never quite leaving her lips.

"Close your eyes, lamb chop. You don’t keep them open when you kiss."

She obediently closed them, lips parted slightly as she felt Eddie’s warm breath caress her face. He evidently decided he would skip the gentle pecks and go for the tongue thing right away, so she kept her mouth a little open this time.

"Good girl.” He whispered, leaning in towards her, “You keep your mouth just like that…”

It was then she realized that not only did he taste like the Camels he smoked, but he also tasted like cheap beer, chocolate, and some kind of cereal she couldn’t quite place. All a myriad and fucked up mishmash of different flavors and scents that either complemented, or contradicted one another.

And Alejandra loved every single minute of it.

“ The flesh surrenders itself, he thought. Eternity takes back its own. Our bodies stirred these waters briefly, danced with a certain intoxication before the love of life and self, dealt with a few strange ideas, then submitted to the instruments of Time. What can we say of this? I occurred. I am not... yet, I occurred. ”

- Frank Herbert

[kittyclawsdolls]

rafe x sunshine!reader

TW: drug talk, alcohol consumption, throwing up, i think that’s it!

(in this the kooks and the pouges don’t hate each other, they may dislike each other tho)

imagine rafe and you are at home cuddling, rafe is on his phone texting barry about the party tonight, talking about selling. you didn’t want to go at first.

“baby, are you going to kelce’s party?” you ask looking up at him. he looks down at her. “yea. why sweets?” rafe asks with a grin at thought of making money there. “i wanna go too!” you say happily. “i thought you didn’t like parties?” rafe asks confused playing with your hair.

“well i changed my mind! i wanna be with you, and since you’re going to the party i thought i should go too!” rafe looks at you with a smile. “ok baby, we’ll leave at 7 o’clock. okay?” rafe says kissing your lips softly. “yay!! i’m going to pick out my outfit right now.” you say getting up, giggling on the way to the shared bedroom. https://pin.it/3Vimo5JxP

time skip

rafe and you are now at the party, rafe is selling drugs, you are off with sarah, john b and kie. rafe made sure to tell the 3 to watch you and make sure you don’t drink so much, that was until you, sarah and kie got super drunk and john b went off with jj and pope. you started to miss rafe and went off to find him. you saw him sitting on the couch next to top, you walked over there sitting next to him, putting your legs on his lap. rafe looks at you and smiles. “hi sweets, where’s sarah and kie?” rafe asks concerned cause they weren’t with you. “oh- i went off to find youu.. i’m glad i did! you’re so.. handsome.” you said while your hand is playing with the ends of his hair, and the other hand is holding his jaw. “how much did you drink?” rafe asks smiling at you. “i don’t know! maybe 10 shots? or 15?” you said questioning yourself. “ok lightweight.. you need to go home and sleep.” he says chuckling. “what- no- no i don’t *hiccups* need to go home! i’m fine baby.” you say surprised he would say that.

“nope don’t do that. you need to go home and sleep, c’mon let’s go.” rafe gets up and takes your hand dragging you out to the car. “but babeee! i’m fin-“ you got cut off by you throwing up. “see. you need to go home now.” he said with a straight face. “okk fine.” you grumble.

you get home, he helps you out the car and picks you up princess style (cuz you’re a princess). you are dead asleep, he puts you in bed. he grabs makeup wipes and wipes of your makeup, then does your skincare. he grabs a nightgown and your favorite stuff animal. he changes you, then tucks you in. he changes and then gets into bed

the next morning you wake up confused and rafe is beside you watching tv. he looks at you and kisses your forehead. “you drank to much last night baby.”

“i can tell. my head hurts like hell.” you say mad. you got up and brushed your teeth. then went back into bed. “you want breakfast?” rafe asks knowing your hungry. “yes please!” you mumble into the pillow. “ok sweetheart.” rafe leaves to make your food.

☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽

I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!

[spencer-reids-adventures]

for @tobias-hankel!

cw: drug addiction

---

He doesn’t think anyone knows.

Last time, of course, they knew. They knew he’d just suffered a major trauma. They knew he kept arriving late to work and snapping at the team. They knew something was very, very wrong. And they never said anything to him about it, not really. Some vague words from Gideon. A few suspicious looks from Morgan. Utter befuddlement from poor Emily. But no one ever said a word, and so, neither did Spencer.

This time, he’s more careful. 

Once again, it’s not his fault, not really. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. It’s not his fault he wasn’t coherent enough after being shot to tell the EMTs not to give him narcotics. It’s not his fault he was unconscious when the rest of the decisions about his knee surgery were made. It’s not his fault he limped out of the hospital on crutches with a bottle of Percocet, and it’s not his fault he took it, or that he took it upon himself to increase the dose. Small increments, a few days at a time. He’s a doctor. It’s fine.

It’s not his fault his team was too busy focusing on Hotch to notice any of it.

It’s not his fault that when the Percocet runs out, he manages to make his way to a crummy neighborhood in the middle of the night to pay an embarrassing amount of money for a moderate quantity of Dilaudid, and it’s definitely not his fault that the relief is so powerful, it actually makes him cry.

No, it’s not his fault, he assures himself. But it’s still a problem. It’s still a secret. It’s still scary and shameful, and Spencer is weak and broken, and he can’t let any of his teammates find out what’s happening.

He tries to be careful. It’s easy at first, because he’s on leave from work. Once he gets back, he does his best to look normal, to arrive on time, to be kind to his coworkers. He tries his best, and it’s so hard, and he truly doesn’t know if he’s succeeding. He’s not sure of much, at this point. He’s just trying to get through each day the best he can, to manage the pain in a way that’s familiar for him. 

Hotch returns to work not long after Spencer, and from the look on his face, he can tell something is wrong. He doesn’t say anything, though. He never says anything. Spencer tries to brush it off, pretends it doesn’t bother him, pretends he’s not desperate to just talk about it with someone. 

He tries, and he tries, and he tries.

And then one evening, the phone rings.

The call shows up as Unknown Caller, but Spencer answers it anyway, expecting someone trying to scam him or sell him something.

“Just listen,” the voice says on the other end. “You don’t have to say anything right now.”

And Spencer couldn’t say anything even if he wanted to, because it’s Gideon’s voice on the other end of the line, a voice he hasn’t heard in years, though he hears it in his memories and his dreams more often than he’d like to admit. 

He waits, speechless, for Gideon to continue.

“Hotch called me. We talk sometimes, you know. He keeps me up to date on what’s going on. And he told me that something’s going on with you. He’s really worried about you.”

Spencer swallows. Why would Hotch reach out to Gideon instead of just talking to Spencer himself?

What would Spencer have even said if Hotch had tried to talk to him?

“I’m assuming it’s the same problem you had last time, when you missed that plane, though Hotch couldn’t confirm anything. Maybe it’s not that. Maybe you’re just struggling emotionally, or maybe it’s something else I don’t even know about. No matter what it is, Reid, I want to help you. I want to be here for you in a way that I haven’t before.”

Spencer rubs his face with his hand. It doesn’t make sense, none of this makes sense. Gideon left. He left, and he’s gone, and Spencer made peace with that a long time ago. And now—now he doesn’t know what to do at all. Now, nothing makes sense. Nothing at all.

“Can you tell me what you’re thinking, Spencer?”

Spencer sighs. Pulls at his hair. Wrings his hands out a few times, and switches his phone from one ear to the other. 

“I messed up,” he finally whispers. “I missed another plane.”

“We can fix this,” Gideon says immediately. “Are you home? Are you safe? Can I come to you?”

“C-come to me?” Spencer repeats incredulously. 

“We obviously don’t want you detoxing on your own,” Gideon says matter-of-factly. “I’ll come help you.”

“Detoxing…”

“You know you can’t keep going like this. Something needs to change. I’m not going to let you kill yourself with this stuff.”

Spencer is quiet for a long time.

“I’m… at home,” he finally whispers.

“Stay there,” says Gideon. “I’m coming to you, okay? It’s going to take me a little while, but just—don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t,” Spencer promises. 

When Gideon shows up 30 minutes later, a needle and a vial are sitting on the coffee table, but Spencer hasn’t moved.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

but I'm more than a need

So. What happened was @minky-for-short told me about her idea for a painter Husk/model Angel AU and things spiralled from there. Enjoy!

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of drug use, alcoholism, mentions of sexual abuse

Please reblog and leave a comment over on Ao3 if you enjoyed!

--------

Angel Dust had expected this to be easy. Wasn’t it his job to be stared at?

When Valentino had told him his schedule was being cleared of clients two days a week for a ‘special assignment’, his tone had been sickeningly magnanimous, like he expected his star performer to fall to his knees and shower him with thanks at the prospect. And Angel would, if he didn’t know better. 

Being taken off the roster did mean a break from an otherwise endless parade of men with bad breath and bruising hands, reeking of the alcohol they’d needed to overcome their shame at wanting to fuck another man, a break from being so buzzed that he’d disconnect entirely from it all, not noticing how they’d hurt him until he came crashing down. But at least that was the devil he knew, intimately enough to know the taste of its tongue in his mouth. 

Time away from the brothel usually meant that Valentino had something much worse in mind.

So when Angel finally arrived at the address on the card, after trekking across what felt like ten fucking blocks from the spot Valentino had him kicked out of the car, and saw it was an abandoned looking brownstone on a shady street corner, he wasn’t surprised. That part of him that never learned to sit down, shut up and accept his shitty life told him to turn and walk away. 

But whatever was in that house, Valentino would be worse. So he’d gone up, knocked on the door and was thoroughly surprised when a paint streaked, grouchy man appeared, blinking like he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks and growling that Angel was late, did that asshole pimp not know that paint fucking dries? 

And Husker hadn’t stopped surprising him since. 

Angel still rolled his eyes at it. Of course Valentino wanted a fucking portrait of his favourite whore, the creep was probably going to hang it in his bedroom. It was so like him, wallpapering this old money aesthetic over the newly minted wealth he’d gained selling other people’s flesh. Angel wouldn’t even mind that Valentino had made a small fortune pimping him out, or how he spent it, if he didn’t treat him so cruelly. He’d signed on willingly, at first, believing the sugared words and promises of finally being free to fuck how he wanted without shame, of being able to drown the nightmares left over from the war in as many drugs as his body could take. But those promises had dissolved away to nothing on his tongue, leaving his teeth rotted and his nerves shot worse than ever. 

And now Angel’s pain would be immortalized in oils and hung in a gilded frame. 

But at least it would be a proper break. And it would be easy, all he had to do was stand there looking gorgeous, pinned under the gaze of an older man who never had a bottle far from his hand. No different from his usual job except he got to keep his head clear and his clothes on, if the costume Valentino wanted him painted in had enough fabric to count as clothes. 

And it was easy. But not for the reasons he expected. 

There was really only one reason actually and his name was Husker, Husk for short, an odd name but he hadn’t given Angel any other. At first he’d thought it was a good fit, the painter was grizzled, surly, his eyes hard and his tongue sharp, with hands that shook unless they held a brush or a bottle. He was a hell of a far cry from the rich businessmen and upper class bankers who paid for Angel’s time, who tried to impress him with gifts that Val would take and sweet words that didn’t soften their hands any, but apparently his paintings had once sold for thousands. 

Angel couldn’t possibly comment at first, the cramped little studio space had oddly bare walls, but when he’d gotten glimpses of his portrait, he realized just how great Husk must have been back in his day. In nothing more than rough sketches, he was making something almost beautiful out of Valentino’s slightly nauseating ideas. 

Which did beg the question, if Angel Dust was finding this so easy, why was Husk finding it so hard?

“You’re moving again, Legs.”

“Am I fuck…” Angel retorted with a grin, which of course meant he was, in fact, moving. 

“Hey, you want this to look like shit, it’s no skin off my nose,” Husk looked at him over the edge of his glasses, “I got no reputation to maintain.”

“Good look trying to get this to look like shit,” Angel lifted an eyebrow, brushing his hands down the vaguely Grecian drape of silk that was preserving no modesty. The freckles dusting his skin covered more. 

“Don’t underestimate how much I can fuck something up, kid,” Husk grunted, transfering his pencil to the corner of his mouth, picking up an ink brush instead, “I’ve had a lifetime of experience.”

Angel couldn’t help another grin, even as he tried to stay still. That was one of the things he liked about Husk. He didn’t try to be perfect, he didn’t hide his rough edges. 

The way his arm muscles flexed as he drew, looking unfairly sexy now he’d pushed his sleeves to his elbows, Angel liked that too. 

“Next question,” Husk whipped the brush back and forth across the sheaf of paper on his easel, “Think it was your turn, kid.”

Angel blinked, realizing how long he’d been quiet before Husk spoke. It was so easy for his mind to wander here, with the comforting smells of paint and paper, the soothing whisper of sleek bristles on canvas, the warm sunlight streaming in through the windows. And more than anything, the feeling of safety, knowing that quiet here really just meant quiet, come by honestly, not just waiting for the next blow. He’d been embarrassed the first time he’d dozed off in Husk’s studio, his body jumping at the chance for some real rest and shutting down without asking Angel to give the order. 

But after the fourth time of waking up on the battered sofa in the corner with a musty but cozy blanket over him, Angel had found it in him to stop caring. 

But he didn’t want to sleep now. Because as much as he wanted to pretend otherwise, he and Husk were on borrowed time, he was at the edge of this peaceful eye in the storm he lived in. 

The portrait was almost finished, colors starting to appear at Husk’s elbow as the first draft took shape. Soon Angel wouldn’t be needed in the studio anymore, he’d go back to the stage, back to the brothel, back to living under Valentino’s thumb. And Husk would go back to…well, nothing, by the look of his bare, dusty life. The thought made Angel’s heart ache. 

He pushed the thought away, refusing to chew on it. But he wouldn’t sleep away the rest of their time together, either. 

“What kind of music do you like?” he eventually asked. 

Husk chuckled at that, seeming to let his hands create independently, flying across the paper while the rest of him moved at a lower tempo, “Easy, jazz. I used to play when I was younger, actually. There was a club not too far from where I lived, I’d sneak out and go all the time. A guy there taught me, pretty sure just to keep me away from the bar. Looked old for my age back then…and now.”

“Shut up,” Angel perked up interestedly, “What did you play?”

“That’s two questions now,” Husk reminded him, smirking but he answered all the same, “Sax. Was a fun time but I ain’t cut out for being in a band, don’t play nice with others. Realized I was better at making art for the eyes rather than the ears.”

“Makes sense though,” Angel hummed, adjusting the angle of his arm as the silk started to slide, “You paint the way jazz sounds.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he blushed, realizing how dumb it sounded, like he didn’t know shit about art or music. Which he didn’t, but something about Husk knowing that made his face burn. 

But Husk’s eyes brightened, his wry mouth turned up in a genuine smile, “No one’s ever put it quite like that. But thanks.”

Angel had to roll his eyes at himself, just a little. He’d thought crushes were from a time he hadn’t known any better, another thing his hard life had calcified until he couldn’t make it work anymore, that real, genuine attraction had gone the way of imaginary friends and daydreams. But Husk had cracked right through to that giddy, naive part of Angel, he’d let it stretch and unfurl itself and fly. You could argue it was the part that had gotten him into so much trouble but, in Husk’s studio, it didn’t feel dangerous. It was fun again, simple, pleasant. So he let himself stare, he let himself get butterflies, he let himself blush and laugh and embarrass himself. It wouldn’t last, it wouldn’t mean anything but Angel had never been one for saying no to temporary pleasures. Especially ones that made him act like a damn fool. 

“You can ask me two questions,” he hummed with one of his best flirtatious smiles, “Seeing as I snuck an extra one.”

This had been their game for the last month and change. Husk had said he couldn’t paint a stranger, if he was going to put him on canvas then he needed to know him. The thought had got Angel’s back up so Husk had promised it would be an even exchange. He’d ask a question, Angel would answer it and then they’d trade. He’d even said that they didn’t have to be truthful answers, he’d understand enough from whatever lies the younger man chose to tell. 

And they’d started as lies, the standard sanitized version of his past Angel gave to any johns that wanted to fake like they’d taken him on some grand romantic date, rather than paid to fuck him in the tackily decorated back rooms of a downtown bordello. But, without even really noticing, he’d grown comfortable with Husk and the truth started slipping in. Now Husk knew more about him than anyone else left in the city and, Angel suspected, he knew just as much about the older guy. He could taste lies, thanks to his profession, and as far as his tongue could tell, Husk had given him nothing but truth, bitter as it was. 

“Always one to push it, aren’t you, Legs?” Husk chuckled, switching to a different brush, taking a pull from the bottle of amber liquid before continuing to paint. How he knew the difference between that and the water he cleaned his brushes in, without even glancing at them, Angel had no idea.

“You know it, sweetie,” Angel purred, recognising the color Husk picked up as the color of his own eyes, “Ain’t a proper game if you don’t try and bend the rules.”

Husk shook his head in amusement, choosing his questions without a pause, like he already knew which ones he needed to ask to make the next brushstroke perfect, “What was your biggest fear when you were a kid?”

“Before I turned thirteen? Spiders,” Angel wrinkled his nose, though there was an odd fondness to the nostalgic fear, “Nona’s apartment was full of them, I used to be frightened they’d crawl on my face when I slept. But she loves them, even named them all, the mad old bat.” 

“And after?” Husk’s brush hesitated and changed direction at the last moment. 

Angel gave a dry laugh, “Father finding out I was a pansy.”

Husk made a sympathetic noise but there was no pity in it, another point in Angel’s book. He sat back suddenly, frowning, “Come tell me what you think of this.”

Already? It hit Angel like a blow to the chest, enough that he staggered as he stepped off the little platform he posed on, enough that his mask almost cracked, “From your tone, I’m guessing you’re not happy?”

Husk gave a grunt, “Not me who needs to be happy with it…”

“Well it ain’t me either, baby, it’s Val,” Angel let the fabric fall, shrugged on a robe and came around to the other side of the easel. The sudden shock of color and movement on the other side of such a plain, gray nothing hit better than some highs he’d had. 

Angel didn’t know how to talk about art. He’d seen plenty of it when he was shipped out in France but he’d had other things on his mind then, it had all just been set dressing in this brand new world of dizzying highs and terrifying lows. 

So when he saw Husk’s work, he didn’t know how to describe the way it made him feel, he just felt it, in a rush like a wave that took him off his feet. It was the way he took moments in time and fixed them to the paper, turned them into something Angel could actually touch if he wanted, and made them so beautiful in the process. For someone who had so many gaps in his memory, parts of his life eaten away by drugs and pain and terror, it may as well have been magic. 

The painting was gorgeous, that wasn’t the problem. It was just a gorgeous painting of a vindictive, controlling pimp’s sex fantasy. 

When he first started working on this particular commission, Husk had asked Angel if he was really okay with what his boss had requested, showing him the list of demands with a knowing air, the older man fully aware of what answer was true and what answer he would get. And Angel hadn’t surprised him, glancing over what Valentino wanted and saying that whatever he’d asked for, Husk had better deliver. That’s how Angel had kept most of his teeth.

From the way Husk’s eyes had tightened, he hadn’t found the joke very funny.

But Angel knew what he’d see when he looked at the paper but an image in his own mind and something realized in ink and paint, brought to life by Husk’s clever hands, were two very different things. The Angel on the page was much truer to his name, he was angelic, pale skin glowing, freckles scattered across his skin like flecks of gold, eyes bright and blue and innocent behind flaxen hair. But he was a fallen angel, chains securing his hands to some part of the background that Husk would draw in later but, even without it, they looked inescapable, raw chafe marks in a wincing carmine visible below their cuffs. And the fabric looked somehow even less, like a rough hand was in the process of tearing it away to leave him naked and flushed. And there wasn’t a single scar on that perfect, porcelain skin. 

It wasn’t him. It was the role he was supposed to play for Valentino, the fantasy he was forced into. And seeing it in front of his eyes, he could almost feel the weight of those chains on his own wrists and, fuck, they hurt. 

“It’s exactly what he wants,” Angel said truthfully, making himself smile at Husk, “You’ve done a great job.”

But the older man’s frown just deepened, etching the lines around his eyes and mouth more firmly. Angel realized then that he wasn’t looking at the painting, he was only looking at him. 

“It’s shit.”

The sudden sound of the paper tearing away from the pad made Angel flinch but he couldn’t deny there was some catharsis in seeing it crumpled in Husk’s surprisingly strong fist. 

But he was the one who had to fight for his own misery, “Husk, no, it’s good! It’s really good, Val will love it.”

“You don’t,” Husk pitched the failed painting into the dented old furnace he’d light whenever he noticed Angel shivering. 

Angel opened his mouth but no words came out. It wasn’t so easy to lie to Husk as it was to lie to everyone else in his life. 

“That isn’t the point,” he finally managed, “Husk, honey, if you take any longer with this, he’s gonna start getting mad.”

Like it wasn’t already too late. 

He’d seen it in Valentino’s gaze every time he left the club for Husk’s studio, the building jealousy, the brewing sense of danger that Angel was so depressingly familiar with. They were meant to have been done inside a week but that week had rolled on and on, Husk getting to this point in the process, the moment where he should have let Angel go, and then starting over three times now. Every painting had been gorgeous, it had been lecherous, it had been exactly what Valentino wanted, and each one had ended up in the furnace as soon as Husk had seen Angel’s reaction. 

And if his boss’s simmering fury had just been directed at him, he wouldn’t have minded, the daydream was worth it. It was what he’d said about Husk that worried him. 

“It should be the point and I’ll fucking well tell him so,” Husk reached for the bottle again, draining it in one swallow that left his voice a smoky growl, “Valentino can get as mad as he wants, I ain’t scared of that up jumped pimp.”

Panic tasted bitter on Angel’s tongue and sharpened his words, “You should be. If you don’t realize how dangerous he is, you need to learn fast, Husker, because I’ll be damned if I let you get hurt because you stuck up for me. I’m not worth it.”

Husk’s eyes darkened, his voice softening, “You really believe that, kid?”

Angel realized he’d said more than he’d meant to, feeling more naked than he had when there was only a swathe of fabric between him and Husk’s gaze. 

“I have to,” he said eventually, voice trembling ever so slightly, “There ain’t another way through.”

Husk looked like he was going to say something, like there were some words pulling at the tip of his tongue, desperate to fly. But suddenly the fight went out of him, shoulders slumping, the words becoming a low groan as he pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I need another drink,” he muttered, “Gimme a second…”

He went into the back room of the studio that served as his living space, that rickety, sagging bed and chipped wardrobe and lopsided bookcase apparently holding all he owned in the world. But Angel knew there were several bottles of whiskey under the bed, enough that he didn’t need to ask whether Husk had served in the war too. Only a soldier needed that much poison to hand. 

Selfish tears threatened to choke him the moment he was alone. He’d done the right thing, he knew he had, but it still hurt like a bitch. He let himself have a moment to almost cry about it before scrubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his robe and moving to the furnace. He’d fish out the draft, he’d tell Husk to use that painting and he’d be done with this. The daydream had been nice but it needed to end, before someone other than Angel himself got hurt. He could see that now. 

There were several balls of crumpled sketchbook paper in the furnace’s grating, he couldn’t remember which one he needed. He came up with a handful of them, as well as an annoying smear of soot on his fingers, pulling a face of irritation as he unrolled one at random. 

And felt his heart stop in his chest. It was a drawing of him but it wasn’t the one he was looking for. 

It was a quick, hurried drawing, like Husk had done it on impulse, something to keep his hands steady or to keep them off the bottle for just a little longer. Angel wasn’t dramatically posed, dressed up in silk, he didn’t look alluring or otherworldly, it was just a sketchy of him from the neck up. He was doing that grin he tried not to do because it made his nose turn up and his teeth look huge but the way it was drawn here, it looked…adorable. Natural. 

He looked so happy. 

It was dizzying, seeing the way somebody else could look at his flaw and find beauty in it. Not Valentino’s warped, fake idea of it but real, actual, honest. Angel didn’t think he’d known the difference before looking at this drawing. 

He knew what he should do. He should drop the sketch back in the furnace, pretend he’d never seen it. He should light it up himself, let that version of himself blacken and curl and become nothing, go back to Valentino and the devil he knew. 

But his hands weren’t connected to his brain, reaching for more balls of paper the way he reached for the next pill or line of white powder, the next bad idea that would be sweet in the moment then do him more harm than good. 

Some pages just had one drawing, some had a few. The sketch of him asleep on the couch was full body but around it were isolated hands, eyes, a smile, every inch of him noticed and practiced until it was perfect. Angel was smiling, he was lost in thought, he was yawning hugely, he was guarded and wary, he was alight with playful mischief. He could match the expressions with memories of the last few weeks, stories he’d told Husk or bad jokes he’d made. Things he’d said and done so offhandedly but apparently they’d mattered enough for Husk to commit them to pencil and paper. 

Finally, after pages and pages of careful studies of himself, he found the draft painting done for Valentino. Seeing them side by side, it was heartbreakingly obvious, like he held night in one hand and day in the other. How he looked to someone who wanted him and how he looked to someone who loved him. Who he had to be and who he wanted to be. Angel Dust and Anthony. 

Angel didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late. 

“I’m sorry, kid, I shouldn’t have stormed off like that, I…Angel?”

He felt his stomach drop, whipping around, arms already drawn to his chest in defense and eyes screwed tightly shut, “I didn’t mean to look, it was an accident, I’m sorry.”

But the blow he’d learned to expect never landed. There was no anger, no explosion, just a long pause where the only sound was the city outside the windows shifting into evening, oblivious to the two of them. 

“Angel…fuck, I’m sorry.”

Surprise made him open his eyes, Husk just leaning in the doorway, slumped like a man too tired to fight anymore. 

“I never wanted to put you in this position,” his voice was rough, heavy, in a way that had nothing to do with the drink, “I swear, those sketches…they were just be trying to get this fucking lunacy out of my system, I was never gonna act on it. I don’t want to be just another deluded old idiot leering at you like he’d got any damn right to.”

“Husker…” Angel breathed, unsure what to do, holding onto the pages of sketches like he was afraid someone would take them away. 

“I just…it’s been so long since I talked with anyone, since anyone wanted to hear what I had to say,” Husk ducked his eyes, wincing, “I shouldn’t have let you in, I should have known better but you’re so…” he shook his head like there weren’t even words but it was there on the page, “I’m an old fool, Angel. That’s all. I’m sorry, I understand if you want to leave.”

Angel felt the weight of the choice. Again, that hard learned fear was pulling at him, telling him what he should do, what was safe, what was smart. Telling him that he didn’t deserve it. But for the first time in his life, he was able to drown that voice out, his grip on the pages, on his hope, tightening. 

“I don’t want to leave,” he murmured, taking a step closer to Husk. 

The older man’s eyes widened, looking like he didn’t know whether to believe what he’d just heard, “What?”

“I want you,” Angel said it again, feeling the truth in it now, feeling it steel himself.

He put the sketches to one side, resting his hands on Husk’s chest, letting himself have what he knew now he’d wanted for so long. Maybe even longer than he’d known Husk. 

“Angel,” Husk’s own hands responded, settling on his hips like nervous birds, “You have a right to know, when your boss came to hire me, he…he offered me you. For a discount he said I could…have you while I worked. And I didn’t take it, I never would but I just…I need to know that this is what you want, not something you feel like you have to do just because I got a stupid crush on you.”

The news didn’t surprise Angel in the slightest, Val had used him as sugar on top of deals plenty of times before. What did surprise him was Husk’s mouth twisting in disgust at the idea, the restraint holding him back until he heard Angel’s answer. What surprised him was finding himself in the arms of a truly honest man. 

“Baby,” he smiled, as big as he wanted to, not caring how it looked, “Believe me, I know what a bad idea this is. I know what I’m risking, I know what I’m asking you to risk. But I’m here anyway, ain’t I? So I know how much I want this, how much I've been wanting you since I walked through your door.”

Apparently that was all Husk needed to hear. His hold on Angel became certain, pulling him that last inch closer until their bodies pressed together, “Then I’m yours, baby. For however long we got.”

The moment their lips met, Angel knew the answer was not long enough. He knew in an instant that he’d never get tired of the way Husk kissed him, of that taste of second hand whiskey and those strong arms around him, feeling safer than anything had for a long damn time. He didn’t hurry, he didn’t want to press forward into the next thing, he just reveled in kissing Angel like if it stopped right there, it would still be enough. Angel found himself nearly climbing Husk, gasping and whimpering in between hurried breaths, nearly screaming when the older man shifted and pressed his leg up between Angel’s. 

“Fuck me,” he moaned desperately, needing Husk more than he needed air, so much he as burning with it. 

“You got the kit for that?” Husk’s voice had become a growl, something Angel felt as much as he heard. 

“I’m taking the fact that you have to ask as a professional insult,” Angel smirked, only the promise of having this man inside him able to make himself let go. 

He scrambled for the bag he’d left in the corner along with his clothes, Husk dropping back on the sofa to wait, warm golden eyes never leaving him. With that gaze pricking pleasantly across his skin, Angel shed his robe, stepping out of the pool of pink silk and coming back to Husk wearing only a lopsided grin. 

“Fuck, look at you, baby…” his hands were as reverant as his gaze, both stroking down Angel’s narrow body, drinking in every freckle and angle and scar with as much adoration as he settled in the older man’s lap. 

“Now you,” Angel tugged impatiently at Husk’s suspenders, “It’s my turn to stare.”

“Ain’t gonna be half as pretty,” Husk warned, the skin on his cheeks darkening a little but he didn’t resist as Angel yanked down the collar of his shirt and pulled open buttons, kicking off his shoes and shoving down his trousers. 

Under the slightly bedraggled clothing, Husk had scars of his own. Everything about him seemed designed to contrast Angel, dark skin where he was pale, strong where he was wiry, thick black hair across his chest and down between his legs where Angel just had a dusting of gold down, the curve of a beer gut where drugs had left Angel nearly concave. 

He wasn’t pretty. He was fucking gorgeous. Angel had to drag a fist across his lips to check he wasn’t drooling. 

Husk’s blush only deepend but now he was grinning rather than looking anxious, “You have weird tastes, baby.”

“Guys who are nice to me? I know, I’m a hopeless degenerate,” Angel cackled, before pressing the small jar into his hand, “I want you to do it…”

“My pleasure,” Husk rolled his hips, letting Angel feel the press of his erection against him, beaming when it made him tremble and whimper hungrily. 

Even slick with Vaseline, Husk’s fingers were fucking big. Angel found himself squealing like a fucking rookie when his hole finally opened for him after a few coaxing strokes, burying his face against the curve of his neck as he pressed inside. But Husk knew his business and in a moment it was bliss and nothing else, making Angel cling to him so fiercely that there would be an impression of the other man’s dog tags on his chest when he pulled away. 

When Husk curled his fingers against that sweet spot inside him, the pleasure took on an edge of panic, almost too much between that blinding pressure and his cock trapped between the warmth of their stomachs, the pre he was spilling like a fountain making it slick and hot. 

“Gonna…fuck, Husk, I can’t hold it…” he gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. 

“You say that like it’s not the aim, baby…” Husk purred smokily, tongue tracing the curve of his ear. 

“Not like this,” Angel begged, voice strangled as it had to shoulder past gasps and moans and pleas, “On your cock. Need to feel you, wanna make you feel good too…”

The arms around him became soothing, like he was being rocked, Husk shifting to give him what he wanted, “You do, baby. You do. You’re doing so good.”

Those words set his nerves alight as much as the fingers crooked inside him until Angel almost sobbed, “Please…”

“I got you,” the loss of the fingers was heartbreaking until he felt Husk’s cock press against his entrance, thick and hard and hot enough to burn, “Breathe, baby, you’re so tight, you gotta let me in…”

Those strong hands slid down to Angel’s hips, holding tight so he couldn’t force himself back and take him, damn the pain. It was slow, careful, but the reward was all the sweeter for it, Angel’s eyes nearly rolling back as he sat on Husk’s dick, feeling so full he didn’t know how he wasn’t unraveling completely. 

“Fuck…” Husk’s voice cracked, a hand sliding up to tangle in Angel’s hair, the other draping around his hips to keep him close. 

“As good as you imagined?” Angel panted, nuzzling at his shoulder. 

“Better…”

Husk rolled his hips like the sweetest music was playing in his head, purposeful, rhythmic, wanting Angel to feel every inch. At first Angel couldn’t even scream, everything in him utterly surrendered, every cell in his body devoted to chasing after that feeling. But he soon realized he didn’t need to, Husk would give it to him and give it gladly, as sure as the tide. He fucked into him slow but the pace built gradually, leaving Angel free to moan and shriek and beg. He couldn’t let Husk mark him, as much as he wanted it, but he could sink his teeth into him, sucking hard until he’d have something to look at in the morning and feel less lonely. 

Angel knew how to read people’s bodies, he knew they were about to fall. Husk throbbed deep inside him, his own cock was stiff as a board and trembling between their bodies. He wanted to beg Husk to hold on, to wait, just a few seconds more because even those would be sweeter than anything he’d ever get again. But he might as well have wished for the moon. 

So Angel did what he’d always done and took a hand in his own destruction. 

He moved his hips faster, grinding down hard on Husk’s dick and whispered in his ear, “Come for me, baby.”

Husk did, with a yowl like a cat in heat. Angel was a second behind, painting both of their chests and crying out his lover’s name, letting his voice shatter on it. They were both left ruined, gasping, only held together by the other’s arms around them. 

It was a long time before Angel trusted himself to speak, morning back to rest his forehead on Husk’s, “Will you draw me? Like this?”

Husk’s smile was warmth itself, “I’ll do my damndest, baby.”

It came out beautiful. Of course it did. 

Afterwards, when their lovemaking was just an ache in his hips and a slick feeling between his legs, Angel sat back in Husk’s arms and looked at the sketch like he was trying to etch it onto his brain. The pencil version of himself wore Husk’s shirt rather than his own, eyes heavy lidded, his smile crooked and blissfully tired, happier than Angel had thought his own face would ever look. 

Even if the moment had ended for them, he’d always have this. He had this proof that someone had loved him. 

“Can I keep it?” his voice was raw and shaky, “And some of the others?” In case I come to my senses and never see you again. 

Husk kissed the side of his head, squeezed his hand gently, like he’d heard the words left unsaid, “They’re yours. But I’ll draw you better ones if you like? Ones that didn’t spend a few days in the furnace?”

Angel smiled up at him, seeing that some of the soot from his fingers had smudged on Husk’s cheek, “I think these are perfect the way they are.”

“Then they’re a good likeness,” Husk murmured, pressing the next kiss to his lips. 

Angel leaned into it, letting himself have another temporary pleasure, letting himself have a moment to not think about anything but Husk. What he’d do tomorrow, fuck, what he’d do in the next moment, he had no idea. But he wouldn’t think about it now.

“It is stunning, isn’t it, Angel? Who’d have thought the old drunk had some talent left clinging to him…”

Valentino’s voice was full of smug satisfaction and smoke, faintly red billows of it hissing from between his teeth and scratching at Angel’s nose. He didn’t flinch, he’d grown used to it over the years. 

“It’s exactly what you asked for,” he hummed in what would sound like agreement, looking up at the painting now slotted cozily into its new home on the wall of Valentino’s office. 

The frame was a tacky travesty, of course, gilded and overblown but he supposed the image inside was as well. Husk had delivered exactly what he’d been asked, once Angel had convinced him to. It was exactly like the draft piece that nearly ended up in the flames, just more polished and done in rich, sumptuous oils, his wanton blush more rich, his eyes shining brighter, his pose more tempting. Valentino was nearly salivating looking at it. 

“You’ve never looked more tempting, my dear,” he crowded Angel closer, voice almost warm though his hands were like vices on his shoulders, “In fact, I can think of no better advertisement for our little club, you’ll have the deviants of the city flocking to our doors just for a glimpse of this…and then they’ll pay through the nose for the real thing.”

“Yes, Valentino,” Angel hummed, not taking his eyes off the painting.

“I believe I’ll take Mr Husker up on his kind offer, now I know his talent hasn’t faded along with everything else. A few pieces like these in the hallway, my profits could triple…and with the discount he mentioned, well, I don’t know what you showed him or shook in front of him but the old fool’s half in love with you. Very nice work, baby…”

Angel shrugged, gaze still fixed on the painting, “Just a generous guy, I guess.”

“Don’t make me laugh, sweetling, you’re not good at it,” Valentino said curtly, “I want you on stage in ten. With how much time you’ll be spending in that studio, you’ll have to make it up to me. Double shifts for the rest of the week and I don’t want to hear you bitching.”

Angel flinched a little but he didn’t take his eyes off Husk’s painting, not even when the office door closed with a slam designed to put him on edge, “You won’t…”

Of course Valentino hadn’t noticed it. But it was the first thing he’d seen as soon as he’d stepped into the office after Val had called him in so he could gloat over it. Husk hadn’t let him see the final piece, just reassuring him that it was finished and that his boss would be happy with it. And now Angel knew why. 

Valentino didn’t look past the eyes, the beckoning gaze, the perfect body begging to be ruined. But Husk did. And that's why one of the chains in the links that bound the painted version of Angel was cracked. Almost all the way through, about to break entirely, if he just pulled hard enough. Valentino saw him chained but in Husk’s painting, Angel saw himself fighting and, against all the odds, about to win.

It was a nice dream. 

Angel turned away from the painting, thinking about where this had begun. It was supposed to be easy. It should have been easy, it was Angel Dust’s job to be stared at. 

But this was the first time he felt like he’d been seen. 

[camarocarfight]

There's A Demon In My Radio Chapter One An Alastor x Reader slow burn fic featuring human Angel Dust (Anthony), Vox, and many more. Buckle up, and grab the tissues. Rated MATURE for sexual themes, violence, and drug and alcohol use.

There's A Demon In My Radio

New Orleans, 1947

There had been a cabin in the bayou that you dreamed about living in all your childhood. Your family would drive past it on your way to your father's sugarcane fields, and your gaze would be fixated on the log structure. The cabin wasn't much to look at, being a quaint hunting shack and all, but your father said that it had been refurbished after the previous owner had died. It sat empty for years, and was listed on the market for just as long. Talk of the town was that the serial murderer from the 1930s cut up and ate his victims there, but that seemed far-fetched to you. 

Regardless of the rumors and your father's distaste for the idea, you bought the cabin after graduating from nursing school. Not at all put off by the fact that a serial killer had taken up residence there nearly two decades ago. All you cared about was that he was dead, having been shot by a hunter who mistook him for a deer. Truthfully, an unfortunate way to go, but was he deserving of any other?

Anthony, your closest friend, was meeting you at the hospital after work to help you move in. The two of you had been close since middle school, after Anthony had warded off some unwanted advancements against you by Vox. Since then, you had each other's backs, and agreed to a mutually beneficial relationship. Your first time meeting Anthony, you knew he was different. Different in the kind of way that society didn't accept and could very well get him killed if he wasn't careful. After the Vox incident, you and Anthony agreed to ‘courting’. It was the only solution you knew of to keep Vox off your back, and it would keep Anthony safe from any accusations.

For years your plan had worked, but as of late, the pressure was mounting on you to keep Anthony safe. Everyday, it seemed Anythony found himself in some sort of trouble with drugs or with selling himself for money. He would come to you at odd hours of the night either high or sporting the cuts and bruises of his latest scrape.

So it really didn't surprise you when you found Anthony sitting outside the hospital on a bench. Dressed to the nines in a charcoal gray three piece suit with a matching fedora and sporting a black eye. You bound towards the young man, shaking your head in disappointment. Anthony simply grinned, finding your motherly instincts comical.

“Honestly, you need a babysitter,” you took him by the chin and moved his head from side to side, examining the bruise. 

“Nice t’ see you too, Doll,” Anthony took your hand from his face as he stood from the bench. He easily towered over you, being 6’3 and all legs. “Coulda been worse. It was only Val dishing out the punishment.” 

“You shouldn't have to be punished,” you grumbled and took Anthony's arm and the two of you began your walk to the cabin.

“Jus’ forget it, and let's have a nice weekend puttin’ your murder shack together.”

The two of you walked in relative silence, arm-in-arm. From the hospital to the cabin was a thirty minute walk. The landscape changed drastically along the way. Going from the bustle of the city and the stately homes, to plantations that eventually tapered off into the forests that surrounded the bayou. It would no doubt be an interesting walk coming back from the hospital during those Late nights. Your father had offered to buy you an automobile, but you felt they weren't safe. Not that walking such a distance was much safer. 

“I don't know, toots,” Anthony glanced down and eyed you wearily through his blackened eye. “Quite the walk for a gal by her lonesome.”

You scoffed and pulled your arm free from Anthony and rummaged through your purse to find the keys to the cabin. 

“Have you and my father been talking?”

“You know he don't like me,” Anthony murmured and thrust his hands into the pockets of his slacks. 

The man stopped before the cabin and regarded the log structure with an unamused expression. Refurbished or not, it still wasn't much to look at. The windows in the front were caked with dust, and moss and vines had slithered their way up the siding and onto the shingles of the roof.

“What was it about this place anyhow?”

“I don't know,” you shrugged and walked up to the door. As you slid the key into the keyhole, a smile slid across your lips. “There's this je ne sais quoi I couldn't ignore.”

The lock mechanism clicked, disengaging the lock, and the door slowly creaked with the hinges squealing in protest. Light filtered into the vast space of the cabin's main room, illuminating the dust that floated and filled the musty air. The old furniture had long since been removed after the passing of the previous occupant, leaving only an old radio sitting in the corner of the room next to a stone fireplace.

Behind you Anthony whistled. “Smells wonderful,” he stepped past you and into the living space. Under his oxfords the old wooden floors creaked. “Like rotten meat.”

“Anthony, quit.”

“Maybe the killer's bodies are still buried here,” he laughed, but the look on your face had his smile fading. “Awe, c'mon, toots.”

“I really want to make this place home, Anthony. Regardless of what happened or not.”

“And we will,” Anthony put his arm around your shoulders and regarded the space. “‘Least it came with a radio.”

You hummed and walked up to the floor model radio sitting dorment in the corner. The once mahogany stained wood was tarnished and chipped, with years of dust covering its surface that was so thick that it didn't even leave a trail when you swiped your finger across the surface. There was a tiny frequency window that was yellowed and cracked and two knobs that barely turned. 

“It be neat if this still worked,” you reached down and picked up the power cord. The outer sheath was dry rotted and nearly falling apart in your hand. 

“Yeah,” Anthony shook his head. “I wouldn't, unless I want to burn the place down.”

“If the cord is in this condition, then the capacitors are probably dried out too,” the cord fell from your hand and clattered against the wooden floor. “I wonder if this was his radio.”

Anthony quirked a brow and folded his arms over his chest with his right hip cocked. “Are y’ keeping it? No use keeping someone else's junk. Especially since it doesnt work.”

“No, I'm keeping it,” the look of confusion on Anthony's face made you smirk. “It's a nice decoration.” 

“Whatever you say, toots.”

[limetameta]

One thing that's stopping me from writing any human beastnoch au is that I can't figure out what to call the search and rescue Beast like if anyone has any ideas to help me what the Good Human Beast name configuration is I'd really be grateful

I DO know that everyone calls him Beast because they can't pronounce his surname (Beštić) , nicknamed Beštija (meaning beast, monster, wild incomprehensible creature )

His parents are immigrants from Yugoslavia that came to the USA to escape the 90s civil war and began raising a family there. I imagine that they gave their son an American name so it would help w the integration process. Obviously they're from Chicago that's the Yugoslavia capital of the US. Plus i saw how that lake looks like in winter time that's hella fucking cool that's Beast city if I ever saw one. rad as hell.

Childhood weird as hell. This kid was strange and liked communing with nature, fondness for national parks and nature reserves - his parents would take him any chance they got growing up.

Was relentlessly bullied in school for his last name, his odd turns of phrase, (he didn't have an accent on account of his parents begging him to integrate and reap all the benefits of this better new life they gave him) , and just in general he had a thousand yard stare. There's something wrong with this one.

He starts doing drugs in college when he finally goes out of state. I don't know somewhere really forested to study biology or some shit that his parents would be proud of him for doing. Does a hit and run while high on drugs. Guy isn't dead, turns out he's a drunk student from the same college campus as him. His folks wont press charges because the hit and run dude is on enough drugs to kill a horse. That's the only reason why the Beast doesn't go to prison for this. His parents handle it by paying off the dude's parents from pressing charges just in case.

Tho they do pull the Beast back to get clean. Multiple attempts to get clean follow until the Beast just realises he needs to figure out a way to just... not trip his parents radar up.

His parents, near every day he spends w them: We left Yugoslavia to give you a better life and this is how you thank us?? Do you know that you can go to prison forever if they catch you doing drugs or dealing in the States, son? Do you want to hurt us? This is how you thank us? If we stayed in Jugoslavija you'd die in a bombing or a guerilla maneuver. Maybe you'd be shot by sniperists, did you ever think of that?

The Beast just STARING cow eyed through them , thinking: I need to become independent and leave these two forever or else I will genuinely die here. I will kill myself. Or them first and then myself. No. Just myself. Or maybe just my father (as any man with a balkan mother, it's a sick relationship they have) .

Anyway he stays low, plays along, gets his folks to trust him again over time and he decides to go to community college this time because as they love reminding him, they spent AN INORDINATE AMOUNT OF MONEY on his rehab and to cover his crimes up.

Quits community college maybe a year in, doesn't tell his parents, finds a search and rescue course and starts doing that because it seems like his only way out of THIS NIGHTMARE OF A LIFE and they promised IMMEDIATE EMPLOYMENT out of course and he's like GOD I NEED THIS

Is too intense to be bullied in the course. People are like... wary of this dude. They think he's in a gang or something. People in the gang think he's a cop because no gang member acts this weird though which makes getting drugs infinitely difficult for him.

And maybe he doesn't need drugs. Maybe trying to sell his mothers jewellery for drug money was a low he doesn't want to repeat. So he pawns off his fathers watches instead.

That's when they try to stage another intervention. His mother is crying. His father is threatening to kick him out.

The Beast is like THANK FUCK!!! I'm out of here! Don't contact me. I don't need your help. Maybe i would have been better off if you had stayed and died in Yugoslavia and left me an orphan!

Anyway in his rage he does another hit and run accidentally but this time he doesnt run and hes like I AM SO FILLED WITH EMOTIONS I AM GOING TO KILL THIS GUY AND FINALLY GET SOME CONTROL BACK IN MY LIFE.

Turns out its the same guy he ran over that other time. He moved here recently for a job opportunity. He's in the medical field. Oh and... where are his manners.

His name is Enoch.

Beast?? Yeah, he's weirded out by this guy so hard that he like forgets about killing him on impulse and is just like I don't know, man, if you want to grab a beer or something. I'm driving to my SAR post they have me at Kentucky at Mammoth Cave NP

Enoch: You're driving from Chicago to Kentucky in that *points at Beast's car*

The Beast, as any balkan blooded man, defensively: what, you think there's a better car than a golf dvojka? For shame. Not all of us are made out of money.

Enoch, laughing: I'm an EMT , man. My father is still hoping I go back to medical school and become a "proper doctor." Do you need a lot of time to finish a SAR course?

Beast: not particularly. If you're an EMT I think they'll hire you on the spot.

Anyway cut to years down the line and they kill hikers together

Still have no idea what a good name for human Beast would be tho which is like really tripping me up

[rowretro]

✧𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓✧

WARNINGS: Mentions of blood, details of violence and death.

✧THE PROLOGUE✧

The man smirked at Riki as he held a knife to Y/n's throat "Not so fucking cocky now are we?... what... cat got your tongue Nishimura?!" The man asked as Riki went silent. His girlfriend, who did absolutely nothing in the first place to be put in a position like this, was all bloody and bruised because of him...

His eyes darkened as he noticed how the blade was only slightly drawing an inch of blood at y/n's throat, her arms tied back by a rough uncomfortable rope. Yet no fear was evident in her eyes. "So... why don't we go through the list of demands I had held..." The man smirked as he let go of y/n, pushing her to his wife who yanked at y/n's hair harshly.

"Lets start with the first and foremost.... sell me your company. all that drug dealing you worked your blood sweat and tears into.... will no longer be yours I will get the full profit." The man smirked. "Then, I want you to flee the country without any of the money you made from the company." The man continued as Riki gripped onto his gun tighter, clearly enraged.

The man, Soobin continued with his demands as Riki cocked his gun "Ah du du du- now Riki... you're putting a lot at risk here..." Soobin said as he turned to his wife, the woman hit y/n around the head with the back of her riffle, kicking her to the ground and cocking her riffle as she pointed it at Riki.

Riki wasn't having it, such a lowly man, making requests to him. Not even thinking twice, Riki simply shot Soobin's wife in the head multiple times, as Soobin screamed in horror "FUCK NISHIMURA FUCKING RIKI-" The man screamed, as he was about to attack the younger male, but before he could, Riki shot Soobin to death.

y/n screwed her eyes shut, not wanting to see the two bodies... the eerie silence filling the whole room. She heard Riki walk toward her, he bent down to her level, hugging her softly "It's all over now sweetheart... you can open your eyes" Riki softly said... But she didn't want to, she just hugged him tightly, crying.

She knew exactly what she was getting herself into when dating him... but she just didn't think she'd have to witness him get blood on his hands... a sudden cry broke the silence. Rowan opened her eyes, frowning... it was the sound of a baby's cry.

She slowly got up, pulling away from Riki as she walked a little deeper in the building, there in a bedroom, in a crib was a little baby. She softly picked the littlun up, rocking him as she stared up at Riki "They have a baby ki..." Rowan trailed off as Riki dropped his gun.

His hands shaking as he realized the depth of what he did... he didn't just murder 2 people... he orphaned a baby, an innocent little soul. His father would likely have killed the baby and expect Riki to do the same thing. Suddenly stab wound in his back and other fresh slits and bruises weren't so painful anymore.

Seeing the innocent little baby in y/ns arms, crying, in hopes of being held by it's mother, clueless of the events happening around him. Rowan softly rocked the baby as she tried to read Riki's face... was he going to kill the poor soul?... or pay for his sins?...

✧𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓✧

[atmilliways]

Wrong On The Money (11-12)

parts 11 & 12 of ?? | 1076 words | Teen+

Blackmail fic on Ao3 | on tumblr

Summary:

Giving the kids rides home from Hellfire meetings is wreaking havoc on Steve’s gas money. It also involves the double-edged sword of Eddie being there.

11.

Giving the kids rides home from Hellfire meetings is wreaking havoc on Steve’s gas money. It also involves the double-edged sword of Eddie being there. Two birds, one stone—but seeing him always stirs up feelings in Steve’s chest that he doesn’t know what to do with, so the audience isn’t ideal. 

“About that total,” Eddie says one night, in the hurried rush between the kids piling into the Beemer and exchanging bills so either no one saw or the older club members assumed it was a simple drug deal. “I need to charge interest.”

Steve pauses, peering at Eddie, whose expression and body language carry more of the tension from their first run-in than he’s seen in a while. His first instinct is to ask about his uncle, but he’s not supposed to know about that and doesn’t want to get Dustin in trouble for telling him.

So much for a straightforward total. There’s some jewelry in his parents' room that his mom hasn’t missed in months, and probably won’t ask about whenever she bothers to stop by the house next. Maybe he can sell it, help both Eddie and himself out.

“Sure, why not,” Steve sighs. 

It’s Eddie’s turn to stop and frown at him. “Really? No protest, just like that?”

Steve angles a thumb over one shoulder, pointing back at the Beemer right as one of the kids (his money, if he had any left, would be on Mike) gets to the horn. “No time,” he says with a tight smile of his own.

The car honks again as he turns to go. He was right; Dustin has shotgun, but Mike is the one leaning up from the back seat to lay on the horn. 

“Mike! Patience, dictionary, look it up!” Shaking his head, Steve starts towards the car at a brisk pace, throwing a quick “See you next week, Munson” over his shoulder.

12.

What the fuck was that, what the fuck was that?

“What the fuck was that?”

Jeff’s voice mirroring his exact thought makes Eddie jump at least half a foot in the air. Gareth and Frank are already headed to Frank’s car, a fact he notes with confusion because—

“I told them you’re giving me a ride,” Jeff explains. “Figured it’d give you an opportunity to share about whatever’s going on with you and The Hair lately.”

“There’s nothing going on,” Eddie mumbles, jamming both hands deep in his jeans pockets to tuck the wad of bills he’d palmed from Harrington safely away. He slouches off towards his van where it sits alone in the deserted parking lot.

“Then he’s shit at buying drugs,” Jeff shoots back, following, “because he didn’t take anything with him. Come on, Eddie, how long have we been friends? I was right there getting that rabies shot with you after you tried to house train a raccoon, man.”

Eddie gets in and starts the van, looking anywhere but at his friend. “What are you poking at this for? Let it go, it’s not that big a deal.”

Yes it is. Yes it is and I am in over my head, I am so in over my head it’s not even—

“Dude,” Jeff says flatly. “I can see you thinking a mile a minute.”

So Eddie cracks. He drives out to the middle of nowhere and parks in a field, and tells Jeff everything, hardly stopping for breath the entire time. He outs Harrington, which he's literally being paid not to do. He outs himself (which, nothing against Jeff, but he was kind of hoping to get the fuck out of Hawkins before anyone besides his uncle found out). He talks about how the doctors keep extending the time Wayne is on the medication, not happy with some sort of results from blood tests, and having to ask for interest.

“And he’s going to do it,” Eddie says, winded by disbelief of this fact as well as everything else that's tumbled out of his mouth like a goddamn avalanche. “He didn’t even ask how much. That must mean—I must have really intimidated him, right? What if I’m ruining his life?”

“Oh bull,” Jeff scoffs, finally elbowing a word in edgewise. “Nothing I saw tonight implied he thinks you’re intimidating. Look, wait a minute—did you just say you’re gay?”

Eddie freezes. “I . . . sort of did, yeah.”

“. . . And the best you can do is a crush on Steve Harrington? 

He flushes, pulling clumps of his hair to cover his face with both hands—mortified, but also hiding a manic grin. They’ve been friends for years, and while Eddie hadn’t expected Jeff to call him a fag and spit in his face, it would’ve been too much to expect this kind of easy acceptance.

That done, he starts patting his pockets for a joint, because god he needs one. “Uh, apparently? He’s, I mean, he looks like that, but. . . .”

“But a total douchebag,” Jeff supplies. “Man, I get it, most of the girls in this town would call me a nerd or have their boyfriends beat me up as soon as look at me.” He pauses, accepting the joint when passed to him with a look he sometimes gets when trying to puzzle out one of the traps Eddie's set in a campaign. “You’re right though, it’s weird. I never would’ve guessed blackmail because he didn’t even seem, like, mad.”

Eddie pounces on that, nodding hard. “Yeah, exactly! You know, he never even asked why I wasn’t worried that he’d tell people about me? I had an answer all lined up too, I was going to be all—” he drops into one of his villain character voices, low and gravelly— “Everyone knows I’m a freak already, they don’t need confirmation. You, on the other hand, are prime real estate for the gossip mill to go to town on.”

Jeff smirks. “Well, that’s true. But you’re only threatening to tell his girlfriend, right?” When Eddie nods again, he simply shrugs. “So, maybe he’s not worried that she’ll spread it around. I know Buckley from band class, she’s decent. Could explain why he’s so relaxed about the whole thing.”

“But then why is he paying?” Eddie wails, getting both arms in on the question. 

“No idea. Maybe all that hair is weighing down on his brain.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie grumbles, but he doesn’t mind. It's a relief to tell someone, even though he's still not sure how to feel about the whole mess.