#cw: internment camps

[the-moogle-of-your-nightmares]

gents it has been a real bad week for restraining myself from scratching out my stepdad's eyes

[eggrollforyou]

okay but like could we get a sex pollen/power kinda thing but opposite?? like instead of y/n being the one getting hit with it, have law get hit with it. bonus points if he doesn’t want to ask y/n for help at first and he’s a bit submissive when she does help😄😄

Wanted This

Law x F!Reader

CW: NSFW, MDNI, sex pollen trope, unprotected sex, p in v, needy Law, rough sex, use of pet names, one bed trope, mutual pining but they don't know it, porn with plot if I forget anything, lemme know!

A/N: Thank you for this ‘Nonnie! This was a lot of fun. I really hope I did your request justice! Law’s  and readers' thoughts are in italics. Hopefully I separate them enough that it’s not confusing. I apparently felt the need to go into great detail to set up Law going to TOWN on reader 🤣

“W-what?!  Are you fucking serious, Shachi?” Law grumbles in frustration. “I-I’m sorry Captain, rules are rules,” Shachi chuckles nervously, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck.  

Of-fucking-course this shit HAS to happen. We’re grounded to weather this weird ass storm and this is the last inn with any vacancy and I draw HER name to share the room? Law thinks to himself. “Why can’t she and Ikkaku bunk up?” he pleads one last time.

“Well, they argued that to be fair, it should just be names from a hat…we’re all adults, etcetera, etcetera. I mean they made a strong point, we’re a crew. What does it matter?” Shachi replies. Law rubs his hand down his face in a hidden panic, expressed as faux annoyance. 

“Fucking FINE,” he chagrined as he swipes the room key from Shachi. “Hey, I mean, maybe you can have that talk with her now? You’ll certainly have the privacy to do it, Captain.” Shachi sheepishly replies, hoping to soothe Law’s foul mood at the current turn of events. “SHHH! Shut the fuck up Shachi. I’ll deal with it,” Law whispers, embarrassed that anyone might have heard. 

His feelings for you have grown the last few months but he hasn’t had the nerve to express to you what they are, being as emotionally repressed as he is. Finally needing to get it all out, he’s been talking to Shachi about it, hoping that maybe by getting it out in the open, he’ll realize that they’re nothing more than a simple crush that will fizzle away with time. 

But no, things can’t be that simple and they can’t go the way of just ignoring it until it goes away that he was hoping he could rely on. And now, since you’re all docked at this island to weather a storm for another couple days he has to spend them sharing the last remaining room at the inn with you?! He takes a deep breath to calm his nerves that are eliciting butterflies in his stomach and anxiety in his chest. He waits until he feels the blush on his cheeks and the tips of his ears that he feels burning hot at the idea of sharing a room with you, to dissipate before he goes to find you.

“Looks like we’re bunking together,” Law tries to sound as unbothered as possible as he approaches you, showing the key to your room. Bunking together!? What the fuck is this, camp?! He internally chastises himself. To his surprise, you giggle. “I guess so, Captain!” you reply enthusiastically. God, you’re adorable.

As you both walk toward your room,  you fight to keep your cool. I mean it was obvious to everyone- except apparently Law- that you harbored a crush for the broody man. You’re not sure why you were so excited about this, though. He never seemed to reciprocate your feelings towards him. Always giving you the same clipped responses he gave the rest of the crew. In fact, it seemed he might actually not enjoy your company all that much, the more you think about it. He's always distant. Sometimes if you're going to pass each other late at night on the ship, he flinches and just turns away abruptly. Like he actively avoids you.

Suddenly, you’re wracked with anxiety. This may actually be worse than I was thinking. He probably finds me annoying and this may be REALLY awkward. Suck it up, Y/N. You’re both adults. Just treat it as any other day on the Tang…you’ll be fine right? Ugh. How could I be so stupid. He clearly isn't interested in me. I guess I got so caught up in my feelings, I failed to see it for myself…

As you both approach your room, you shift to stand behind Law to avoid bothering him. Law unlocks the door and as you both step in, you see the bathroom to the right and walk further to see a table in a small sitting area with a vase of beautiful flowers next to the window and one bed. Both of you stop in your tracks. You, quietly giddy and your heart skipping happily, but Law’s face suddenly goes white. You feign shock when he turns to look at you. 

“T-this must be a mistake,” he says. “I’m going to go to the front desk and talk to them. We must have gotten the wrong room key, we’re supposed to have two beds,” he hurries as he rushes out of the room. Leaving you standing there, quietly trying to mend your breaking heart, hoping your face doesn't show the disappointment at your realization that Law just isn't that into you. Keep it together Y/N….it’s only unrequited love. You can deal with it, you sarcastically tell yourself. Leaving you to just nod in acceptance as he sees you before he shuts the door. 

“I’m sorry, Sir. But that is our last room available. We apologize for the inconvenience. It was also assumed that a couple would be staying in the room. We can certainly send up a second set of linens for you if that will help?” Law glared daggers at the clerk who didn’t seem to give two shits about the predicament their assumptions put him in. He sighed in defeat, “Fine. A second set of linens. We’ll make do,” he waves his hand as he walks away. 

When he returns, you're nowhere in sight but he hears the shower running, steam slowly trickling out from under the door. He breathes a sigh of momentary relief. Don't make this awkward, alright? We're adults. We can manage. I'll just tell her I have extra blankets and a pillow being delivered to sleep on the floor. No need to make this a thing.

A few moments later, someone knocks on the door. Must be the bedding. Law gets up from sitting at the table contemplating why life has planned out to land him in this exact moment as he answers, collecting the bedding from the housekeeper and promptly shutting the door behind him. 

The loud slam of the door closing broke you from your in-shower zone out, where little to Law's knowledge, you're also contemplating what karmic retribution landed you here in this exact situation. Your heartbeat in your ears from being suddenly startled, you take a deep breath. It can’t be THAT bad to share a room with me, can it? What the fuck, this seems really over the top for a minor inconvenience.

You hurry to finish showering, clearing your head as best you can, and try to face how you’re going to approach the next couple days. I can just grab my book and hang out in the lobby or at the tavern or something. I don’t have to stay in the room. Just use it purely as a space to sleep. You’ve resigned, you’re going to get dressed, grab your book and just go down to the tavern for a drink and to read. It’ll be some nice alone time anyway.

Law hears the water shut off in the bathroom and in a rush, he accidentally almost throws the spare blanket on the table and knocks over the vase of flowers, water spilling everywhere. “Shit!” Law leans over and rushes to right the vase, but the damage is done. There’s water everywhere as it trickles off the table onto the floor. He immediately coughs and sneezes, realizing in the fall, the pollen on some of the flowers is knocked loose. “What-” he coughs “-the fuck?” He has nothing left to do but wait for you to get out of the bathroom, to grab a towel to clean up the mess. 

In a couple minutes, you rush out of the bathroom, mumbling an apology for taking so long in the bathroom. You walk briskly to your bags and grab a book and turn to exit the room as quickly as you can, trying to make as little eye contact as possible to avoid showing Law the hurt and growing frustration in your eyes. “I’m, uh, gonna be down at the tavern,” as you wave your book in the air. Before Law has a chance to respond, you’re gone. The door quickly shutting behind you. 

He sighs a breath of something- Resignation? Relief? Wanting? He’s not sure. He wants to spend time with you but you have his brain so fucked up. He gets tongue tied and nervous around you. He finds himself wanting to impress you? He wants to get to know you better but you don’t need that. Don’t need what his baggage would mean for you. Suddenly, he’s thinking about your hair. How it always looks so soft. Soft like how soft your skin must feel. He walks to the bathroom to grab a towel to clean the mess from the flowers and he’s hit with the warm, humid air still lingering in the bathroom. The scent is tinged with your soap. The smell enveloping him like how you envelope his thoughts.

He closes his eyes and takes it in. The warmth of the humid, heavy air clings to his skin and he feels it spread across his chest and he suddenly gets pangs of pain in his gut. His eyes snap open. What the hell? His chest feels tight, his skin burns, his ears are buzzing and all he can think of is how soft your lips look. How he wants to kiss them….and your jaw…and your neck. His thoughts grow hazy and he imagines how he would press you against the bathroom counter, bend you over and fuck you into oblivion. WHAT THE FUCKi?!

He feels the familiar throbbing of his cock when he lets his thoughts wander about you, but this time, it feels like if he doesn’t have some contact, he’ll explode. He begins breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath that seems to evade him as his skin burns and tingles, focusing on his groin. What the hell is happening to me? Something’s wrong. He looks down and he sees the evidence of his arousal, feeling as if he doesn’t release his cock, his pants will rip. Without thinking, he hurriedly unzips his pants and frees himself with a sigh, but the aching pain continues. He leans on the bathroom wall and slowly slides down as he palms himself over his boxers trying to find some relief. It sends electric jolts down his spine. 

He pulls his boxers down slightly and grips his length at the base. It’s veiny, an angry red, and dripping precum. He hisses as his hand starts moving up and down, collecting the precum from the top and twisting his fist down his shaft. He begins to pump his fist hoping to find some release from this crazed feeling. When he thinks he might finally reach his peak, he finds himself unable to finish and find relief. He continues over and over and there seems to be no release in sight. “Fuuuhck,” he whispers to himself as he slams the back of his head on the bathroom wall in frustration, panting and sweating.

“Shit!” you mumble to yourself. “I grabbed the wrong fucking book,” as you bring your palm to your forehead. You made it to the tavern, decided to order your drink and a snack first before settling down to crack open your book. You were slightly distracted because Shachi and Penguin were sitting at another table and staring at you. You could swear they had a look of pity but thought it must be because you didn’t want to sit with them. Much preferring to deal with your current emotional state alone. 

When you opened your book, looking for your bookmark, you realized then that you grabbed the next book in the series you were reading. “Damn it….now I have to go back up there,” you whined. Do I really need to read right now?

Ugh. I can’t be a weirdo and just stare at the wall all night. I’ll just run in and grab it really quick. And you stand up to head back to the room.

Law didn’t hear your footsteps approaching in his attempt to deal with his current predicament. But as soon as you stopped at the door, he smelled you. His pupils suddenly dilated and his breathing labored. He stops and quickly covers his lap with the towel he couldn't remember the reason he needed as you open the door to the room. 

He grunts as you walk past him, but you don't realize where he is, nor the state he's in. He's trying not to let you find him like this- needy, desperate, bordering rabid for touch. You walk to your bag and swap out the correct book and make your way back to the door to nurse your drink. You hear a shuffle in the bathroom and take a passing peek. You see Law’s legs splayed out, his body propped on the wall. He's breathing heavily, his face and chest are flushed, he's practically dripping sweat.

You stop, “Law! C-captain! Are you ok?!” You immediately begin to check for a fever, search for his pulse on his wrist to check his heart rate. He hisses at the contact, ripping his wrist from your grasp, “G-get out,” he enunciates. “L-leave me alone, I'm f-fine, damn it.” Your hands recoil from him as you pull them back. What the hell is going on? “Captain, I just want to make sure you're-”

“I said I'm fine,” he pants, interrupting you. Grimacing in pain as waves of it return.

 I can't just leave him like this, but clearly he doesn't want my help. “I can get Shachi, or Penguin? I really don't think I should leave you like this, Law.” Your concern for his well being winning out over wanting to leave his grumpy ass alone. Something was clearly wrong, you wouldn't feel right storming off. 

“N-no! P-please,” he's begging. Beginning to lose his mind from his desire to have your skin on his. To kiss you, like he's always wanted to, to force your gaze in the mirror to make you watch him worship your body. He wanted nothing more than to explore every inch of you but not like this. He wanted to tell you that you consume his thoughts. He's wanted to ask you out ages ago but he was too much of a coward to do it. And where has that silence led him? 

He's now writhing on the bathroom floor of a room at an inn, with an erection that won't go away, a mind full of lustful thoughts that he cannot control and you worriedly and helplessly staring at him. 

You take a moment, seeing he's clearly in pain and instead try a different approach with him. “Law, I need you to tell me what's wrong. Where are you in pain? Can you tell me your symptoms? Is it ok for me to check your pulse?” You slowly reach out. He nods, his chest heaving. You look down and notice the towel over his lap and your eyes widen. He's very clearly trying to conceal his erection, but the towel does nothing to hide it. 

Suddenly, you realise what's going on. You've seen it before, prior to joining the crew. It's the effects of an aphrodisiac. You steel your nerves. You have no idea what's going to happen when you tell him this. “L-law,” your cheeks are hot, turning bright red, “I, uhm, I think I know what's going on. It looks like you may have been exposed to an aphrodisiac.” You awkwardly clear your throat. 

His wild eyes connect with yours, they're so dilated you can barely see the beautiful amber and gold that they usually glow. He gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down and you're trying to keep your cool, at least for his sake. “P-please, Y/N. I need your help, w-what do I need to fix….this?” He gestures his hands to his throbbing erection. “I-it hurts,” he mumbles through gritted teeth. 

Your eyes quickly snap from his groin to his eyes, your breath hitches, “I…think you know...how to fix it,” you whisper. He leans forward and presses his face into the crook of your neck and inhales a deep breath in your hair, “I'm- hng- I'm sorry,” he winces. “I wanted this to be different.” Your smell is driving him crazy, it's so enticing, it's like you're a siren calling out to him and he's losing whatever sliver of self control he has left. 

“What are you talking about, Law? Different-” Suddenly he reaches forward and he slips his hand behind your head, pulling you to him in a messy kiss. You pause for a moment, but soon get lost in his need. Returning his heated kisses as you lean into him. 

You yelp as he pulls you onto his lap, groaning as you grind your hips onto him. He's lost in the feeling of you. Your lips slotting into his feel like perfection and he never wants to leave. His tongue swipes your bottom lip and you part your lips for him. Your tongues dance together, exploring each other. “I need you Y/N,” he growls as he pulls the towel out from underneath you. 

While your hips are lifted, he pulls your skirt down and you shift to remove the item completely and he looks down. His cock throbbing harder at the sight of your lacy underwear. With a growl you hear a RIP as he tosses your underwear to the side. “P-please, I n-,” he groans in desperation, “I n-need to know you want this t-too.” 

Your heart is racing, you just want him to feel better, but you feel selfish. You wonder if this is just the pollen talking. Will he still want me when it's out of his system? Should I walk away? You decide now’s the time to just tell him. This situation is already about as messy as it can get, just get it out in the open. Treat it like a bandage, just rip it off. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, “Law, I’ve always wanted this.”

Law’s eyes go wide for a brief moment and in one swift motion, he pulls you down onto his length. He groans, a gritty sound, deep from within his chest. You gasp at the sudden stretch as and the delicious burn of your body stretching to accommodate him. He presses his forehead to yours, hot breaths fanning your face, “‘m’sorry. I wanted this to be d-different,” he pants. Despite his pain and desperation, he’s trying to hold back to avoid hurting you. But you take the lead, surprising him.

You capture his lips in a wet kiss, all tongue and teeth as you pull up on his cock and slam your hips down. His groans and praises spur you to keep a steady pace as you bounce up and down his length. “F-fuck, Law, hnng,” you cry out as you throw your head back in pleasure.

Law latches his lips to your neck, pressing hot open mouthed kisses and biting it between whispered thank yous. After a few moments, you begin to slow down to the delight of your legs and hips as the muscles burn and ache. Pulling up slowly to his tip, feeling every delicious inch and prominent vein in your clenching walls before pushing your hips back down. 

Rolling your hips causes Law to grip your hips tightly, his fingertips turning white, “S-shit, Y/N, slow down, m’gonna-,” he warns you of his impending orgasm. You lean down to his ear, biting his earlobe, “G-give it to me.” Your sultry command is his undoing. He pulls you down as he thrusts up into you, holding you tightly against him as he moans, spilling inside of you. As you both continue panting, you feel him twitch inside of you again. “M’not done with you yet, love” he growls. He wraps his arms around you, presses his back to the wall, and stands up without ever leaving your warmth.

He pulls out of you and you protest the sudden feeling of emptiness and he sets you to stand in front of him. Turning you around, he fixes his gaze on you in the mirror, you both lock eyes and hurriedly remove the remainder of your clothing.

Law takes in your naked form, his pupils so dilated you only see black, and his gaze darkens. He still has the painful urge deep in his gut telling him to continue. One orgasm was not enough to dull the effects of the pollen, as he’s still excruciatingly hard.

He pulls your back to his chest so you are flush with his body, reaching around to grab your breasts and knead and squish them, gently rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. You moan, leaning your head back on him.

One of his hands snakes down and rubs circles on your clit, dipping down to press a finger into you, collecting his cum, swirling it and pressing it back in. He watches as you close your eyes, furrowing your brow, and biting your lip.

He leans back and lines back up to your entrance again and presses in, to the hilt, again. “Fuuhck, Law, fuck me, please,” you beg. Law immediately begins pounding into you at an inhuman pace, forcing your back into an arch as he watches how your body greedily takes him. “Mmmm, shit,” he whispers. He’s beginning to lose himself in you, blinded by lust induced by the pollen. The bathroom is filled with the sinful sounds of skin meeting skin when his hips slam into you and your labored breathing. 

Law presses down on your hips slightly so his cock continues to hit the spot in you that makes your knees weak, “Fuck, right there, don’t stop, pleeeeease,” you cry out as he brings you closer to your orgasm. The fire in your belly burns hotter and hotter with each pass of his cock. “Let go for me, sweetheart. Give it to me,” he whispers in your ear as he gently bites the juncture where your neck and shoulder meet. 

He forces your gaze to the mirror. As soon as you make eye contact with him, seeing the position he has you, the feral look in his eyes, you shatter. Your orgasm washing over you in waves as your cunt clenches and flutters on his length, gripping it so tightly his eyes roll back. He moans into your ear as he finishes inside of you again. Pulsing and throbbing as he fills you so full, you feel it beginning to run down the inside of your leg. He doesn’t stop fucking into you. Like a man possessed, he continues fucking into you.

He suddenly turns you around, picking you up and pulling you into another kiss. His tongue enters your mouth, taking you, overwhelming your senses. He sets you on the countertop in the bathroom and without skipping another beat, presses his still hard cock into you. You open your eyes in surprise and he begins pounding into you again as your legs are dangling over his elbows, his hands grabbing a firm grip of your ass. He wants to stay like this and claim you as his, forever. 

“Fu-uck, I can’t get enough of you, baby,” Law moans. His head thrown back, you watch his Adam’s apple bob with his swallow, watching the sweat that’s beading on his skin, drip down his sculpted chest and abs. You watch as his, somehow, still hard cock goes in and out of you. “Mmmn,” is all you can manage in your fucked out state. There are no words left, only him and how he has complete control over you as you quickly approach another orgasm. 

Law continues to fuck into you and rolls his hips, adjusting the angle his cock slams into you. Pressing that spot just right again and again. He presses two fingers on your clit and begins pressing in harsh sloppy circles as he gets close to cumming again.

The bathroom air is thick and heady with the sounds and smells of sex and lust. He feels you clenching again as you approach another orgasm, gasping and gripping his arms as you twitch under his ministrations. With one final, harsh thrust, Law groans as he cums again, pressing hard on your clit, you scream out. Your mouth falls open as you cum again on his cock, taking everything he’s giving you.

The effects of the pollen are finally waning. Law’s mind is growing clearer by the second as he rests his forehead on yours. Both of you panting, trying to come down from your highs as he continues to throb and slowly pump into you. You both wince from overstimulation as he pulls out of you. Your legs hang down over the edge of the counter, but your body is reduced to putty. Every part of you feels heavy. Law gently picks you up, bridal style, and walks you to the bed, laying you down. He walks back to the bathroom to grab a towel to clean you up.

As you slowly regain clarity after a few moments, you begin to grow nervous about what this all means now. Will this change your relationship negatively? Was he serious earlier when he said he wanted this? Or was that the pollen talking? You’re so lost in your anxious thoughts you didn’t register Law lying down in bed next to you. “Y/N,” he says again to get your attention, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Are you…are you ok?” he quietly questions. His face covered in a look of worry matching your own. “C-can I be honest with you, Law?” He nods.

“I-I….I’ve wanted you for a long time, Law. I know you were under the effects of the pollen, so uhm, if you don’t want to be-” he cuts you off with a kiss that you find all too easy to fall into. “I’ve liked you for a long time as well, Y/N. I….I really did want this, just….not this way. I wanted to get here eventually but I was too afraid to say anything to you,” he quietly admits.

You feel your face heating up in a blush, reaching your hand out to touch his cheek, “We’re both idiots, I guess, huh?” you chuckle. He nods in agreement, “Heh…yea, I guess so,” his thumb rubs soft circles on your shoulder. “W-will you be mine, Y/N?” he sheepishly asks. 

Your heart jumps and you giggle at his bashfulness after what just transpired between you two. You press a soft kiss to his cheek, “You always had me, Law.”

PHEW! This fic practically wrote itself, though it ended up WAAAY longer than I expected😅. I really hope you enjoyed it! Thanks again for the request! As a reminder, I work full time, am a part time graduate student, and I have a family. My life can get pretty chaotic, quickly. I will work on requests when I have the free time! ily all  ❤️💕

Taglist: @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99

Dividers by @cafekitsune

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[ghostgirl-22]

artrick camping🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

GAY THOUGHTS?!!!!!!!!!

Very gay thoughts indeed!!

This time Pats getting all the attention. Art might be too jealous to share though

CW: 18+ NSFW Exhibitionism, voyeurism, public sex, not proofread

—-

It’s kinda perfect for a midsummer night. The kids are out on a two day trek to the big lake and waterfall with Adam, Cassidy and Ryan. Everyone calls them the real adults because they’re 25 and 26 and can handle all sixty kids between the ages of 10 and 13. That leaves the rest of the counselors with an evening to themselves.

Art is happy for the break, he’s half tipsy already. Lounging against a log shaped bench while the campfire he and Patrick lit, murmurs to life working its way up to full strength. The air is heavy, mildly humid with an occasional cool breeze. Fireflies are sparking in and out of existence while cicadas buzz loudly, their song making it feel like the trees have come alive.

Art is pretending to stare at the way the sunset has turned the sky a hazy brilliant shade of navypurple. Acting like the distant quarter moon is so interesting but really he can’t stop staring at Patrick’s body. Spread out in front of him, head resting on Art’s shoulder. He’s in short purple shorts, and a t-shirt, muscular thighs falling open shamelessly as he lights a cigarette. Art’s all tangled up in knots. It was only a kiss. One little three way kiss a few months ago and he can’t stop thinking about it. Who knew one a kiss could ruin his life?

“Fucking pretty out here,” Patrick says, after taking a huff. Oblivious to Art’s internal struggles.

“Aren’t you glad you came?” Art asks, not sure if he’s hiding it well but he’s really trying. 

“Yeah. Easy money. The kids are cool as shit. The other counselors are funny and fucking hot and I get to teach tennis all day. I shoulda come last year.” Patrick grunts. 

A couple of their fellow counselors, Chase and Ronnie are sitting across from them. Ronnie’s sipping his beer while Chase seems to be distracted for the same reason Art is. Mouth open gazing at Patrick’s thighs.  

“Yeah,” Art says. He sits up as Patrick holds out the cigarette so Art can take a puff. But yanks it out of reach just before Art can grab it. Chase giggles as Patrick does it twice more with a shit eating grin on his lips before Art gives up feeling too tipsy and slow to ever grab it. “Dick,” Art mutters.

That’s when Patrick chuckles and puts it straight to Art’s lips watching Art inhale as Patrick moves to lean on the bench next to him.

As Art takes a drag, two other counselors, Cameron and Dustin approach. Art swallows. He didn’t mind them last year but this year they’re kind of on his nerves. Especially Cameron. 

Sure they aren’t the only counselors that find Art’s best friend hot. Hell Art is used to that. Everyone thinks he's hot. Patrick’s all swagger and sex; firm and thick all over. Handsome and tall. So tall. He could be one of those underwear models if he felt like it. Art knows it. Everyone knows it. Even some of the campers long for him, little 12 year old crushes on the hot camp counselor they can’t have.

Of the other counselors, Cameron and Dustin are probably the worst and most ridiculous with their crushes. Hanging all over Patrick like he’s this meal they can’t wait to devour. And of course, Patrick loves the attention. Art is used to him showing off for girls, for Tashi. This summer he’s been leaving the girls alone probably because of her, but he doesn’t hesitate to do it for boys.    

Walking around half naked after sweating too much on the court. Letting some of his fellow counselors touch his waist as they lean in to ask him a question. Taking his time to pull his shirt back on if he ever pulls it back on. Walking with Art back to their shared cabin when training is done, his shirt draped over his shoulder, shorts sitting low. Leaving Art fixated on the curve of his back, the swell of his ass, his perfect abs or the dark trail leading down into his shorts. God. Art needs a break. He shoulda taken the summer to detox. Especially given everything that’s happened between them. But at least he knows Patrick won’t be at Stanford this year.

“What are you guys up to tonight, Zweig?” Cameron asks, he kneels down near Patrick and starts rubbing his thigh. Patrick just fucking lets him. Art glares at his hand, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

“I don’t know, maybe we’ll tell a few scary stories by the campfire,” Patrick says, playfully.  

“I’d be scared if you lost your shorts Zweig,” Dustin laughs and Patrick smiles.

“Scared you’d all fucking cream yourselves,” Patrick teases back.

“You should tell us a scary story about that, Patty,” Ronnie chimes in. “Like size and shape and everything.”

“You’re so fucking horny,” Patrick says, with a sly smile.

Cameron, who’s still sitting too close, leans in closer. Stupid huge grin on his face. “It’s fucking big, isn’t it?”

Patrick shrugs, gesturing down and Cameron slides his hands up his thigh, till he grazes it.

“Oh…fuck, lemme have a turn,” Cameron says softly. Art is just holding the cigarette, biting his cheek. So pent up with irritation and other things.

“Is it circumcised?” Chase asks.

”Come on guys, we’re just… hanging out,” Art interrupts, anxiously.

”But that’s so boring,” Dustin says.

“How bout truth or dare?” Cameron offers, sitting back on his knees.

”That sounds fun,” Chase says giddily from the other side. 

Patrick shrugs, he takes the cigarette back from Arts waiting hand. “Sure.” He says before placing it back to his mouth. Cameron licks his lips, slowly dragging his gaze off Patrick, he looks to Art.  

“You wanna play, Art?” 

Art doesn’t really support what Cameron is up to but he sighs and nods his head anyway. 

“Then you can start, truth or dare?”

”Truth,” Art says defiantly. 

“Boo,” Dustin says, settling on the soft ground on the other side of Cameron and the others laugh which makes Art feel the warm prickle of embarrassment. 

“Okay truth, you guys ever fool around?” Cameron asks. 

Art bites his lip. And Patrick turns to grin at him. It’s like Tashi in the hotel room all over again. Thankfully Patrick doesn’t go back to the jerking off story. “What do you think?” Is what he offers instead, his expression mildly amused. 

“Well,” Cameron starts. They all exchange glances.

“Everyone thinks you go back in the cabin and fuck all night,” Dustin finally says, his voice soft. 

Art feels his skin heating up and it has nothing to do with summer or the campfire. 

Patrick chuckles. “Mm you’re mistaking porn and real life. Come on, he’s my best friend, man…. We only kiss a little bit.” 

“Oh wow,” it comes from either Ronnie or Chase. Art isn’t sure because Patrick is looking at him, grinning. Art forces himself to smile but his insides feel all weird and there’s this twisted feeling of arousal settling low at the base of his stomach. He picks up his half empty beer can and takes another drink. Everyone thinks they fuck. Everyone thinks they fuck.

”Oh? Well. Truth or Dare Patrick,” Cameron says. He scoots closer, takes the cigarette out of Patricks mouth and takes a huff. Art doesn’t like him. Really.

”Dare,” Patrick says, of course. 

“I dare you… to show us how you kiss him.” 

Patrick rests his head on his shoulder. It’s darker outside now. The fires gotten stronger. Shadows dancing all around them, and it feels a little more feral. A little frenzied.

Patrick, never one to lose a dare, slides his fingers into Art’s hair, easily. Art’s drawn to him like a fucking magnet once his parted lips come close enough. He tastes like tobacco and mint, Patrick’s strong hot tongue licking into his mouth makes Art lightheaded immediately. 

God. And he’s hard, fuck. it happens so fast, he can feel his cock straining instantly, starting to leak just a bit.  

“Ohh…fuck,” someone whispers and Art feels even hotter. Of course Patrick would do this in front of everyone. He loves an audience.

He doesn’t stop it there. Patrick takes hold of Art’s face with both hands, thick fingers caressing his jawline, sitting up on his knees as he breathes in through his nose, deepening the kiss. 

Art can hear a whispered, “holy shit” as Patrick moves to straddle him.  

Their lips never separate. Art getting off to the feel of Patrick’s tongue thrusting in deep, licking all around. Art, too dizzy from drink and sex to do anything other than chase the sensation. Pawing helplessly at Patrick’s t-shirt, trying to get access to the heated skin beneath. Feeling up his hard body, muscular waist.  

It’s all fucked up in his head now. Patrick, his best friend. Patrick, the really fucking pretty boy he has wet dreams about. He can hear the sound of moaning over the crackling of the campfire and realizes distractedly it’s his own desperate voice. When the weight of Patrick’s body settles on his lap Art loses his mind a little bit. He can’t help hitching his hips up, gripping at Patrick’s thighs, heavy and solid. Hands sliding up too high he feels what Cameron felt, the full thickness of Patrick’s big hardened cock and he needs to moan. 

Patrick’s not much better, making these soft little growly noises against his lips. his big hands all over Art. gripping his waist. tugging his shirt up, pinching his nipples, dragging through the curls of his hair. The kiss feels like sex, Art’s head resting against the bench while Patrick thrusts his tongue in and out and in and out, and Patrick’s grinding and oh… oh fuck. Art won’t last for the solid weight of him, the slide of fabric against fabric, his perfect ass grinding up against Art’s cock, barely anything between them. 

Art is rubbing, rubbing all along the length of Patrick’s dick just to feel it… just to hear Patrick say his name, this strangled sound pressed between their lips. Each utterance building and building on the heat twisting and blooming all low in Art’s gut. “Mm, mm, yes.” He gasps. “Gonna… gonna…Oh my fucking god,” He groans, deep and guttural and then he’s coming so hard and so suddenly that his vision goes all black for just a moment.

Patrick’s not far behind, hand down his shorts now. Rocking against Art’s already spent and sticky cock, slippery wet and overstimulated. Wet spot spreading fast, all along the thin purple fabric of his shorts all while moaning and panting, hot heavy breaths in Art’s ear. Probably the hottest thing Art’s ever experienced. 

The other boys seem to agree. Cheeks flushed, heavy breathing, desire so naked on all of their faces. Art can’t help the distant hint of arousal that floods his tummy, knowing he’s part of the reason they’re all so eager. Ronnie’s got a palm down his shorts, rubbing idly. Chase is sitting cross legged, his thigh bouncing. Dustin takes a breath and adjusts himself. While Cameron is leaning forward, he’s put out the cigarette in the dirt, palms sliding eagerly over his thighs. “Oh Fuck… what’s a little kiss between friends,” Cameron whispers, softly.      

“Exactly,” Patrick hums as he finally catches his breath, rubbing his slick cum stained thumb along Art’s bottom lip. Art opens up without thinking about it. Sucking his thumb in barely realizing he’s doing it. 

Patrick watches him, grinning as he slowly pulls out and then puts it in his own mouth, biting down on it. Art stares at him as Patrick gazes at the rest of the group. All of them fixated on him. Wanting him. “So, truth or dare,” Patrick says smirking, “who’s next?”  

(Blah idk either lol 🤷🏿‍♀️)

[fixomnia-scribble]

This is one of those photos that makes me stare and get sad and angry and very very determined.

These are ordinary teenage girls who were in high school with their friends. They and their families were yanked from their homes and jobs and communities and put behind armed guards and fences because they were Japanese in some way - even partly Japanese, or had been in America for a few generations already.

We did this in Canada too. Most of the Japanese street and school and business names up in the BC Interior come from families who put down their roots there after Internment. Political redress and apology took nearly 50 years.

And these girls are marching and spinning batons to celebrate the existence of a country that hated them. Hated them, for decades, to the extent that it was considered patriotic to deny them housing and jobs and education. How much of this photo is political staging, and how much is the natural high spirits of kids having a day off school I can't tell. But damn.

[vilsoo]

‎ 𝑽𝑰𝑳𝑺𝑶𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑺…

‎ 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 ‎ ‎ 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧… 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐱 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫!

‎ 𖤐 ORDER YOUR TICKETS HERE 𖤐 ‎ ֺ [ taglist ]

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐘; 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘… Inspired by Universal Studios Halloween Horror Nights, indulge in sex and horror galore at our premiere Kinktober event, HORRORLAND! Would you dare venture our haunted houses, experience our exhilarating attractions, and uncover the scandalous, deadly mysteries of Horrorland?

fandoms: jujutsu kaisen, spiderman atsv, fnaf, re4, codmw2.

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

ㅤ ↓ 𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 (𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓) ↓

FRIDAYS🩸 we welcome our fellow monster fuckers into this territory! deadly creatures preying on their victims, serving their lustful fantasies with wild, animalistic urges! your arousal and fear may provoke them further, so beware of the woods…

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟒𝐓𝐇: ❝ 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐘 ❞ starring GHOST!LEON KENNEDY (re4)

who is this irresistible creature who has an insatiable love for the dead… and ghosts?

⚠︎ CW: mentions of stalking, slight ooc leon, angst, hurt/comfort, haunted vacation home, voyeurism, paranormal activity, sex with a ghost, gentle → rough smut, mirror sex, switchy!leon, 1980s setting.

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟏𝟖𝐓𝐇: ❝ 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐄 ❞ starring WEREWOLF!MIGUEL O’HARA (atsv)

during the bloodmoon on halloween, your werewolf boyfriend feels a rapacious urge to knock you up.

⚠︎ CW: established relationship, miguel in heat, rough sex, soft sex, marking, biting, possession, breeding, knotting, impregnating, degrading/praising, power struggle, multiple orgasms, 1980s setting.

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟐𝟓𝐓𝐇: ❝ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 ❞ starring RYOMEN SUKUNA (jjk)

a camping trip you planned with your friends turns out to be a total nightmare, all caught on camera…

⚠︎ TW: suspense, horror/thriller themes, gruesome murder, gore, ritual sex, demon sex, satanism, sadism, betrayal, teratophilia, size kink, double penetration, plot twist, ib the blair witch project (1999), 1980s setting.

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SATURDAYS 🍷 the depths of hell fall on this dark and gloomy city bound to corruption and sin, known as the devil’s playground! lurking within the streets beholds the prurient reigns of terror that which may also arouse parkland guests…

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟓𝐓𝐇: ❝ 𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 ❞ starring NANAMI KENTO (jjk)

with you and your boyfriend being a regular at this fancy restaurant, the owner became very fond of you…

⚠︎ TW: cannibalism, chef/restaurant owner nanami, poisoning, murder, infidelity/cheating, eventual smut, kitchen sex, unprotected sex, jealousy, dark obsession, slight stalking, gore, mutilation.

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟏𝟐𝐓𝐇: ❝ 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 ❞ starring WILLIAM AFTON (fnaf)

as the new intern and your boss developing a dark obsession over you, he feels the need to corrupt you…

⚠︎ TW: dubcon, mind control (glitchtrap virus), sadism, murder, psychological abuse, manipulation, predator/prey dynamic, implied age gap, degradation, eventual rough smut, mentions of vanny mask.

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟐𝟔𝐓𝐇: ❝ 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐑𝐄 ❞ starring CHOSO (jjk)

accidentally bringing a girl back from the dead may have been horrifying, but falling in love with her..?

⚠︎ CW: horror/romcom themes, implied necrophilia (NO intercourse), college au, accidental ritual, romance, mentions of murder, suggestive smut, inspired by lisa frankenstein (2024) and corpse bride (2005).

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FOR OUR HALLOWEEN SPECIAL . . . not only are you immersed into the stories of our attractions, you get the real experience of being a parkland guest having a fun time at Horrorland with friends! but as thrilling as it all sounds, there are many scandals and articles of what really goes down…

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟑𝟏: ❝ 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓, 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋? ❞ HEADLINE: PARKLAND VISITOR CAUGHT HAVING INTERCOURSE WITH A SCARE ACTOR!

flirting has become a common fear response when encountering hot masked scare actors chasing you at halloween events. this scandal covers a parkland visitor fawning over the hot scare actor in the Deathgasm haunted house, König, resulting in them flirting and sneaking off together…

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⚠︎ 𝐁𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬. 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. ⚠︎

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𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐒𝐎𝐎 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. please do not steal my kinktober prompts/works/themes! reposting any of my works outside tumblr that minors can access is strictly prohibited. will be cross posted on my ao3 soon.

[vigilantekisser]

look away now im. thinking abt being horribly toxic to sweet pre-spiral dex…. (18+ cw handjobs, questionable exhib/voyeur, cucking?, toxic reader, ex!matt)

dex being the dutiful doggy bf… it’s exhilarating, being good— he knows this now, he knows this bc it’s been five dates and he hasn’t slipped up once. he’d been so wrong before, it was never about the surveillance or the mimicry or the compiling of routines and passwords and apt floor plans, this ritual of pain and return is love and he understands that he deserves it. he’s traded in the violent outbursts for the obedience he’s devoted to you and even if you ghost him for days at a time and curse him out and call him an stifling fucking freak you always come back eventually, so there he is staying and staying because that’s goodness, that’s faith, self-sacrifice. see? he can be good, too.

but of course kicking a vice is difficult, so never mind that he knows where you are at any given moment (the only way he can be okay with you being temporarily gone thanks to a reliable beeping dot on his phone tracking your location). and never mind that he knows everything about matt, your lawyer ex-fiancé that you never like talking about. you’re always a little cruel to dex after he brings him up, snapping at him before freezing him out so he’s learned not to mention it too much, but that doesn’t stop him from memorizing every available photo you and matt have together, how good the two of you looked, how easily you fit.. well, if it was on the internet just there sitting waiting patiently for his consumption, how could it be wrong? how could it be intrusive? he’s not like that anymore. no more camping outside your building, you’re right it’s “pathetic as fuck”. he shows up and sits beside you and behaves.

it was your idea, shostakovich at the met. he’s never been to the opera before but it’s the nicest you’ve ever been to him in weeks so his immediate answer is yes, internally yes thank you thank you the euphoric feeling of relief shooting through his veins. you haven’t forgotten him yet thank god. you haven’t said a word about how he looks tonight and he doesn’t care, you’re still with him and you look unbelievable.

and settled into your box seats he’s trying to figure out if you’re still mad at him, what he can do to fix that, when you lean in and murmur into his ear, “i’m really glad you’re with me,” and he tries not to preen so much as he’s proven right. you always come around. you’re just difficult like him, so who is he to judge? tonight will be a good night, no freezeouts. the lights are dimming and you’re taking his hand, you’re kissing it on the fingertips, you’re kissing it on the wrist. so gingerly it’s impossible to imagine he’s killed with these hands before.

“i love you,” you whisper when the curtain parts.

for a moment he thinks he’s imagined it so he doesn’t bring it up for the next thirty minutes. onstage sergei’s making love to katya, their bodies locked in such frenzied embrace that dex’s ears flush dark. he can feel them burning. it’s impossible he’s the only one aroused by this, he thinks but then you’re leaning in and then your hand’s on his thigh. you’re telling him not to make any noise as your hand slides higher and you’re rubbing him through the fabric like teenagers at a drive-in. his cock is hard, tight in his scratchy slacks. he’s red-faced and he can’t breathe from trying to hold in his groans but then your fingers are moving again and this time they’re slipping across the buttons of his slacks, past the waistband and suddenly it’s not a fantasy anymore and he’s not just imagining your silk-gloved hand dipping into his pants, brushing the underside of his cock where he’s already leaking. you’re murmuring smth that he doesn’t even register and then fucking god—… your fingers close around him.

no one’s ever touched him like this. no one’s ever touched him, period.

your hand’s soft and warm, the silk catching at the ridges of him in a way he’s never felt before, dragging up and down his length and squeezing a bit at the crest of his cock, the pad of your thumb rolling over the leaking slit. his thighs are shuddering and your leg’s nudging his, spreading him wider and keeping him open for you. he can barely stifle his grunts. you’ve worked his cock out of his pants and fuck anyone could look, anyone could see the way his hips keep twitching off the seat— the silk’s slippery now, his precum’s everywhere smeared along your glove, your wrist, trickling stickily to his base. he’s dizzy, humiliated. drunk on the fucking feeling oh fuck— and now you’ve got the crown in your bare palm, glove halfway tugged off, skin to skin at fucking last and that’s it—

and for a second dex thinks this must be it, it must feel like this to be loved and to be wanted and to be given everything, and that it’s worth it to act good, it must be worth it to be so, so good, to be like in those pictures you and him looking good together, fitting just as easily. you’re so good, so perfect, you’re—

not looking at him.

he follows your gaze sharply.

matt is in a box across the hall. onto the balcony.

he is watching you.

your eyes are locked on him, not on dex whose cock is still helplessly hard in your hand and your grip tightens, gathering the slick leaking from his head more and all dex can think about is you and— and the man watching the two of you, and now dex is watching him too. the orchestra’s swelling and you’re growling in his ear, commanding him louder, louder and it rips out of him with a choked cry. his cock jerks in your hand releasing pulse after pulse of milky come over your gloved fingers, the bared wrist. clinging to the black silk in shocking streaks, obscene and real, a physical stain. proof that this happened. that he let you do this to him.

his own mess is on him, too. it’s so loud in his head. so wet and wrong, and you’re watching the stage again, cool as marble as if nothing happened.

was that for him?

he doesn’t want to ask but he can’t help it, the words have already materialized from his mouth. he just can’t help ruin the illusion, can’t he? fuck, it was going so well. stupid, stupid.

you turn to him slowly. your lipstick’s glistening in the dark. “who?”

“him,” chin jerking toward the general direction of your ex-fiancé, whose focus still seems to be on you both across the way.

“oh, him.” you lift your soiled hand and peel the glove away fully, one slow pull revealing your bare hand. it finds the back of his neck, warm, damp fingers curling into the hairs there, stroking and scratching behind his ear. his eyes flutter shut.

“don’t be stupid, sweetheart.” you’re smiling so softly so maybe it’s all okay. you always come around. “he’s blind. how would he even see us?”

dex swallows. you’re right.

and it’s not like matt can hear anything from this distance, can he?

your nails are tracing slow, mindless patterns across the base of his skull and it feels nicer than anything he’s felt. you love him: he has to believe this. the shame of it is flooding his spine and he refuses to open his eyes, not yet not while the music’s still surging, not until the opera’s over and the lights come on and he’ll have no other choice but to look.

[girlgenius1111]

talk more

alexia is stressed upon return to the international stage after her knee issues. she has the most aggressive game of her life against you, and you end up injured. you're both not telling each other how much you're really struggling.

this contains a completely made up and illogical game, don't come at me

cw: contains descriptions of a panic attack

-----

Alexia was on edge, even more so than she had been when you'd left your shared apartment a week ago for England camp. She'd gone to Spain's camp, both of you preparing with your respective teams for the upcoming nations league matches.

Alexia was back from her persistent knee issues, with something to prove. You knew how your girlfriend's mind worked, and you knew she was putting a lot of emphasis on this game. It was why she'd been distant the past week, why she was avoiding eye contact with you as you both stood in the tunnel, preparing to go out onto the pitch.

You hadn't mentioned your own problems when you'd spoken briefly to her over the phone. They seemed inconsequential compared to hers. You were exhausted, incredibly stressed, and you felt like responsibility for the whole team rested on your shoulders, what with Millie and Leah both out. You and Mary had stepped up, and the weight of trying to live up to your captains' was crushing. Alexia did this all the time, though, you reminded yourself. There was nothing to complain about. Once this game was over, she would relax, and so would you.

As you walked out onto the pitch, you ignored the pang of hurt when Alexia didn't even glance her way. It was time to play, time to win, not time to worry about your girlfriend ignoring you. Soon, though, you were worried not just for her, but for everyone else on the pitch. Alexia was playing aggressively, and for the most part it was paying off for her. The ref was being incredibly inconsistent with calling fouls and giving cards, something Alexia was taking advantage of. After she practically shoved Tooney to the ground on a corner, you spoke up, annoyed with how reckless she was acting.

"Cool it, Alexia. You're gonna hurt someone." You said quietly, as you briefly jogged past her. She just looked at you, mouth still pressed into a hard line, barely acknowledging that you'd spoken. You sighed, knowing it was just a matter of time before she was the reason someone had to go off.

You didn't expect it to be you. In Alexia's defense, it was a mostly clean tackle. She caught your ankle, yes, but she had touched the ball first, making it clean. Your ankle crumpled under you, though, and you collapsed to the pitch in crumpled heap with a cry of pain. Alexia stood, looking down at you, horrified, as if only now just realizing the consequences of your actions.

She was shoved out of the way by your teammates, who quickly made their way to your side. She didn't go far, though, looking on, distraught, as your teammates called out for the physios, and you writhed on the ground in agony.

They appeared, asking you questions, and Alexia thought she was going to throw up when they called for a stretcher. How had she done that to you? What was wrong with her?

She stepped closer, hesitantly, trying to get your attention, whether to apologize or beg for forgiveness, she wasn't sure.

"Amor," she asked quietly. Your eyes flew to her above you, and your gaze hardened.

"No, Alexia. Go away." You said through gritted teeth.

"Okay. Lo siento, amor. Lo lamento." she said, backing up and chewing insistently on the side of her cheek. The stretcher arrived, and they got you on it. Every sound you made, every groan of pain, felt like Alexia's heart was being ripped out of her chest. She felt an arm on her shoulder, and turned to find Irene standing behind her.

"Go off, Ale, go with her. We're up anyway." It was true, Spain was winning, and there wasn't much time left. Her departure from the game likely wouldn't cause the team any issues. Still, she shook her head. You were being lifted up, carried off the field now. Alexia wanted to rush forward, wipe the tears off your face, kiss the grimace off your lips.

"No, she doesn't want me right now. I fucked up." Alexia choked out. Irene sighed, not really blaming you. Alexia had been playing like a crazy person today, like she had something to prove.

"Go anyway. You get her to forgive you by proving that you're sorry. So go." Irene insisted, and Alexia paused, before nodding and heading to the sidelines. She was subbed off, and she headed into the tunnel after you. She turned towards England's side, not quite sure how to find you. Luckily, Leah was standing in the hall, talking to a member of the staff. Alexia cleared her throat, and Leah turned towards her, clearly trying to keep her expression neutral.

"Where is she?" Alexia rasped.

"Hospital." Leah responded, voice hard.

Alexia sighed, a few tears escaping against her will. She normally would never, not ever, let an opponent see her cry. When it came to you, though, it was like she had no control over herself. Leah softened slightly at the sight.

"Come on, I'll drive you." The match was in London, and Alexia was glad she didn't have to wait an unknown amount of time to get to you.

"I do not think she wants to see me." Alexia admitted, despite following Leah towards the exit of the building.

Leah rolled her eyes. "All she's wanted for the past week is you, Putellas. And instead of giving her that, you break her ankle."

"What do you mean? She wanted me?" Alexia questioned, confused. You'd seemed okay with the distance she'd imposed on you, telling her you understood that she needed to focus.

They arrived at Leah's car, climbing in, and Leah began driving before she responded.

"She's having a hard time. She has this stupid idea that she needs to be just like Millie, or me, instead of being herself, which is why she was chosen to lead. She's stressed and exhausted, not to mention worried about you and your return. She needed her girlfriend, Putellas. More than anything."

The midfielder felt the last of her strength crumble, and she spent the rest of the car ride silently wiping away the tears that ran down her face. She would fix it, she promised herself. She'd do anything to fix it.

-----

Alexia wasn't at the hospital long. You'd asked Leah not to bring her to your room, and send her back to your apartment with your key instead. Your ankle was broken, it turned out. You were in a boot, on crutches, and miserable, that much Alexia knew. If you were furious with her, or just marginally angry, she didn't know.

She showered quickly, throwing on some of your clothes as she left her bag at the hotel the team was staying at, before settling on the couch, knee bouncing nervously. She wished the apartment was a mess or something, so she could clean it, but it was spotless. She'd already ordered dinner from your favorite restaurant, so she didn't need to cook. Leah texted her when they were downstairs, and she tried to swallow her anxiety as she heard the door open.

You hobbled in, Leah following with your bag. Alexia stood, taking a hesitant step towards you. You didn't even really look at her, crutching by her to sit on the couch. You threw your crutches to the ground, and put your head in your hands, the emotions of the day finally catching up to you. Leah placed your bag down carefully, shooting Alexia a glare, before she kissed the top of your head.

"Call if you need me, okay?"

"Okay," came your response, muffled by your hands.

Alexia moved your crutches to sit against the couch, before taking a seat on the coffee table in front of you.

"Amor, I am so so sorry."

"It was a clean tackle Alexia, don't apologize." You reply, voice emotionless. Your girlfriend shifted uncomfortably.

"I am still sorry. And I am sorry I was not available this week. I should have talked to you more."

"It's fine."

"You are not mad at me?" Alexia wondered. At this, you finally lifted your head out of your hands, looking at your girlfriend with bloodshot eyes, and a flushed face.

"I am mad. I just don't have the energy to be angry with you right now. I'm too exhausted, my ankle fucking kills, and I've missed you too much. It's pathetic." You cry, reaching a hand out towards the blonde. She doesn't waste a second, taking your hand in hers and pressing a few kisses into the back of it.

"It is not pathetic, amor. You need me, that is okay. You can yell tomorrow."

"I needed you all week," you say quietly, and her grip on your hand tightens.

"I know, amor, and I should have known that, and been there for you. I am here now, though, and I am not going anywhere. Not until you are better."

You looked at her through long, wet, lashes. "Promise?" you asked, voice cracking on the word.

"I promise, mi amor, I promise." Alexia assured you. You pulled on her hand, and she shifted onto the couch, bringing you into her lap, minding your ankle. You collapsed into her, face finding it's favorite spot nestled against her neck. You were getting her skin wet with tears, but she didn't seem to care. In fact, she seemed content to sit there with you until you felt better, no matter how long that took. You pulled away before you really felt much better, though.

"Where are you going?" Alexia asked with a slight pout.

"My ankle hurts," You admit, watching as her expression falls into one of immense guilt. She eases you off of her, back onto the couch, instructing you to stretch your legs out.

"Can I?" She asks quietly, hands hovering over the straps on the boot. It was a test, you knew, to see how angry with her you were, deep down. If you trusted her to take care of your injury or not.

"Be gentle." You ask quietly, and she sighs in relief, nodding. Alexia begins to unstrap the boot, lifting the front piece off before sliding it down and off your foot. You winced, the slight movement sending waves of pain up your leg that made you feel sick. Alexia dropped the boot onto the ground, watching carefully as you shut your eyes, willing the pain away. When you opened them, you noticed that Alexia was trying to discreetly wipe a tear away.

"Hey, what is it?" You ask, concerned, grabbing her hand before she could leave the room.

Alexia scoffs, but sits back down. "I broke your ankle. You are in pain because of me."

"Alexia, it was a clean tackle. I'm not mad that about it. It could have been anyone. I'm mad that you were playing like you wanted to get a red card, putting yourself and my teammates in danger." You explain.

"You are not mad about the tackle?" She asked incredulously.

"No, that would be stupid, that was practically your one clean tackle of the game. I'd like to talk about why you were playing like that, though." Alexia wasn't one to play super rough, and you knew that it was likely a result of some issue she was having. It was hard for you to get her to tell you what was going on in her head.

Alexia is quiet for a minute, working out her rather complex feelings of guilt at the moment. If you weren't angry about that, should she feel so furious with herself? The way she'd played was a whole other issue.

"Can we talk about it tomorrow? I want... I want to just be with you tonight. Take care of my girl." Alexia asked. You softened at her request, opening your arms, and gesturing for her to move closer. She leaned forward holding tight to you, inhaling your comforting scent. You were with her, and you were okay. That was all that mattered to her.

"Of course, baby." You murmured, kissing her temple lightly.

And take care of you, she did. She brought you dinner once it was delivered, and carried you into the shower, holding you up the entire time whilst you bathed and washed your hair, even though she'd already showered. She helped you into your pajamas, before getting your ankle propped up on a pillow, wrapped in an ice pack while you reclined on the bed. She stood anxiously next to your side of the bed, looking around as if searching for something else to do.

"Love, come get in bed." You told her, and Alexia focused on you.

"You do not need anything else?" She checked.

"Just you, pretty girl." You said sweetly. Alexia felt her cheeks heat up at that, and moved around to the other side to the bed. Before really getting to know Alexia, you would not have thought her to be a shy person. She was, though, shying away from any attention you tried to give her at first. Eventually, she got used to it, but she still felt her face flush with pleasure when you called her things like that.

Alexia climbed into bed, curling up into your side easily. She looked tired up close, almost as tired as you felt, and you leaned down, pressing your lips to hers. She sighed into the kiss, finally relaxing. When you pulled away, you couldn't help but notice the way her lips tugged down slightly, as if she was fighting a sad frown.

"What is it Ale?" You asked, running your thumb across her cheek.

"I am just tired. And sorry for hurting you, and ignoring you all week. And stressed about my return and my performance. My brain will not turn off. I am so tired, amor." Alexia said, eyes fluttering closed when your hand cupped her cheek.

"That is a lot of things to be worried about, Ale. I've forgiven you. I'm pretty sure I won't even yell at you tomorrow," Alexia smiles slightly at this. "Push all that out of your head. You're here with me, and everything is going to feel better in the morning. Sleep now, my love."

"Thank you. Te amo." She whispers in response, snuggling in closer to your side.

"I love you." You tell her, letting the feeling of her chest rising and falling against you lull you to sleep.

-----

You're rather unfortunately awoken a few hours later by a gasp, and Alexia stumbling out of bed and into the bathroom. You sit bolt upright, confused, watching from the bed as she grips the counter in her hands, breath ragged.

"Alexia?" you call out. You'd get up, but your ankle protests when you try to shift it off the pillow, so you stop moving, waiting for her to answer you. She doesn't acknowledge that you've spoken. She's speaking quietly to herself, eyes squeezed shut, and you strain your ears to hear her.

"Estás bien, estás bien," she repeats, white knuckled grip on the counter looking painful.

"Alexia," you say again, louder this time.

"Okay, amor, I... I am okay," she gasps out. She's having a panic attack, you realize. In all your time with her, you'd never known her to experience this before, and this realization is enough for you to grit your teeth, and try to get to her. You've swung your leg off the bed, biting your lip to keep from crying out, and grabbed for your crutches when she speaks again.

"St-stay there. No te levantes" Alexia says, switching rapidly between english and spanish.

"Come here then, please baby. Before I drag my ankle over there." You plead.

"No puedo," she whimpers, hand coming up to tug at the neck of her shirt, as if it's restricting her breathing. She's not moving anytime soon, and she looks like she's about to pass out if she doesn't get her breathing under control soon.

You curse under your breath, standing up and wobbly moving towards the bathroom. You make it to her, the blood rushing into your ankle once you stand, but you don't really feel it. The adrenaline has taken over, and your only though is helping your girlfriend.

"No-no puedo respirar," she gasps, eyes opening to find you in front of her. "No se que pasa, ayúdame," she pleads, gripping your shirt in her hand.

"Oh, baby," you coo, taking her hand in yours, and pressing it to your chest. "With me, love, you're okay."

She shakes her head frantically, gasping for air at this point.

"No puedo," she says again, before she pulls her hand away from yours, and begins tugging at her shirt again. "Lo necesito apagado, por favor," she cries.

Frustrated with your lack of mobility, and your shaky balance, you discard your crutches, and pull yourself up to sit on the counter. It's not much more comfortable, but you don't have to balance on one foot, and you can't help Alexia with your hands preoccupied with holding your crutches.

You help her pull her shirt over her head, leaving her in just a sports bra. She seems even more frustrated when that doesn't seem to help, and the tears are falling down her face fast, as her mouth flops open and closed as she tries to breath.

"Alexia," you say sternly, grabbing her face in between your hands. Her wild eyes meet yours, and you guide her closer, until she is standing in between your legs. "You're having a panic attack. You need to let yourself breath. Do it with me, okay?" Alexia's eyes are wide and glistening as she allows you to take her hand again, and press it back over your heart. Her breaths are choppy as she tries to match them with yours.

"There you go, Ale, you're doing good," you encourage, as her inhales begin to match yours more. You keep a tight hold on her hand until her breathing is almost normal. But as her hyperventilating ends, more tears replace it. "Alexia," you sigh, pulling her in. You hate seeing her so upset. You'd do anything to take it away, even if just for a minute. Her chin rests on your shoulder as she sniffles occasionally. You rub her back softly, giving her the time she needs to calm down. She jumps back suddenly, though, looking panicked again.

"Your ankle," she says, looking frantically between the swollen limb and your eyes.

"Shh, I'm okay, come back," you tell her, and she moves back into your arms, despite her protests.

"But amor, this is not-" Alexia's voice is weak and choked.

"Don't worry about it Alexia, seriously." You kiss her forehead, then her temple, before guiding her head back onto your shoulder. She relents, body falling almost limp against you. You're both quiet, the only sounds audible being both of your breathing. You bring a hand up to the nape of Alexia's neck, threading your hand through the hair there, and and holding her tightly against you.

You don't know how long the two of you sit there. Long enough for you to feel the pain in your ankle again, dangling off the counter. It was throbbing, hot and painful, under you. You don't want to let Alexia go before she's ready, so you try to bring you leg up, and rest in on the counter. At your movement, though, Alexia pulls away, pursing her lips as she looks at your ankle.

"Ale, it's fine," you try, but she ignores you. She's still unsteady, hands shaking as she grabs your crutches off the ground where she'd dropped them, and handing them to you.

"Bed?" she asks quietly, and you nod. She follows you back to the bed, a slow process, waiting until your sitting down before leaving the room without another word. You call after her, but she doesn't respond. You're just about to get up, and go after her, again, when she returns, ice pack in her still shaking hand. Regardless, she wraps it around your ankle, before climbing back into bed next to you. Her head finds it's place against your chest.

"What happened, love?" you ask. You feel Alexia's shoulder shrug. "No, come on. Talk to me, please."

"I was anxious when I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I could not breath. I think I had a dream, I did my other knee, and they told me I would not play again." The blonde's voice shakes as she speaks.

"That's awful, love." You murmur into her hair.

"I am sorry I woke you, and that you had to help me," she says weakly.

"Don't be. I'm glad I could help," you promise. "Have you ever had a panic attack before?" you ask, already knowing the answer.

"No."

"Alexia, I think you should talk to someone." You suggest, also pretty sure you know what her response will be.

"Maybe," she says noncommittally.

You sigh. "You at least need to talk to me more, Alexia. You can't just shut down when you're having a hard time, you need to let me help."

"I need to talk to you more?" she asks, turning her head to look up at you, voice a little stronger now. "You need to talk to me too then. You were upset all week and I did not know about it." She says it like she's got you. You surprise her, then, when you nod.

"You're right. We both need to talk to each other more. I know it's not easy, but I'm here, whatever you need, whenever you need me. Okay?"

"Te prometo que." Alexia says after a minute, gazing up at you. You can tell she means it. "You promise too?"

"I promise, Alexia."

Neither of you are perfect, or would ever claim to be. You are, however, perfect for each other. Exactly what the other needs. You know you'll get through anything with Ale with you, at your side.

-----

i love angst. that is all. goodnight.

[sharoo]

The Flower-Seeker, the Robot, and the City without Faith

It's me again emerging from my mole's burrow to leave a thematic analysis piece and then bury myself again for a few more months.

Spoilers for Canto 7

CW for mentions of suicidal ideation and some death talk

Let's talk about Bari and her role in the world of Projmoon.

I think everyone who experienced LoR before Limbus was in the same camp as me upon the reveal of Bari.

Which is to say:

The chat was not normal.

But now I've had some time to cool off and actually think and Bari's position in her world is honestly kind of fascinating, especially as a take on immortal characters.

Because first and foremost, Bari has to be ancient. In a meta sense, sprites of the Book Hunter, as we knew her back then, date back all the way to Lobcorp. In universe meanwhile, she was already a long time traveller before she met Don Quixote senior and Sancho. She was there when the Associations were being established and competing for popularity. That was, on the low end, several hundred years ago. We don't know how long it took to construct La Manchaland, or how long that operated before everything fell apart and Quixote Senior sealed everyone away for 200 years.

All through this, Bari hasn't aged a day. My guess is that it's possibly thanks to the river of immortality Xichun mentions, or something else found outside the City.

And this is where we hit one of my favourite tropes - immortals passing time.

1. Remember that you will not die

One of the most interesting things to consider in fiction is the question of "What would you do if you were immortal? You'd have infinite time to do anything you desired - to travel, learn, rest. What would you do?"

Very often, humans who undergo this process in stories eventually begin to stagnate. They end up not doing anything, because internal motivation disappears. This is understandable, because, to get a little memento mori for a moment here, death is the biggest motivator we humans have - it's our time limit. You only get X amount of time to enjoy certain things, to achieve certain goals, so that at the tail end of it you'll be able to reminisce and hopefully smile before you expire. Add to it that age itself limits us, be it youth not allowing us independence or old age slowing us down and limiting us with weakness, and you can see how we are driven, at least in theory, to live life fully as long as we can.

To lose that - the constant dread of your body slowly, but surely, progressing towards failure, breaking down little by little, is to rob us of our inherent motivator. It is a very large part of being a human, really. A lot of our lives and cultures circle around this immutable fact that we don't last, and our questions regarding the why and the what comes after. Religion exists to answer most of those questions.

So... what does one do when they lose that, and become immortal without purpose?

They seek another. Or they disappear.

2. Faith (A Ruina tangent)

Before I get to Bari, it's important to examine her debut game, and the one person she interacts with (and believe me I have thoughts about it).

So, Angela. Our most beloved not-human with all the characteristics of humanity except a lifespan, and a perfect example of an immortal trying to pass time.

LoR goes to great lengths to show her desperation going back all the way to Lobcorp. It shows, quite clearly, first her inability to cope with the circumstances Ayin stuck her in, followed by her resignation to fate and a silent wish for the end. I will not mince words, Angela reads to me back then as silently suicidal, in that she's given up on any other solution to her pain but the conclusion of the play. Then, and only then, was she to be allowed to rest. She had no say in when the play would end so she could only hope it eventually would.

She yearned for death. But then, something changed. Netzach points out that indeed, though she wished for the end, she truly wanted to live. To exist, to escape her prison and to finally know this world besides the pain. That desire gave her enough humanity to manifest her own EGO.

All with the purpose of seeking the One Book that'd give her humanity, and, in her eyes, make her finally complete and able to live in happiness.

The most important part of LoR for this analysis is the Floor of Religion, and Hokma's view of faith. Honestly I'd recommend watching through all of these because it's so poignant. Or better yet, watch Hydrojoy's Angela video (the fact they've got so few subscribers with this level of analysis is a crime honestly).

Some lines I want to focus on, though, are these:

Things without purpose shall disappear. People without purpose will similarly expire.

Angela admits to herself that she doesn't know what she's doing. She's simply chasing some sort of meaning - revenge, freedom from her robotic condition, power, knowledge, anything that'll give her fulfilment.

And in the forgiveness route, she finally finds that in companionship of Roland and, I'd like to think, the Librarians.

But if she doesn't forgive, she ends up losing any purpose besides continuous revenge. There is no companionship when the Librarians turn on her for betraying them. There's no use in being human when it doesn't benefit her mission, and frankly just makes it harder because it makes her easier to harm. There's no point leaving the library when outside will not welcome her, it's much safer to stay inside forever.

There is no point to anything. Angela's revenge is hollow, really - Ayin is dead and no amount of sticking it to him will earn a response from a dead guy.

Enter the Book Hunter.

I will be honest in saying I don't fully understand what they both mean, with them speaking in sort of vague terms. It sounds like Bari was employed by Angela to kill other Book Hunters (perhaps in exchange for knowledge?).

What matters to me, though, are the final lines - the recognition of what Angela is and delivering death to the last librarian.

3. The Scholar of Meaning and the Reaper of the Meaningless

As the Limbus wiki points out, Bari is likely named after a Korean funerary goddess who sought both a healing river and a flower of immortality. But this influence strikes me especially in the context of her being an immortal who meets a lot of other (and often younger) immortals.

She's wise to the fact that all things need meaning to exist. They need an ambition, a wish, something to strive for.

So she attempts to give it to them.

This is shown not just explicitly with Quixote senior, but also with Quixote junior after Sancho gives up her memory, itself a form of death Bari guides her to. For 200 years, Bari made sure to visit Don Quixote and leave her letters so that this person who was once a dear friend may dream, may have meaning and a purpose in her immortal life.

Because you need something to drive you in life, be it becoming a legendary fixer, creating a place where Bloodfiends can live in peace with humans, or searching for a flower which grew from the mysterious rivers flowing through your world.

And if you have lost purpose and can no longer find one, if she cannot save you from that void, she will be there to put you out of your misery, for a meaningless eternity is its own sort of hell, and cruelty it perpetuates is nothing but needless.

In her own words - you must pursue your dream, even if it means wagering your life in the chase.

I think Bari's view of the Bloodfiends' illness and what Carmen describes as the disease humanity could be similar if not the same thing. Roland says in Floor of Religion's first episode that the City has no established religion - people focus on their immediate survival, suffering is everpresent, and the more organised religious-seeming groups are cults trying to exploit you.

The City has lost its purpose. People do not dream, or are not allowed to for long because those dreams are swiftly quashed. Carmen offers an out to suffering through becoming so unapologetically yourself you gain the power to enact your will on the world, for better or worse.

Bari seeks, I think, to give the same, but through simple companionship. Not cohersion, not magic, but through the same thing that has given so many people across this franchise meaning - having a friend to be there for you as you look for what drives you. Because to be alone in meaninglessness is the most cruel and difficult thing. I wonder if she knows that from experience...

I really hope we get more of Bari in the future so I can see if my analysis is more fanfiction than truth but with just the bits we have I have to say she's one of my favourite secondary characters in Limbus.

[midsummer-semantics]

if the world was ending

Okay, I told myself I wasn't going to write anything for @steddieangstyaugust but apparently I lied (I'm sorry)

Here's for day 1: Second Chance

CW: Slight agoraphobia

[not posted to AO3 but you can find other things there.]

When the earthquake hits, he’d like to say he thinks about his parents first. That he wonders where they are and if they're safe or if they’d hear about it from wherever they are in the world. If they’d call to check on him, even though they never did before.

He'd like to say he thinks about Robin, who's two states away studying for a graduate degree in International relations and communication, and likely doesn't feel the ground moving beneath her feet like he does.

Hell, he'd like to say he thinks about the kids, but most of them are scattered themselves, starting college programs (Will, Mike, Dustin) or sports training camps (Lucas) or exploring the West Coast (Max and El).

No, Steve is alone in his big, empty house when it hits, and the only thing on his mind is that they were wrong. Indiana doesn't get earthquakes, so something else has to be afoot. Six years since they defeated Vecna, since everyone tried to move on with their lives while Steve stayed because that's what he does, he stays.

A touchstone Dustin had called him once. Something to do with foundation and a connecting center. Steve still thinks it might have just been him and the rest of the group trying to make him feel better about still being stuck in the same house, in the same town, doing nothing and going nowhere.

He's alone and he thinks 'This is it. What I've been waiting for.'

He has a 6-year-old emergency pack stored that should have more dust on it if it wasn't for the way he chronically checks it. His trusty bat and a duplicate he made just in case, plus the ax he used the last time, are all near enough to the door. He's not sure what the protocol is for earthquakes, having grown up in the Midwest, but he's pretty sure he's not supposed to be indoors, right?

It doesn't last very long, but it doesn't matter. A few seconds of the ground shaking and rolling beneath his feet are enough to jumpstart him into action.

He's gathering supplies, cursing himself for taking too long, when the phone in the kitchen rings.

He should ignore it, knows that whatever or whoever it is can wait until he's secured the area and alerted the cavalry that something is happening. It'll take days for people to get here and Steve thinks he might he able to hold off whatever's coming out of whatever rift has sprung up until then, but he doesn't have time to think about it too hard.

The phone rings off the hook as Steve takes too damn long to double-check that nothing is in the house before he even attempts to go outside, and Steve knows he can't just leave it. Not in case it's someone who's still in town who knows he's here: Mrs. Wheeler, Claudia, Jim or Joyce.

He nearly rips the cord out of the wall when he answers.

"Stevie?!" comes the frantic voice of the person he least expects to be on the other side.

"Eddie?"

"Steve, oh my god." He can hear Eddie panting. "Are you okay?"

It's the first time Steve's heard Eddie's voice in five years. Since Eddie made good on his promise to run like hell out of here, something he'd repeated to anyone who would listen until he finally did. Five years since Steve had realized he was halfway in love with him after saving the world and never got to say anything because he was a coward and Eddie was leaving anyway so what was the point?

He'd gotten one phone call when Eddie arrived in Denver and it's been radio silence since then. Truthfully, he couldn't blame the guy, but Steve had had... thoughts... feelings... probably brought on by end-of-the-world shit but nonetheless. And then Eddie just—

Vanished.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Are you?" he asks.

"We're good," Eddie replies, and only then does he hear the rough grumble of Eddie's uncle in the background, asking why Eddie's on the phone at nearly 3 in the morning.

"Earthquake, old man," Eddie shouts, still too close to the receiver for Steve's already damaged hearing.

Oh.

So, Eddie's in town. Cool. Steve had no idea. Doesn't know when Eddie got in or if he ever intended to tell Steve he was here at all. That's fine.

"Sorry, Stevie. Woke Wayne up. Shit— did I wake you up too?"

Steve swallows harshly, shaking his head even though Eddie can't see it. "No, I was already awake."

"Me too," Eddie replies. "Jet lag. Just got in a few hours ago. What a welcome home, huh?"

"Sure," Steve says, wondering what the point of this call is. "Look, I'm glad to hear from you, but I really need to—"

"Wait!" Steve shuts his mouth, his teeth clacking harshly. "It's fine. Everything is fine."

"Dude, there was an earthquake just now—"

"And it wasn't You-Know-What related," Eddie states, a bit of his franticness back in his voice. "They're leveling part of the plant for safety issues. Wanted to do it at night so no one would freak out." Steve cringes. Hawkins wasn't exactly magnanimous about the rebuilding efforts last time, but he doesn't go to city council meetings to hear about what the efforts might have been since then. "That's part of why I'm home. Wayne's got an extended leave until they sort out what else to do."

Steve sighs, dropping the emergency pack on the floor and leaning the ax he'd managed to grab against the wall. "Oh. Great. Wish they'd have told everyone else just in case."

"I know, sweetheart. But everything is okay."

Sweetheart.

Steve's actual heart skips a beat hearing that again.

"I'll be back, sweetheart. I promise."

"So... you're here then? In Hawkins?"

There's a beat of silence, some shuffling on the other end. "Well, yeah. I told you I'd come back."

"For your uncle."

"He's part of it."

Steve hesitates, hating himself for even considering getting his hopes up.

"And the other part?"

"My guy is here."

When the earthquake hit, he’d like to say he thought about his parents first.

No, he'd thought it was the end of the world. And above that, all he could think about was Eddie.

[zorosangell]

⛥ﾟ・。 lucky punch: chapter one

chapter synopsis: after getting drunk at a Bonney rager with Nami, you're nearly busted by the cops... good thing a sexy, green-haired stranger was there to save you.

cw: high school/college au, violence, underage drinking, parties, mature themes, profanity, sports, reader is on the volleyball team, zoro is in kendo, you and zoro are both seniors and eighteen, etc.

"Damn it! These boots are impossible!" you drunkenly whined, stumbling slightly as your foot caught a raised chunk of sidewalk.

You knew you should've done the run test before leaving Nami's.

Now you were paying the price.

Behind you, the signature er-whoop of a cop car echoed, the sound sending a pang of fear through your heart as the world seemed to feel like it was closing in, the swirling red and blue lights bounding off the buildings and surrounding you on all sides.

'Someone just had to snitch!'

A few moments earlier, you were having the time of your life—dancing, drinking, and partying to your heart's content with your best friend in the whole wide world.

The problem was that you weren't exactly the legal age to be drinking, and it was just your luck that Eustass Kid—absolutely sloshed out of his mind—managed to tee-pee the house next to Bonney's and forced them to call the police.

So a riot began when the cops pulled up on the lawn, everyone scattering like roaches in fear of being caught. 

Which was what you were supposed to be doing with your ginger gal pal.

But when the two of you nearly got cornered, you both split up, and, unluckily, you were the one the squad car chose to follow.

Now, to be fair, Bonney was known for throwing outrageous ragers at her house with little to no consequences, so all of this was bound to happen someday.

'But why'd they have to do this todayyyy?'

"Shit!"

Your shoes were holding you back from your full speed, forcing you to run awkwardly, while the alcohol pumping through your system made everything seem as if it was moving in slow motion, most of your attention focused on keeping on your feet.

Haphazardly, you attempted to cut a nearby corner, teetering to the side a little bit before you stabilized and continued to flounder down the sidewalk.

Despite the sharp pain in your heels, you pressed on strongly, knowing full well just what would happen if you were caught.

Out of all the people at the party, you were probably the one that could afford getting busted the least.

It was your dream to be the best volleyball player in the world, after all.

Because of your stellar performance as an outside hitter during your freshman year, you were whisked away to a special training camp across the country, where for two years you built up your body and honed your skills in hopes of returning senior year to be recognized by an international club.

Once that happens, it will be a straight shot to the top, ending with you going down in history as the greatest outside hitter volleyball has ever seen.

But, of course, all of that would fly right out the window if you gained a criminal record.

Your brows furrowed, feet picking up speed at the thought, even in your drunken state.

All that time...

All that work...

It would all be for nothing.

Suddenly, a pair of strong hands grabbed your shoulders, yanking you into a nearby alleyway covering your mouth as you let out a tiny yelp, eyes widening and blood running cold.

No!

You could've sworn the cop was still in the car...

How the hell did he get out so fast?

Yet as the squad car passed, the man holding you ducked into the shadows of the alley, watching closely as the police officer cruised past—the cop having stuck his head out the window to get a better look.

"Coulda swore she was right here..." he grumbled under his breath, brows furrowed.

He had a large scar stretching from his hairline to just above his cheekbone, two cigars hanging out the corner of his mouth as his eyes scanned over the area.

The mystery man's brows furrowed at the sight, body turning rigid.

Smoker.

'Shoulda known...'

He and Luffy had run into him a few times before.

The white-haired cop paused, giving the space one more once over before settling back in his seat, picking up his radio with an annoyed sigh.

"Tashigi, I lost her. Gonna circle back to your position and look for the redhead."

Your eyes widened, knowing exactly who he was talking about.

"Nami!" you whimpered, forcing the the man's calloused hand to press harder into your face to muffle the noise.

"Quiet," a deep, rough voice ordered, tone leaving no room for argument.

He held you with an iron grip, not budging even an inch as you began to squirm in his grasp.

He wasn't gonna spend another night in the precinct because of some girl who couldn't hold her liquor.

Suspicious, Smoker glanced in your direction, narrowing his eyes at the darkness as he looked directly at you—though he didn't know it.

Your heart stopped, your entire body freezing up as both you and the man behind you stayed still as statues, pressing firmer against the wall of the alley to avoid being revealed by the lights of the siren as the officer pulled off.

And once he was completely gone, you both let out a sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping as the tension finally oozed out your back.

"Are you stupid or something?" the man spat, curtly, the two of you stepping into the moonlight now that the cop was gone. "You could've gotten us both caught."

You turned around, raising a brow as he stepped closer, his chest about an inch away from yours.

Yum.

As your eyes adjusted to the better lighting, you couldn't help the warm buzz growing in your stomach at the sight of the absolutely gorgeous man in front of you.

He had a strong jaw, which looked like it could cut through stone, with sharp features and dark eyes that could bring any woman to her knees.

Eyes raking over his body, you might as well have been drooling, your expression not hiding your thoughts at all as you admired the prime slab of grade A male beef standing before you.

You were surprised you didn't notice just how large he was until then, six feet of chorded, hard-earned muscle, with a certain air that just made you want him to put you in a headlock.

'And then some...'

Not to mention his cute, soft-looking green hair.

"Are you that stripper Bonney tried to call?" you giggled, twirling a lock of your hair between your fingers as a lousy attempt to flirt.

Surprised, Zoro's breath hitched, a faint tinge of pink dusting the apples of his cheeks.

What you said had caught him completely off guard, and confirmed his suspicions that you were completely hammered.

Now, he wasn't a good Samaritan by any means, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to ditch the dead weight and go back to finding Luffy—they had gotten split up, too.

But as he watched you look up at him, eyes glazed and lidded, feet having a slight wobble even as you stood still, he knew he couldn't leave.

You were a young, defenseless woman who was in the middle of an empty street alone at night, drunk as a skunk.

If he left you alone, it'd bother him for the rest of the day.

"Do you know where you are?" he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Uh... no?" you pouted, taking a moment to slowly look around, indeed realizing that you had no idea where you were.

"Great," he huffed, grabbing your arm. "Do you know where you live?"

"Whyyyy...?"

"'Cause I'm gonna take your ass home."

"Woah, sir... how about you get to know me first?" you giggled, body swaying back and forth.

Eyes wide, he froze, turning red as a beet.

"It's not like that! I'm just giving you a ride—!"

"Listen, Mister Hot Guy," you interrupted, index finger digging into his hard chest. "You might've saved us from the police but that doesn't mean you can just have your way with me. We have to go to dinner first."

Taking a moment to pause, the man looked at you in disbelief.

Never in his life had he ever encountered such an idiotically stubborn person.

And not only were you stubborn, but you were also fucking beautiful.

While he was a man who prided himself on self-restraint and respect, he couldn't help but let his eyes rake over you as your arms came up to cross over your chest.

Sexy, tanned skin accentuated under the complementary blue of your jean tube-top, your jean mini-skirt just long enough to tease, while making your ass look fantastic.

Your lipgloss made your plump lips so soft and inviting, and your eyes were so warm he felt like they heated him from the inside out.

A date didn't sound too damn bad—

"That's enough," he shut down, talking to both you and himself as he began to tug you down the street, leading you to his car.

"Woah-hey! Let me go! This is—!" 

Your small fight to wriggle out of his grasp was interrupted as you lost your balance, feet slipping and body flying backward toward the ground.

Luckily, that same pair of strong hands grabbed your waist with a death grip, forcing a gasp out your lips as your hands shot up to cling to his broad shoulders.

Zoro sighed in exasperation, picking you up and tossing you over his shoulder as if you were a sack of potatoes.

"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, continuing his trek down the street until he turned the corner and reached the safety of his pickup.

He'd be damned if he had to deal with a drunk you and a drunk Luffy at the same time.

So, he settled on setting aside an hour of the night trying to find your house, or a friend to drop you off with, then he'd hit up Luffy and grab him at whatever restaurant he managed to clear out.

Foolproof.

"Hey! This is kidnapping!" you squealed as he tossed you in the backseat, shutting the door behind. "I'll call that cop back to get you!"

"And get arrested yourself," he said with a slight chuckle, plopping himself down in the driver's seat and starting the engine.

Glancing at the rear-view mirror, his eyes took another moment to look you over.

You really were beautiful, and seemed close to, if not the same age, as him.

And your little outfit wasn't too bad either.

"Like what you see?" you teased with a smirk, slightly leaning back to give him a better view.

He scoffed as he rolled his eyes, not willing to give you the satisfaction.

"Put your seatbelt on," he ordered.

And although his tone was serious, you didn't miss the tinge of pink on his face.

"Can't," you shrugged, simply. "You're gonna have to help me..."

You giggled, wiggling your eyebrows and puffing your chest so that the man could get a nice look at your cleavage.

Unluckily for you, he knew better that to trust it, letting a tired hand rake through his hair as he realized how much of a pain in the ass this ride was going to be.

"Before, you said you knew a Nami," he grunted, resting his hands on the steering wheel. "That wouldn't happen to be Nami Nami, would it? Y'know, long orange hair, money-hungry, debt collecting?"

You gasped, eyes turning starry, "You know Nami?!"

The man let out a groan, dropping his head onto the horn, the car letting out a long beep as he just sat there, honestly amused by the circumstances.

Why was he not surprised?

Of course you and Nami were friends.

Annoyed, he shifted the truck into drive, pressing his foot on the gas and pulling off in the direction of Nami's house.

Now, not only did he have to drop your ass off, but he also had to pay back Nami the fifty dollars he owed, and then still go back out and grab Luffy.

And it was all thanks to you.

He grumbled to himself, resting his cheek in his palm as his other hand rested on the wheel.

'If I ever meet this woman again, it'll be too soon...'

[word-wytch]

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 16

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 16/? 9k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Frustrated by inconclusive endings, Eddie takes a seat behind the wheel. 

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

✏︎ Chapter CW: general angst, paternal angst, drug mention

Thursday, December 12th 1985

Before the first morning bell, Eddie gave Judy at reception his best impression of Wayne over the phone. He wasn’t totally lying, he was in fact, quite sick. Sick of all the taunting looks from meathead jocks. Sick of the way Ms. O’Donnell cleared her throat every five minutes. Sick of waking up so goddamn early. Sick of wasting his time. So after hanging up the phone, he stuffed a few essentials in his backpack and made for the door. 

Like clockwork, Wayne always came home at around 8:10 AM, and though it would be far from the first time he’d skipped school, Eddie would rather not have to explain himself. Besides, he could use a change of scenery. There was no denying winter anymore, the ice he scraped off his windshield made sure to remind him. On a typical hooky day he would drive down to Lover’s Lake and toss open the rear doors, catch a breeze, light a joint, sit back and take in the ripples on the water and the rustling leaves. But that had all frozen over, so unless he intended to burn through his whole tank of gas, he would need to get creative. 

That was how he found himself at Benny’s at 7:58 on a Thursday morning, setting up camp in a booth at the back of the restaurant. He ordered his usual — bacon, scrambled eggs, and a stack of pancakes in addition to white toast. Tossing his fourth emptied sugar packet beside the leaning tower of creamers, he sat back in the sticky, padded seat and took his first deep breath all morning. 

The diner was bustling lowly, a handful of regulars perched on silver, spinning stools at the bar. From the frosted window leeching cool air beside him, he watched the funeral procession of headlights down Washington under a mournful sky. Just another day for the upright citizens of Hawkins, Indiana. From his cozy booth, Eddie sipped the top off his very full mug and smiled to himself. 

Sprawling his belongings around the piping hot plates, he popped on his headphones, cracked open his monster manual, and got to work. The first hour flew by like his pencil across the graph paper. Between the bacon bits that had leapt from hand to page, a formidable lineup of foes was taking shape. Bottom line; the boys were in for a world of hurt tomorrow. He did his best to resign the grease to the flimsy napkins, but by the time he was finished, syrup tacked the gargoyle and gorgon pages together. 

“Anything else I can grab for ya besides the check?” Sheri—according to her name tag—asked with a tired lean as she reached to clear his plates. 

Eddie glanced down sheepishly at his freshly topped off mug. “I uh, think I might be staying for lunch.”

Sheri forced a hot pink smile, catching the fork with her decorated finger when it threatened to slide off the plate. “Y’ want me to get a room set up for you too?” she joked with a wink of her spidery lashes. “Just teasin’ sweetie. You just flag me down when you’re ready.”

Switching out his tapes, Eddie shut the cassette player and stared out the window as the men at the bar tossed their napkins and fished out their wallets. Snow was falling in lazy clumps, clinging to his windshield. Somewhere behind the overcast clouds, the sun was rising steadily. It was dismal, a fitting backdrop for the opening track of Black Sabbath’s Heaven and Hell. Of all the seasons, winter belonged to metal. Like it was made for cruising down a quiet, snow-covered street in the middle of nowhere. Made for drowning out Bing Crosby crooning from the speaker in the corner above him. Tinsel glittered on the small tree perched on a cloud of fake snow beside the cash register. Ornaments on swags swayed to the thump of footsteps passing. Eddie sighed and stared into the changing street lights.

Glancing at his watch he figured you were probably wrapping up the film with second period, knitting your brow and drawing your pen across the papers you were grading. He wondered what you’d think when the bell rang for fourth and you found his seat empty. Would you think he was upset with you? There was a small part of him that hoped so, and another part that hoped you would understand. After all, he was giving you the space you asked for, was he not?

Like a siren, your story—tucked between his notebook and the magazines he’d exhausted twice cover to cover—called to him. Cracking open the plastic spine, he dove headfirst into the typewritten pages.

For the whole narrow path into Rower’s End, Cybelle had sat in the front of the caravan, breathing the briny air unhindered by a barrier. Lazarus admired the brilliant fullness of her smile as she watched the seagulls soar overhead, under the clouds she had only ever seen from above. The sunlight had graced them then, beaming down in golden rays, glinting on the distant waves as they approached the sleepy seaside town. 

Eddie could feel the corners of his mouth tug as Lazarus regaled Cybelle with a story of a time when he’d accidentally taken a crab home with him after spending a day at the beach, followed by an explanation of what a crab was. Cybelle seemed delighted with the prospect of seeing one, even more-so when he told her how he’d discovered the little hitchhiker when it pinched his rear in bed that night. Eddie noticed the way Cybelle leaned closer whenever Lazarus told stories, the way her hand came to shield her bare face with a giggle when he mentioned his rear. The way her delicate, copper fingers lingered over the soft skin of his forearm when she checked beneath his bandage. The wound was healing nicely — no sign of infection and not a thorn in sight. She warned that it might scar, but Lazarus did not appear concerned—rather the opposite actually—as if a strange part of him was pleased with the idea of having something to remember her by. 

As they dipped over the final hill toward Rower’s End, Lazarus told her another story. A dream, rather, of a little cottage in Shantiglade with a full sized bed, and a garden, and a goose egg omelette big enough for two. A dream that would likely never come to pass. Cybelle seemed equally enchanted by it. Sitting back against the boxy, wooden seat of the caravan, she breathed in the salty air and imagined how good it would feel to do so every day. To experience the feeling of sand between her toes, of the ocean at her ankles, of propping her elbow against their shared kitchen table and gracing Lazarus with a naked smile before trying whatever an omelette was. It was good like this too — bumping along under a clear blue sky as Turnip plodded down the scarcely trodded path, watching the wind caress the wild grass and Lazarus’ even wilder curls, hearing his tales and his laughter.

Around the time he would be slumping into his desk in the back of your classroom, the bell dinged over the door of the restaurant. Eddie cranked the volume on his headset to drown out the chatter of a family of four clambering into the booth in front of him. The little boy had brought a pair of plastic drumsticks with him, beating a rhythm on the steel-rimmed table much to the annoyance of his little sister, who was clutching her book the way Eddie was yours. Dipping his few remaining fries into the smear of ketchup, he wondered why they weren’t in school on a Thursday afternoon. As he focused back on the type-written letters, he figured he should be the last to judge. 

Eddie felt for Lazarus, he really did. The way he looked at Cybelle as she emerged from the cave, cradling the ghostfern like a pale, translucent child. The scene was as beautiful as it was somber — waves lapping at the rocky shoreline as the setting sun cast its deep orange hues on both of them. The rocks—slick with algae—had Cybelle stumbling, but Lazarus was quick to offer his arm. She accepted without hesitance, clutching the plant like a bouquet as her deep earthen fingers braced the pale angles of his. He lead her down the cascading stone as if it were a chapel aisle, slow and steady until they reached the flat edge of the water. There—in the golden remains of the day—seagulls dipped and soared over the glittering ocean, clasped hands swayed in the lapping wind, and for a moment, they had everything they came for.  

After what seemed like both a small eternity and an aching second, it was Cybelle who broke away, tracing the ridges of his fingers as hers fell, stating out loud what both of them knew — that night was coming soon. 

The journey back to Torgaard proved easier than the journey out, at least in terms of natural foes. No fenfinks or villainous vines, but the sky seemed to hang much lower. Dark, stormy clouds loomed overhead, casting its pale grey light over the moss curtains outside of Fenwood, over the verdant  forests that shuddered in the gusting wind. There was a tension, a dread looming on the horizon that grew with each passing day. Even Eddie could sense it — the way Cybelle stared out into the swath of shifting green like she was attempting to soak up enough for the rest of her life. The way that Lazarus’ jokes were swallowed the creaking of the caravan. How nights that were once spent laughing over a roaring fire were now spent silently watching its crackling embers.

One day—just a few outside of Torgaard—the sky came crashing down. It sobbed in sheets, heavy enough to soak through Cybelle’s coat, to find the tear in her tent and make a lake of it. Lazarus ushered her inside the wagon, offered her a shirt that fit like a dress, offered to sleep on the floor. Assessing the size of the bed, and then the hard, narrow walking path, it was Cybelle who insisted they share it. She was small enough, or at least that was what she rationalized out loud. Lazarus did not argue. Her logic—unlike her tent—was water-tight. And so she climbed in between the soft linen sheets, tucked herself under the weight of the down blanket, and rested her damp, weary head on a pillow that smelled just like him.

Eddie glanced sheepishly around the restaurant, shielding the binder with his arm as Lazarus climbed in beside her. He hinged on each type-written word, lingering over the ones that stirred a fuzzy feeling. Written with careful attention to the way Lazarus’ chest rose and fell, how stiff their bodies were in hyper-awareness of the nearness to each other. How solid his shoulder felt under Cybelle’s cheek when the corner of pillow no longer sufficed. Slowly, they relaxed into the feeling. Not enough to sleep, but enough for Lazarus to free the arm that she was crushing. Enough to wrap it around her shoulder, to relish in the feeling of her cold nose in the warm crook of his neck.

It was good like this. Better when her fingers draped across the landscape of his pecks, felt his chest rise and fall like waves. Best when they awoke in the morning to the sun steaming in through the small, stained glass window above them. When their giggles shook the wagon. When their eyes met, closer than they’d ever been before. There, in the dim cocoon far outside the turning world, the smile that she had hidden for so long finally grew brave enough to capture his. And by the time they reached the towering stone walls of Torgaard, there was nothing more to hide from one another. 

Eddie flipped the page to find only a black, plastic pocket. He rubbed it with his fingers to make sure it wasn’t sticking to another. When it failed to separate, he sat back and fumed. That was it. There was no more. No ending, no closure.

Sheri leaned against the top of the booth seat opposite him, hand on her hip, shifting between her dirty white sneakers with a tired sigh. “Listen sweetie, I’ve got ten minutes left of my shift. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, but I’ve gotta cash you out before I leave.”

Eddie glanced at his watch, almost 2:00. “Yeah—yeah, no problem. Sorry for the trouble.”

“’S no trouble, just the way it goes around here. Hope you enjoyed your stay,” she said with a wink as she dropped the check. 

After six hours and two meals, Eddie had gotten his fill of watching the world turn through an old, frosted window. His head was spinning enough on its own. With a frustrated huff he peeled his graph paper and manual away from the sticky table before shoving them into his backpack. Slugging it over his shoulder, he grabbed the grease-stained check and made his way to the register. That was when he noticed it — the lonely, half-eaten omelette on the bar.

“Alright that’ll be ten seventy-five,” chimed Sheri. 

Tinsel glittered on the tree. Red, metallic bulbs swayed in the echo of his footsteps. Judy Garland caroled on about a merry little Christmas and he wondered if your characters would ever enjoy anything over their shared kitchen table or if that dream would be abandoned for their duties as well.

“Sir?”

Snapping out of his trance, he fished for his wallet and palmed her a twenty. “Keep the change,” he muttered before turning toward the door with a hoist of his backpack.

Her jaw hung open. “Oh my word, are you serious?” she called to his back, but the bell above the door was the only answer she received.

______

Main Street Vinyls was a ghost town on a Thursday afternoon, and Eddie preferred it that way. Aside from Jerry at the counter, it was just him and his noisy thoughts, accompanied by the slow plod of his own heavy boots as they weeped against the carpet. At least in this store he could escape the onslaught of Christmas tunes. Jerry—old hippie that he was—at least had some sense. Sometimes even sense enough to play some halfway decent rock music, but today Eddie would settle for Neil Young over the jingle bell garbage blasting through every speaker in Hawkins.

Glancing down the rows of plastic cassette spines, Eddie perused the M section as he kicked himself for giving away almost ten dollars. There was an album by a new band he’d only read about in magazines called Megadeth. Turning the tape over in his hands, he examined the cover. Everything about it spoke to him — the skull with its mouth chained shut surrounded by knives and candles, the title — Killing Is My Business. Flipping it over to the back, the phrase continued in haunted red letters …and Business Is Good! 

The change he gave away in a fit of blind stupidity would have easily afforded it and left him with some to spare. With a bitter sigh, he shoved the tape back in its slot, knowing for a fact that the cash register at Benny’s had eaten the last bill he had in his wallet. Padding slowly down the aisle, he began his calculations. 

He had a few regular deals lined up this weekend but would need to dig into his “savings” in the bottom of an old tobacco tin and pay Rick a visit before any of that happened. He might make eighty bucks if he was lucky. Maybe eighty more over the course of the week between the deals at school. Nobody wanted to spend too much time outside this time of year, so the park bench location was always iffy depending on how bad it was. He would resort to other classic meetup spots, like under the bleachers or the back of his van. 

If he networked enough he might have some left over after helping Wayne with the bills. Scanning past the Tina Turner and T-Rex tapes, he wondered how much Wayne suspected about his little business. Surely he had to have some suspicion. Gig money, odd jobs, and oil changes for neighbors couldn’t possibly afford the kind of gear he had, or the ink in his skin, or the cash he contributed monthly. Wayne was sharp, and though he was no saint himself, he shuddered to think what he would say if he discovered his nephew was straying down the same path his brother took.

Peering back over his shoulder, he eyed the Megadeth tapes again—only three in stock—lined up like gifts wrapped in cellophane. They were such tiny things. Small enough to hide beneath his palm, to slide into the pocket of his coat with room to spare. Glancing up at the angled surveillance mirror in the corner of the store, he saw Jerry at the counter, humming obliviously as he stuck price tags on a fresh shipment of tapes. Over the tall shelf that separated them, he expected to meet his own eyes, but instead saw another man. A man he hadn’t seen in quite a while.

Eddie remembered finding a G chord for the first time; how big the fretboard felt in his small hand, how awkwardly his fingers had to stretch, how a larger set of hands had helped him find it. He earned a broad smile when the chord rang out, one he would search for again and again with every strum. 

Sometimes in the late evenings as he crept past Wayne with a lunchbox full of drugs while he was watching reruns of Bonanza on the couch, Eddie would tell himself that at least he wasn’t stealing cars, or drinking himself half to death, or rotting behind county bars. At least he was still in school, something Warren Munson couldn’t say even at sixteen. At least Eddie could say he was trying.

With a bitter shake of his head, he continued down the aisle, leaving the tapes behind for the record bins that lined the walls. Mindlessly he walked his fingers over the cardboard spines, glazing past titles he’d seen a dozen times. Nothing new. Nothing different. Few things ever were in Hawkins. Every day he’d wake up and slog himself to a different type of prison, sit in a classroom for eight hours and actively feel his brain rotting. He would crumple up his failed tests and shove them in his backpack, endure the stares from kids whose parents cared enough to give them a ride to school, day after day. And every day he would come home and see the twinge of pride on Wayne’s face for the fact that he’d gone at all.  

There were a few perks to sticking around, like running his club, and saving lost sheep, and seeing his friends everyday. Like having a swath of potential customers all in one place. It was safe and familiar, like a cage. His little business might be dangerous and criminal but at least it could afford him one thing he valued even more than ink or gear — freedom. Time, for another thing. Flexibility. It sure as hell beat making three dollars an hour flipping burgers or having to answer to some corporate boot-licker telling him what to do. Eddie huffed sharply, wondering what you would think if you knew. You, with your tightly buttoned blouses and endless patience. You, the very last person he wanted to disappoint. 

The last look he’d seen on you destroyed him when he thought about it; the pain in your eyes and bitter line your pretty lips became. You were just about the only reason he had left to show up to class anymore, and now that was getting in the way of the one thing that actually had potential in his eyes. Way more potential than a stupid piece of paper that says, congratulations, you’re a real member of society and not a complete disappointment. 

You had asked him a question back when you’d first made the arrangement to help him, one that rattled around in his brain ever since. Why did he want to graduate? If his memory served him, he’d given a relatively bullshit answer: to prove all the assholes in this god-forsaken purgatory wrong. It still held a fair amount of truth, but when he glanced up at the surveillance mirror again and saw himself this time, the real answer was abundantly clear. But was proving a point worth the risk of losing you?  

The smell of cardboard and cellophane kissed his face as air puffed between each record falling forward. Each a different picture, some repeats of the same. Rock gods wielding wicked weapons, bathed in holy stage lights somewhere in New York or Los Angeles probably. Somewhere important. Sometimes at the Hideout he would close his eyes and imagine he was on one of those stages, but when he would open them as the last note rung out, it was always the same — just Bill and Drunk Sam, maybe a couple of bikers perched at the bar with their backs to him. Empty stools and sticky tables. A weak applause.

Eddie stepped back from the record bin with a heavy sigh and glanced at his watch. He’d killed about thirty minutes in this store, which meant he had at least twenty more before he could return home without triggering Wayne’s suspicious questions. The walls were starting to close in around him — posters like windows into a world far out of reach. Every million dollar strum reverberating through the speakers like a mocking reminder. With a half-hearted wave to Jerry stocking shelves, he left the store. Empty handed. 

The drive down Randolph was always dismal, especially in the bleak winter light. Storefronts with yellowing signs that hadn’t changed in twenty years selling mattresses and televisions. A gas station with a rusted awning, dusted with snow. Architecturally speaking, the church was about the most interesting building, but only because it was brick and made up of more than just four flimsy walls. Even that was being generous though. The most exciting thing to happen to Hawkins since the housing development over by Factory Lane thirty years ago was the shopping mall that opened this past summer. Thrilling. 

No matter where he drove within a fifty mile radius, it was all the same — a tomb where dreams went to die. 

Gripping the steering wheel, he watched the car in front of him make grooves in the dirty slush, hypnotized by the spray off the sides of the tires. It wasn’t until he saw the high school approaching in his peripherals that he even looked up. It always felt good to be on the other side, especially when he wasn’t supposed to be. He could almost see you in there; brushing the chalk off your hands, shifting between your tired feet as you glanced at the clock, gazing out the window with a longing he’d seen in his own reflection — caught sometimes at night in his drivers seat window as he cruised the highway, dreaming of where it could take him. 

As the squat fortress faded in his rearview mirror, he pictured you five years from now. Ten. Twenty. Wasting away in front of that chalkboard. Rattling on about stories written by dead people while your own collected dust inside a closet. While your talent withered like the dead, crumpled leaves under the snow; buried and forgotten. 

With a hard right onto Prospect, he set out on the final stretch towards home. Sometimes he liked to imagine what might happen if he just kept going, just drove into the sunset and only stopped for gas. He had a vague idea from the movies and the maps that swayed in the wake of Ms. O’Donnell’s lumbering footsteps. Sometimes in the height of his boredom he would lose himself in them, imagine he was at a diner in the desert on his way to a gig with an actual sound system. Because somewhere out there—beyond the flat horizon—there were mountains, and canyons, and cities where names couldn’t follow. 

______

“How does it end?” Eddie asked you on Friday between the fourth and fifth period bells. You glanced up from the stack of papers on your desk, cocking your head with narrowing eyes. “Your story,” he clarified.

“Oh.” Blinking, you sat back to ponder. “You know, I don’t think I ever fully decided. Cybelle is in a difficult position. The whole reason she set out on this adventure was to save her brother. I imagine she would want to fulfill her quest, but if she returned to Myrne, it may be difficult to leave again. Plus, she may receive some sort of punishment for leaving in the first place. I had written the laws to be quite strict, if I recall. And then if she chose not to return, her mother would lose two children. No matter what, she loses.” 

Eddie furrowed his brow, shifting between his boots with a pained sigh. “I would hardly call a life with Lazarus losing. She seems happy with him.”

“Right, well, of course that would be ideal, but…” you tsked, “it’s complicated, and honestly that’s partially why I abandoned it. I really wrote myself into a corner. Well, that and student teaching started to eat up my time. Then it was finals, and moving, and then after that I met…” you trailed off with a bitter shake of your head. “Anyway, I guess life got in the way. It has a way of doing that, I’ve noticed.” 

Eddie looked at you, really looked. You, in your cable knit sweater with pen on your hand and sandbags under your eyes, casting them down over your work with the same amount of hope he’d seen from players rolling threes with even fewer hit points to spare. He racked his brain for something he could offer—a dramatic death speech or a new character sheet—but you weren’t playing and he wasn’t prepared. Any words of comfort forming on the tip of his tongue were swallowed by the ringing bell, and he exited your classroom feeling the same as when he entered; unsatisfied. 

______

It was starting to close in around you — the colored lights and ornaments, the mall Santas and fake green swags draping from shop windows. It was the first Christmas you’d truly spent in Hawkins since you graduated college, outside of day trips for visits. Surprisingly little had changed, the main thing being the fact that there even was a mall for Santa to post up in. Duplication must have been one of his many powers because he was still at Sears too, at least he was on Saturday when you dragged yourself out of the oppressive quiet of your apartment and into the bustling chaos. 

You had no idea what to get your relatives for Christmas. You never really did, but this year it seemed insurmountable. This year you had no one to bounce ideas off of, and the constant mental chatter left little to no room for inspiration. As you scanned the shelves of cookware and appliquéd dish towels with snow men and reindeers, nothing really seemed to jump out at you.

What did jump out at you—or rather, jumped out at his sister—was a little boy across the aisle hiding in a circular rack of women’s bath robes. Pressing apart the terrycloth like curtains, he would retreat into his makeshift cave to the complete oblivion of his mother, who seemed more preoccupied with the price tags on a set of lingerie than with the whereabouts of her children.

A fantasy tugged at the corners of your mind, more sinfully indulgent than the one you had in class last week involving your desk and Eddie’s tongue. This time the set was the same as the scene before you, only the little boy had a mess of dark curls and Eddie was diving in after him. Not to scold him, but to play. You could almost see those fraying knee holes widening from contact with the carpet. Almost hear the giggles and the shushes and the click of his rings against the metal pole in the center of the rack for balance. You could almost turn around and see them popping out at you, feel the laughter ripple up through your very full belly and into the corners of your eyes as you feigned surprise to both of their delight. You could almost feel the glares from the other shoppers, the regular people eager to get on with their Saturday in peace, same as any other. It wouldn’t matter though, not in your little world.

The real mother in the real world did eventually turn around, grabbing the boy by the wrist and demanding he stay by the cart. Turning a dish towel over in your palms, you lowered your eyes to the machine-embroidered stitching of a corn cob pipe and a button nose as the fantasy disintegrated. You left the store shortly after, your cart just as empty as when you’d arrived. 

On Monday it was hard to look him in the eyes. It was easier to meet Diane’s. At least this week you could hold a conversation without crumbling like Ms. Click’s half-eaten fruitcake up for grabs in the teachers lounge. But the coffee was bitter on your tongue, like a lie you were telling yourself. 

In accordance with your wishes, there had been no rap of knuckles on your door frame after school, no screeching of chair legs dragged across the tile, only the dull thud of folders sliding into your bag, the surprising click of a magnet under the flap. 

On Wednesday you left behind footprints in the parking lot before it had even half cleared, only to be swallowed by the emptiness of your apartment. You filled the space with what you could manage — an early dinner, and an early bedtime. Sleep seemed to be the only thing that quelled the battering ram thoughts, the scales tipping back and forth so much it made you queasy. You would lie there and dream of swirling smoke and plush lips, of arthritic fingers punching numbers on an office phone as you sat and accepted your fate. You would toss and turn, back and forth until your sheets became a tangle, and when you faced the mirror Thursday morning you barely recognized the person staring back. 

When the final bell rang on Friday, the hallways cleared out like someone had yelled fire. A mass exodus of students and staff, flowing into the parking lot like a tidal wave outside your classroom window. You watched them as snow fell in clumps, as bright colored backpacks disappeared into the back of sedans, as cars peeled out like a parade into the street. 

Assessing the paper mountain range framing your desk, you made an educated guess at how you would be spending your two week break. In hindsight, it might have helped to make the due date for the senior creative writing project last Friday instead, but deep down you knew you would have hardly made a dent by now. 

When Ms. Click popped her head in to wish you a merry Christmas on her way down the hall, she seemed surprised to find your hand still moving across paper, not swaddled in mittens like hers. You brushed it off with something casual, the type of thing any regular person would say before the holidays. That it was too much to take home. That getting work finished now would leave more time with your family. You omitted the more personal details like how empty your apartment felt and the small, naked tree your mother brought over last weekend. This seemed to placate her, and with a cheery wave she left you in the silence of your classroom with only the ruffling of paper for company.

It was eery how quiet it was, but it afforded you a small hill of graded papers in the last hour, double what you would typically accomplish in front of the television. Thumbing through what remained of that stack, you counted each staple. Five, six, seven… you stopped when a certain name jumped out in MLA format. 

Eddie Munson American Literature — 4th Period 20 December 1985

No title. 

Papers fluttered to the desk as they fell from your hands, leaving only his. You held it gingerly between your fingers, as if it was alive. As if it could feel you, or rather, you could feel him through every type-written letter, through the thumb-sized grease stain in the top righthand corner. You could almost hear him too, shifting into a deep, dramatic narration.

Mount Myrne loomed on the horizon like a dark omen. Towering over the bustling docks of Torgaard, it disappeared beneath the ominous clouds with a formidable presence. Merchants scattered about, hauling their wares in heavy crates and barrels onto the many zeppelins. 

This was where Lazarus first met Cybelle. In his mind’s eye he could almost see her stumbling about in her clean silk boots and glimmering gold coat. But her appearance today told a different tale. Her boots were caked with mud, her coat was splattered with muck and tattered by claws, her mask hung crooked on her face. Those large eyes that once glimmered with hope and wonder now stared off into the distance with oppressive sadness at the looming mountain. 

This was where he was supposed to leave her. This was what they had agreed upon many moons ago. Cybelle just stood there, shifting back and forth between her tired feet as she dug her thumbs under the straps of her heavy knapsack that now held the rare and precious ghostfern. She finally had what she came for. Any moment now she would be moving those muddy boots toward the docks and use what little coin she had to barter a one-way trip back home.

That was the plan anyway..

Cybelle was frozen though. Fearfully, woefully, bitterly, she gazed upon her gold gleaming home in the sky with a sadness that was only dwarfed by Lazarus looking down at her. He looked at her beautiful face like it was the last time he was ever going to get the chance to. He memorized it in his mind as he shuffled his own dirty boots against the cobblestone. He didn’t have eyes for anything else. Not the zeppelins, nor the merchants, nor the mountain. Only her. After a moment that felt like an eon, Cybelle took a step forward.

“Wait.” said Lazarus. Cybelle turned around with surprise but also a hint of relief. “You don’t have to do this.”

Cybelle looked up at him with a mournful frown. “Of course I do, my brother will die if I stay here.”

Lazarus shook his head bitterly. “No, he will die if the ghostfern stays here.” he said.

Cybelle sighed as she looked out across the docks, “But how is it going to get there if I do not deliver it? No one is allowed within the city walls if they are not from Myrne.”

Lazarus furrowed his brow as he watched the merchants at work, hauling their wares aboard the large, formidable aircrafts. Suddenly he had an idea. “There are docks in Myrne, correct? And Myrnish merchants who take goods into the city?”

The gears were starting to turn in Cybelle’s head. “Yes, there are.”

“Well then, can we send the plant with like, a note or something? Some instructions and directions for the merchant to take where it needs to go?”

Cybelle thought for a moment. “I do know a few of the merchants by name. Arturo and I grew up together. He was my neighbor for a long time. He would know where it needs to go, and my mother would know what to do with it.” The brightness in Cybelle’s eyes dimmed suddenly as she had another thought. “But… I would never seen them again. My family.”

“Never say never, Cybelle.” Lazarus said. “Do you know that for a fact?”

Cybelle frowned heavily, “The laws in Myrne are very strict.”

“What if in the letter you told your family to meet you on the docks some other time? Perhaps in another moon or two once your brother has recovered?” Lazarus offered.

Cybelle sighed bitterly, “Only merchants are allowed on the docks. It is strictly prohibited. I was only able to come here because I snuck inside a crate. It was a miracle that they didn’t notice me.”

Lazarus kicked a stray pebble and huffed. There was a long pause before he spoke again. “I cannot tell you what to do, Cybelle. Only you can make that choice. But what I can do, really the only thing I can do, is tell you how I feel.” 

All of a sudden there was a knot in his stomach. Because if he was going to say anything he knew that this would be his last chance.. 

“All my life I’ve dreamed about that cottage by the sea with the garden, and the bed, and the omlet. When I saw that pendant you were wearing I knew that it would be my only shot at ever getting what I wanted. Magic tricks are….. not exactly lucrative. And actually, if I’m going to be totally honest here, I figure you should know the truth about me. The whole truth.” Lazarus sighed, swallowing the bile creeping up his throat at the mention of the truth. He was going to be honest though. Maybe for once in his whole life. “This is difficult for me to say, but I owe it to you if nothing else. I’m a thief, Cybelle.” 

Lazarus winced at his own words and Cybelle’s fallen expression, but he bravely continued..

“I confess that for a moment when I first saw you I thought about stealing that pendant, but once I heard your story and saw so much of my own I simply couldn’t. There is a goodness in you that I admire, how selfless and pure your cause is. Over the course of the last few moons I have had the privilege of spending with you, I have come to discover how beautiful the woman beneath the mask truly is. How kind, and curious, and patient you are. I have been all over this land. Traveled far and wide, through forests and over mountains. I have swam in lakes and oceans and gazed out over countless valleys. But never has the world looked quite so hopeful than when I saw it through your eyes. It made me believe that if you could see the beauty there, if you could see the goodness in me, then perhaps I can as well.”

It was startling — the tear that leapt over your lash line. Violently enough to hit the page, to blur the Os in goodness. 

“If you choose to stay I promise you that I will never steal another coin or pocket watch. It may leave me poor for the rest of my days but if they’re spent with you, then I would be the richest man of all. It is all that I can offer you. My honesty, and a promise that I will show you more beaches, more mountains, more of the world than you could ever imagine. And since I intend to keep my promise, here is my honesty: I love you. Regardless of what you decide.” 

With a trembling hand, you turned the page only to discover there was nothing on the back. Sitting back in your seat with a ragged sigh, you stared out into your empty classroom. Your nose stung, fluorescents flaring in your tear-blurred vision. Separating the pages with your thumb, you flipped back and read it again. The last paragraph. The last two sentences. Those three type-written words. Over and over, wedging in the cracks of your armor as your sniffles echoed off the tile. 

The sun was dipping below the treeline, flooding the near-empty parking lot with a wash of somber pink. The snowfall had ceased, settled into the footprints and tire tracks. Glancing up at the clock and back down at the papers, you tried to imagine lifting another, scanning over sentences and writing in the margins like you hadn’t been completely upended by the one that trembled in your grasp. You couldn’t. 

Tears dripped down your cheeks as you donned your coat, as you shuffled overstuffed folders into your satchel and slung its weight over your shoulder. You swiped at them with your scratchy wool sleeve, flicking off the lights and shutting the door.

The soft pink had cooled to twilight blue when your boots met the blanket of snow, leaving tracks in the clean, fresh powder. Your breath trailed behind you in heavy clouds. It was quiet here too, barely a scattering of cars in the parking lot. Not even the wind disturbed the limbs of the orderly saplings between the curb and sidewalk, dusted with a glittering powder. 

Your hands found your keys, and the key found the hole, and soon you were sliding into your frigid leather seat, tossing the weight of your satchel on the passenger’s side with a dejected thump. You sat there a moment with only your breath for company before flicking your wrist at the ignition. 

Nothing.

Stomping on the break, you lurched forward with conviction this time, as if you could convince it you were serious. All it awarded you was a weak, persistent click. It’s fine, you told yourself through gritted teeth as you lunged again, snapping your wrist with a startling anger, like the seal had been cracked on a two liter pop bottle that had rolled around in the trunk for a week and a half. Still, nothing but a pathetic click. A split second thought crossed your mind—that the ferocity of your stomp might actually damage the car—but the logic was quickly snuffed out by your rage. The hard plastic key bit into your numb fingers. Over and over — stomping, twisting, cursing. Cursing yourself most of all for being stupid enough to let this continue for months. You were paying for it now. 

The tears were already waiting, primed behind your eyeballs, hardly dried on your cheeks when you left out the back door. They spilled over again, cooling as they dripped past your lashes, down the slope of your nose. One more time, you begged. Just one more time and I’ll be good, I swear. But the white Chevy Nova sat unmoved, offering only a vacant whine where there should have been a roar. You tossed back in your seat and huffed, chest heaving, filling the cramped space with the furious steam of your breath. 

Snowflakes glittered in the floodlights, shining like flares through the blur of your tears. It might have been beautiful on any other evening — one where the engine was warm, and your mind was clear, and your heart didn’t sink like a pit in your chest. It was hard to notice anything outside your bitter sobs, most especially the shadow that appeared in the window beside you. The rap of rings on the glass had you jumping, whipping your head to face the set of eyes you’d been avoiding most of all. 

“Need some help?” Eddie offered, bracing his knees in a crouch, eyes brimming with concern. 

Your stomach twisted with relief, then embarrassment, then a million other things rolled into one, sick knot. Wiping the evidence from your cheeks with a futile swipe of your sleeve, you cranked down the window with your left hand. You must have looked like an absolute basket case, jerking your arm in tight circles as the barrier lowered with the urgency of a tortoise. When where was enough space for him, Eddie braced against the top of your door and ducked his head inside. 

“Hey.” The warm sigh of his greeting kissed your cheek, thawing the sting of the cold. 

“Hey,” you mimicked, sounding just about as stable as you felt when it came out. “W-what are you doing here so late?” 

“Hellfire,” he stated simply. “You know, I could ask you the same question.”

Despite how true it was, it still felt pathetic when the answer left your lips. “Just… trying not to take so much work home with me.” You said it as casually as you could muster, but your voice betrayed you. Your cheeks were still cooling from the remnants of your tears, framing the heat from your dripping nose. 

Eddie suddenly looked very serious, splintering your armor with his softness. “You ok?” 

You gestured dejectedly at nothing, offering a hollow laugh. “No.”

Eddie filled the cabin with his sigh, eyes narrowing like he wanted to lunge through the window. Instead he just thumbed at the rubber and tipped his head closer, creaking your chest plate with the weight of his gaze. “You know, I could hear you clear across the parking lot,” he joked softly. “The car—I mean. Mostly. You leave your lights on or something?”

You shook your head. “It’s been doing this for months, ever since it started getting cold. I should have taken it to get checked out, but it usually starts after a couple tries.” 

“Sounds like it might be the battery, or maybe the starter. I won’t know unless I try and jump it. I’ll swing around—if—if that’s ok.” 

The wind ushered a curl toward his lips, and you clenched your hand to subdue it. “Yeah, it’s ok,” you sighed. “Thank you.”

With a nod, Eddie ducked out of the window and pivoted swiftly on his heels. From your side view mirror, you watched him make tracks in the blue snow with his heavy boots, hands shoved in his pockets as he glanced left and right, the ghost of his breath trailing closely behind. The seat creaked as you sat back and blinked like the cursor on a computer monitor; processing. One glance in your rearview mirror told you how disheveled you looked. Even in the twilight there was no masking the puffiness around your eyes, the mascara bleeding toward your cheeks. You swiped at them again, this time with a napkin from your glove box.

With a yank of the frigid handle, Eddie slid across the plaid and pleather padding into the drivers seat of his van. He froze for a second, glancing in his rearview mirror toward your small white sedan. Butterflies tore through his stomach, churning like a tornado as he flicked the ignition. Out of all his ridiculous fantasies, he hadn’t entertained this one. Not exactly anyway. One where you were the damsel in distress. One where he got to be the hero. 

The parking lot was vacant enough to drive across the lines. Ploughing through the naked patches where cars had spent the afternoon, he rumbled up beside you. Your stomach did a summersault when he stepped out, plodding around to the front of your car with jumper cables slung under his arm. 

“Can you pop the hood for me?” he asked.

The summersault rippled south through your abdomen. Reaching down under the console, your fingers found the leaver and obeyed. You felt kind of useless, just sitting there while he propped the hood onto the stand, shielding him from vision. Before you could form another thought, your hand was moving on its own, finding the plastic leaver of your door and opening it to the cold evening air. 

Eddie gave a shy look from behind his curtain of curls before stepping back with a nod. “Well, good news, there’s no monsters,” he joked. 

A smile cracked across your face, so genuine it almost felt foreign. You tucked your hands into your pockets, stepping closer to assess the engine like you knew what you were looking at. Your aura prickled with proximity, like his heat could thaw you even from where you stood. Eddie’s glance was soft and quick before procuring a small flashlight from his inner coat pocket. He held it in his teeth, flipping up the red and black plastic covers on the battery terminals. 

“I have hands too, you know,” you said with a smirk.

With a playful side-eye, he clamped the appropriate cables onto the terminals. Removing the silver torch from his mouth, he made room for his retort. “Mmhm, best keep ‘em warm. It’s uh, kinda chilly out.”

You shook your head as a laugh escaped your nostrils in a plume. Sauntering over to his van like a dark knight, Eddie leaned in the door to pop his own hood. Your boots made tentative tracks in the snow, drawn like a magnet as he hoisted the metal. From the light pinched in his teeth you could see the expanse of the massive engine, the shadow of his furrowed brow as he unscrewed plastic knobs. What you saw more than anything though—like a filter laid over the scene—were three type-written letters. The hands that typed them fumbled with the cables, squeezed around the thick, jaw-like clamps. When they bit right where he wanted, they released; tendons flexing, knuckles pinking from the freezing air. Reflexively, he wiped them on the chest of his black hoodie peeking out from his open coat. 

It might have just been the cold, but even in the twilight—in the absence of the flashlight he was tucking into his pocket—you could have sworn his cheeks flushed when he caught you staring. “Alright, um, go ahead and start your car. I’ll do the same.”

Following the tether that joined the two vehicles, you did as he told you. Nothing came of it though, just more incessant clicking. Exasperated, you tossed back in your seat before slumping out of the car once more. 

“Shit, it must be the starter. Probably cracked, that’s my guess anyway by the sound of it,” Eddie explained as he stepped around to face your engine again. Clicking his flashlight, he peered into the compartment. “See, if you follow the positive terminal line all the way down, that’s where the starter will be. Only problem is it’s tricky to get to without a lift.” 

You followed his grease-stained finger down the dirt-dusted tangle of tubes, drawing nearer under the subtle guise of interest in your engine. You stopped just inches from his solid leather frame, close enough to brush him with your elbow. “You seem to know your way around a car.”

He huffed, shaking his head as he muttered. “Wish I didn’t.” But before you could comment, he was shutting the hood. “I’m sorry, but I think we’re gonna have to call a tow truck.” 

Your defeated sigh rose toward the clouds as you glanced at the squat school building. The lights were off. Judy’s car was absent from the lot, as were all but a handful, including the two of yours. Glancing at your watch under the floodlights, the big hand tipped past the golden dot where a five should be.

Eddie stepped closer, filling the gap with a heavy exhale before meeting your eyes. “You know I could, um—” he scratched the back of his neck, words evaporating quicker than his breath. What could he do? What could he really do about any of this? For most of his life he’d been a leaf on the wind, scuttling across the pavement toward the gutter, struggling to steer himself away. But you were stranded, and if there was anything he was good for, it was a ride. “I could—I could take you back to your place. If you’re ok with that, I mean. We could—fuck—I mean you could call from there a-and I could—”

There were chinks in your armor, cracking with each bumbling word. You looked at him, really looked. Eddie Munson, with grease-stained hands and eyes that pierced like arrows in their pleading. Straight through to the softest part of you, the place between your ribs that cries I want. And oh, how desperately you wanted. Wanted to soothe his worried lips in yours again, to feel his pounding chest again, to be thawed by his heat again. But you just stood there, frozen.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his open coat, he shifted on the balls of his feet as he searched for more words in the snow. “Look, I know you said you wanted space, a-and it probably seems like—shit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, releasing with a sharp sigh. “I just want to help you. Will you just let me help you? Please?”

Your chest plate clattered to the concrete, gauntlets falling in a heap beside your greaves. There was no white flag to wave. No sword to relinquish, or shield to discard. Your surrender was nothing but a soft “okay,” barely heard above the howling wind. 

______

A/N: After over a year and 100k words, the smut chapter is finally upon us! Thank you for coming with me on this very long journey and sticking it out. I have no idea how long this next one is going to take me to write, but I can promise you that when it’s finished you will experience every moment in exquisite, delicious, poetic detail. 

You might have noticed that I’ve pulled a few small details like character names and places from Flight of Icarus, but I will not be retconning any of Eddie’s backstory. 

Also random, tumblr decided to make that one paragraph bold once I changed it to chat font with no ability to unbold it, but that wasn't intended. It kind of worked though so I'm not mad.

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @raccoonboywrites @storiesbyrhi @trashmouth-richie @keeponquinning @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @mrsjellymunson @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @barbiedragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes @ajkamins

[yandereunsolved]

I loved your masc!reader x yandere!John post. Can you expand more on the period typical homophobia? I can’t help but be fascinated by it 😭

set in RDR1 cw(s): period typical homophobia, cheating, internalized homophobia and guilt, and gaslighting

Cowboys often led a double life. Meeting a woman and falling in love would essentially end their career because they would be expected to settle down and raise children. So most enjoyed the company of other men instead. However, the homophobia at the time was so rampant that "saying the quiet part out loud" would lead to social ostracization and even death in some cases.

Many times close-knit communities, like ranches, mining camps, and farms, would be the safe space for gay cowboys.

So yandere John knows he has to isolate masc darling, especially if darling's social circle is especially homophobic (i.e. religious and conservative). He will offer the opportunity for darling to come and work with him. He'll dress it up and do anything to get them to come. He'll even resort to kidnapping if need be (although kidnapping is more of a trait for Low Honor John).

He'll try to embody more of a "we're just work buddies." Except work buddies don't sloppily make out behind the silo before Abigail catches them. Work buddies don't have explosive arguments over boundaries and people. Work buddies don't have one man pining over a masc one, which ends with both of them in a torrid love affair.

John will do his best to hide this from Abigail. The heavens know how rocky their relationship has been. High Honor John wants to be the best husband he can be for his dear wife, even if his heart belongs to another. He doesn't want to disappoint them, Abigail and Jack, more than he already has.

So he'll work long nights tending to cattle and sowing the fields, while whispering dirty secrets into your ears and marking you up. He'll tell you to hide it, lest you be cast out of society, but it makes him hot under the collar. Seeing how awkward you are with Abigail makes him hard. (He refuses to admit it.)

It's really your fault that he has to live this double life. If you hadn't have been so irresistible, then he wouldn't have to be such a sneak. One day you'll be his official partner―if he can get over his internalized homophobia and soul-crushing guilt over "failing" his current family (and Arthur).

[anonymouse-notarat]

2nd installment of the religious Wolfstar AU! (I haven’t come up with a title for it yet😭). I’m thinking about making this into a cohesive one-shot/microfic instead of just posting snippets on Tumblr if I can get my shit together & I find/make the time for it & I don’t lose interest (those are all really big “ifs”). Will also probably end up editing this part to oblivion like the last one, but here we go:

~~~~~~~~~~

CW: internalized homophobia/homophobic behavior, mention of conversion camps, sexual content

The black-haired boy is desperate, Remus thinks when he first sees him. Desperate to be loved, desperate to be fucked—it doesn’t matter; it’s the same thing. What’s more important is what he started coming to church in the first place for: to be fixed, to be cured. To have the sin siphoned out of him until there is nothing left. He will not indulge in these sick, twisted fantasies, these temptations of the flesh. Not even when he can feel his pulse rushing like a second heartbeat in his head, or his palms suddenly becoming very sweaty, or his face overly warm when he meets this boy’s eyes from across the church. Nope. No no no. His father’s voice reverberates around in his skull, echoing from the last time he caught him with another boy. The neighbor kid’s head had been bobbing between his legs, Remus’s head thrown back in white-bliss ecstasy when the lock clicked and Lyall walked into the room. Remus didn’t remember much from the rest of that god-awful night—just the frantic doing-up of jeans, “Dad, it’s not what it looks like, I promise!,” tumultuous yelling—“Get the fuck out of my house!,” hushed voices behind cracked bedroom doors—“you know, the McKinnons sent their daughter to one of those places.” In the end, his parents settled on this: Remus and the boy were never to contact each other again, and at the end of the school year, the Lupins would move to a new town a few counties over. “It’ll be a fresh start,” his mother had reassured him as they pulled out of the driveway, boxes stacked in the back of their cramped sedan. And Remus, the oblivious fool he was, had believed her.

[edupunkn00b]

You Know 'Found Family' Is Only an Idiom, Right?

A standard review of Janus' permanent record reveals a secret his teacher, one Mr. Logan Sanders, was uniquely positioned to recognize.

Written for @fandombead/@icycove for the @tss-camp-and-coffee Camp Cartoon writing event. WC: 2168 - Rated: G - CW: None, essentially fluff and snark. There's inherent angst in adoption and the foster system but it's all left to the imagination of the reader. - My other camp stories

For the fourth time in a single afternoon, Logan quietly cursed that day’s fire drill. Originally scheduled for third period, the school’s lacrosse coach had successfully lobbied to have it moved to fourth so that it wouldn’t interrupt the team's practice time.

The Dean had conceded and moved the drill. Right into Logan’s prep period.

With a bit of schedule finagling—and a rushed lunch of a third cup of coffee and granola bar which Patton would not need to know about—Logan had been able to get back on track. By the time his final period of the day had ended, he’d managed to make it work and fit in nearly everything on the day’s task list.

Nearly everything.

He now sat at his desk, five minutes before the start of his office hours and the start of his senior review with the final name on his list. And he hadn’t yet properly reviewed the student’s file.

Janus Woods was not completely unknown to him. Sly and sarcastic, he was the student most other teachers in the school dreaded to see on their rosters. In his years at the school, the boy's behavior had never quite risen to the level of outright insubordination or disruption. He seemed to have a knack for knowing precisely where that line was.

And he relished dancing along its razor sharp edge.

Despite his spotty grades, Janus was frequently assigned to one Logan’s honors or AP classes. Logan had never expressed that strong of a reaction to teaching him and perhaps that explained his other teachers’ eagerness to recommend him for the honors track. Not to say he didn’t belong there. The boy’s snark all-too-often revealed a sharp wit that no doubt foretold of a strong academic career. If only he’d drop the ‘above it all’ act and genuinely apply himself.

Shaking away his own internal lecture, Logan opened Janus’ file. If this was to be a productive meeting in which to review Janus’ post-graduation plans, he needed to go by more than ‘vibes’ as his seniors liked to say.

Janus’ transcript was much as he expected. Barely passing phys ed the few semesters he hadn’t managed to be formally excused. Attended the honors track but without distinction. No clubs or associations. He turned the page, wincing when he saw the electronic records now even included when students purchased tickets to after school events. Janus had attended a few school plays, but no sporting events. No dances.

His SAT scores were phenomenal but there was no note of which college he planned to attend. There were records of any transcript requests from any of the schools he’d applied to.

Frowning down at the file, his eye caught on Janus’ address.

204 Center Street

That was… Logan pulled up his phone contacts and confirmed his memory. 204 Center Street was the address for the group home where their sons had lived before he and Patton had adopted them.

He checked the parental contact page again. No names, only a phone number.

The same phone number to the central social work line Logan had memorized during Virgil's early years.

Logan flipped back to Janus’ cover sheet. Janus was four months away from eighteenth birthday. It had taken over a year for them to finalize the paperwork for the twins. Virgil, being older and somewhat more complicated, had taken twice as long.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Sanders?” Janus drawled from the doorway. A thick paperback book clutched to his chest, the boy stood stiffly, face a neutral mask. While some students approached their senior planning session with giddiness, others with a blasé case of senioritis, Janus appeared cautious, unsure of what Logan might want with him.

“Yes, please, come in, Janus. I—if you’ll forgive me, I must make a very brief phone call.”

Janus half-shrugged and sat down in the seat closest to the door. And furthest from Logan's desk. He pulled out a battered copy of Les Misérables—in French—and began to read.

Logan unlocked his phone, watching him. There were no French classes on Janus' transcript. He'd fulfilled his two years of language requirement with Spanish and German.

“Well, hey there, Logie! What a nice surprise!” His husband’s cheery voice melted away the icy knot growing in his chest and he smiled. "Hi Daddy!" the twins called from the background.

Janus glanced up at him then quickly looked away.

“Is everything okay?” The sound changed as Patton clicked the call from car speakers to his earbud. Logan glanced at the time. They were likely mid-afternoon pickup, on their way to get Virgil from the middle school.

“Everything is fine, well, it… I don’t have much time, but do you remember what we were talking about over the weekend? About…”

“You mean Virgie joking about getting a new brother to replace the twins?”

He cleared his throat, stifling a chuckle at the tumult his little statement had sparked. And the long conversation that followed. “More what came out of it.”

“Oh,” Patton’s voice went low. “Are you having second thoughts about applying?”

“On the contrary,” Logan said, catching the moment when Janus became absorbed in his book, curling around it as his eyes danced over the words, expression shifting as the tale unfolded. “Pat, do you trust my judgement?” he asked quietly.

“We—well, of course, Logie. Are you okay?”

“I am fine, I am… More than fine. I will explain everything when I get home,” he promised. “See you in a few hours. Love you,” he murmured, cheeks warming when Janus’ eyes darted up at him.

“Love you, Logie,” Patton called, switching the phone back to speaker mode. A chorus of “Love you, Daddy!” poured through from the twins in the back.

Still smiling, Logan ended the call and put away his phone. He looked up at Janus, the boy’s sharp eyes already fixed on him. The book had disappeared.

“You always call your wife after class?” he drawled, drumming his fingers on the desk.

“Husband,” he corrected, noting the flash of surprise. “And, no.” Logan gestured at the seat next to his own desk. “Would you like to sit here or would you rather I join you there?” He looked pointedly around the empty classroom. “Unless, of course you prefer we shout at each other across the distance.”

Janus shrugged and gestured to the seat beside him. Nodding, Logan closed the folder and brought it and a notepad to the new seat. Pose frozen, Janus watched him from the corner of his eye, another lingering spark of surprise in his gaze.

“Most teachers would’ve made me move,” he said as though Logan was somehow dull.

“Perhaps,” Logan admitted. “Am I most teachers?”

Shifting in his seat, Janus looked at him but didn’t answer.

Logan let the silence sit between them for a few beats then opened his file. “When I originally scheduled this time with you, I’d intended it as the standard ‘what are your post-graduation plans’ session,” he began. He turned the folder so Janus could see what was inside.

His hands twitched, peering closely at the thick file, and Logan passed it to him.

“Is that allowed?” Janus said. He didn’t wait for an answer and pulled the file close, flipping through the pages as though searching for something.

“It’s your record,” Logan answered with his own little shrug. He gave Janus a bit of time to review what was inside. “There’s no mention of what college you plan to attend after you graduate.”

Janus’ face tightened and he closed the file. “I’m taking a gap year,” he said. “I thought I might backpack through Europe or some such adventure.”

“A year in Europe,” Logan nodded. “That would be quite an adventure.” Janus remained silent. “What do your parents think of that?”

“They’re thrilled,” Janus lied. “It’s all Dad ever talks about, it’s a bit of a family tradition. You understand,” he said, passing back the file. “So I suppose that’s all you need from me?” he said, beginning to rise from his seat.

Logan took the file but otherwise didn’t move. “And these are your parents at the St. Jerome Foundling Home, yes?”

Janus froze, back still turned. “That’s not what my file says.”

“No, it’s not,” Logan said. “But I recognized your address from when my husband and I adopted our sons.”

Slow clapping, Janus turned with a scowl. “Most impressive detective work,” he spat before quickly schooling his features back into that stiff mask. “I suppose this is where we have a heart-to-heart and you assure me some family out there will be lucky to have me? You tell me not to give up hope, to apply myself and go to college and I skip out of here with renewed purpose and go work at a soup kitchen or something?”

“Is that what you want?” Logan asked mildly.

“What?” Janus sputtered. Visibly taken aback, he sank back down in his seat, bag still hanging from his shoulder.

“A family?” Logan turned in his seat to fully face him. “To go to college?” Emotions flashed over Janus’ face, too quickly for Logan to interpret. “I assume the soup kitchen was sarcasm but you are eligible for service credit if you decide to volunteer.” He pointed to his desk. “I have the forms if you need them.”

“Do you take everything so damn literally?” Janus asked, tone too soft to match his words.

“No.” Logan considered. “Yes. It depends on which of my sons you ask.”

Janus stared at him, mouth twitching with some unspoken comeback. His eyes held the same look they’d had when he’d been reading, though. As much as he wanted to regain the upper hand, it seemed he wanted to know what might happen next even more.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Logan prompted.

“Of course I want to go to college,” he said, crossing and uncrossing his arms. Finally he settled on folding his hands on the desk in a sphinx pose. He jerked his chin at the file still in front of Logan. “I missed the dorm deposit deadline and apartments in transit distance of the school are… prohibitive.”

“Do you drive?” Logan asked. Their high school was over ten miles from the group home. He must spend hours on buses each day.

“No, I usually have Alfred take me wherever I need to go,” he drolled.

“Right.” Logan nodded. “So housing is a major obstacle to attending school next year.”

Janus raised an eyebrow, the silent ‘Duh,’ an expression Logan recognized from Virgil’s snarkier moments.

“You haven’t yet answered my other question,” he said slowly. “Do you want a family?”

“If you ever quit teaching, you could have a career as a comedian,” Janus huffed. “The pay would be just as bad, I presume.”

“I will keep that under advisement,” Logan chuckled. “Thanks to my husband’s family, we do not have concerns on that front.”

Mouth pinched, Janus stared at him. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Do you want a family?” Logan asked again. “If you don’t, there are other ways we can assist you, to help ensure you can go to school once you age out of the foster care system.” He shrugged, palms up. “But if you’d like to be formally adopted before you turn eighteen, we should consider starting the process soon.”

“You’re serious.”

Logan smiled. “Indeed.”

“And this isn’t a ploy to get me to some secondary location and show me how you really want me to earn your assistance?”

Logan’s throat tightened at the flash of fear in Janus’ eyes. “No.” He shook his head and took out his phone. Thumbing through, he opened the photo roll then passed it to him. “This is my family,” he said. Janus stared at him for a moment before looked down at the photos. The most recent set were from the twins’ birthday party, including several of the cake-strewn dining room table, the result of Remus’ proud demonstration of his home-made trebuchet.

“Hate to see what the punishment for that was,” Janus muttered, scrolling through the images.

“We cleaned it up together,” Logan said. “And the trebuchet stays outside now.”

Phone still gripped in his hand, Janus searched his eyes for the lie. He didn’t find one. After another moment, he passed the phone back. “So what do you want?”

Logan pocketed the phone and shrugged. “I would like you to meet my family,” he said after a moment. “And I’d like you to consider joining it.”

“Is this just your kin—thing,” he backtracked, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. “You go around collecting wayward souls like Pokemon? That how you got them?” he asked gesturing toward the now hidden phone.

“That’s an entirely different story,” Logan said. “Would you like to meet them and find out?”

Janus' jaw twitched, eyes distant as he stared out past Logan’s shoulder. Finally, he took a deep breath and nodded. “I think perhaps I would.”

[positivexcellence]

Jared Padalecki Says Goodbye to ‘Walker’ and Blasts the CW’s ‘Cheap Content’ Strategy After Show’s Cancellation: ‘F— It. They Can’t Fire Me Again’

The writers first introduced this Jackal storyline at the end of the third season as a way to excavate more demons from Cordell and Captain James’ (Coby Bell) shared past. What did this storyline help you unlock in terms of your understanding of Cordell? What were you most interested in exploring from a character perspective?

I’ve been fortunate enough for many years, many decades, to play characters that are in situations where the story is not about the situation necessarily: It’s about what’s going on with the character. On “Supernatural,” we fought God, we fought Lucifer, I was Lucifer at one point, we fought demons — but it was really about the brothers. It was about a bond; it was about the tropes of sacrifice, loyalty, determination, discipline and so many more things.

So when the Jackal storyline first occurred to the gang, [a serial killer storyline] was something that we hadn’t approached yet on “Walker.” And it’s something that the real Texas Rangers actually get involved with: They do hunt down and investigate serial killer allegations. So it was a fun template with which to play out past traumas, [as well as this idea of] trusting those close to you and them trusting you back and getting out of your head.

I don’t want to say I suffer [from this], but I’m in my head a lot. Partially that’s my nature, just the way I was born; and partially that’s my nurture, being an actor. You have your script, you read it, and you’re like, “OK, now what can I add? What does this mean?” So I just spend a lot of time in my head, and oftentimes it takes somebody beloved that’s part of my circle to go, “Hey, you all right?” And I’ll be like, “Oh shit. Yeah, sorry, I’ve been kind of elsewhere.” So [I enjoyed] playing that role this season, and understanding how the rabbit hole of emotions in your mind can sometimes affect more than just you.

This iteration of “Walker” has always been about Cordell’s neverending internal struggle to find the right work-life balance. For me, he seems to finally recognize that he’s done plenty of great work as a Ranger, but he has yet to really fulfill his duties as a father, even though he is about to become an empty nester. What is your take on where we leave him in the finale?

Yeah, it’s exactly that — and kudos to Anna and the rest of the writing gang. It was a lot of what I was going through [in real life]. It’s a lot of what I’m going through now, having worked since I was 17 years old when I started “Gilmore Girls.” There are a lot of things that you miss when you’re acting — a lot of graduations, camp drop-offs, kids’ games, whatever. It’s a wonderful job, and I’m so grateful to have been able to do it for so long, but there’s a lot that you give up.

So I think where we find Cordell in the finale is exactly in that spot where he’s no longer anxiety- or panic-driven about having to do the next job, having to get up and find somebody to arrest or find something to fix or investigate. He has realized — much to the credit of Jeff Pierre’s Trey, Ashley Reyes’ Cassie, and obviously Coby Bell’s Larry James — that, “Hey, the world goes on without you.” I think Cordell was in his own head for a lot of the episodes, and afraid that if he wasn’t around, things would fall apart. I think he found a place where he is like, “The world was here before me. The world will be here after me. And what I need to do for those around me is spend time with them.” So he’s come to a realization that there’s more than just the next job.

I think it took him — I don’t want to call it rock bottom, but getting out of control with his obsession with the Jackal to realize, “Oh, wait, maybe I need to step away from this for a little bit, and when I come back, I’ll come back stronger and more clear headed.” There will always be another job, but the family is growing up. August is graduating, Stella is in college, and he and Geri are working through some stuff. So I think he realized that, “Hey, I need to put my energies elsewhere.” It’s told in TV form, but it’s a really universal lesson. Sometimes, just doing something different, just changing your routine, can open your eyes to not only the positives of the routine — but also the drawbacks.

The writers have put Cordell through the wringer over the years, but this is the closest that he came to dying. The idea of mortality becomes even more intense when you become a parent — and, in Cordell’s case, a widowed single parent — because you have to think about what you’re leaving behind for your children.

Great point. [My wife] Genevieve [who played Cordell’s late wife, Emily] and I talk about that all the time, as parents. I think this is one of the lessons that both Gen and I hope to give to our kids, and for them to grasp as well. As kids grow up — and even adults — they will often deal with and question: “Is what I’m doing right? Should I be doing something else? If I’m not important here, then am I important at all?” I think part of the reason Cordell makes the decision that he does at the end of the finale is to show his kids: “Hey, I know I’ve been doing this, and it is very important. But so are you. It’s not a ‘no, but.’ It’s a ‘yes, and.’” It takes courage to leave routine, to leave habits, and I think he wants his kids to know, “Hey, it’s OK if y’all have to pivot, if y’all have to change. Do what you know is right, not what you think other people think is right.”

Unlike some other shows on the bubble, you and the writers elected not to shoot an alternate ending. That means you’ve left the audience with a couple big cliffhangers: In addition to taking a leave of absence, Cordell is also planning to propose to Geri; and James Van Der Beek was going to play the Walkers’ new (and potentially nefarious) neighbor. Did you and Anna discuss what next season would have looked like?

Yeah, there was so much to deal with, now that Violet and Kale are both young adults. They’re not children like they were four years ago, both literally and metaphorically. So there was a lot that we were going to explore with them — like, how much the sins of the father can carry down to the progeny, and how much Stella and/or August had, unfortunately, [inherited] their father’s bad qualities as well, which we dealt with this year with Stella. She’s very much like her father in the good ways and in the bad ways.

But we were very excited to have James on the show. He’s a personal friend, and he lives here in Austin. It wasn’t going to be like the Walker-Davidson feud necessarily [from Season 2], and the fifth season was certainly not written by any means, but I think there was going to be a very interesting dynamic that Cordell was maybe not anticipating, because he was taking a backseat on his law enforcement duties. We thought that James and his crew were going to be maybe up to no good, and Walker was just blinded to it.

Walker was a “Hell yes” or “hell no” kind of guy; he was either all-in on something, or he was kind of oblivious to it. And that was good when he was all-in on a job or all-in on trying to work with his family. But it was bad when he was oblivious: “Oh, no, the kids are fine. I’m fine. They’re nice. Don’t be suspicious of this person, or that person.” And he kind of got stuck in his own head, as we all often do at times. So we were going to explore that.

Is there something that you would have personally loved to have explored further with Cordell, if you had been given more time?

Oh my God. How long do you have? I really would’ve done the show forever. I just loved my character. I loved that I got to be in Austin with my family. I loved my cast and loved our crew. Maybe this is what ultimately was our downfall, but we weren’t ever seeking like, “Oh, here’s the explosion. Oh, here’s the wild cliffhanger where the aliens come down. Oh, here’s the next hot reality star that comes in and takes their clothes off.” It was never about sensationalism. It was more about life. When Anna and I first talked about the show many years ago, one of the reasons [this reboot] was called “Walker,” not “Walker, Texas Ranger,” was because he’s a widow and a father who happens to be in law enforcement. It was an exploration of everything that life could have to offer — heartbreak, disappointment, shame, love, becoming an empty nester — and I’m worse than heartbroken that we are not going to get to explore all those storylines. 

You’ve developed a tradition, on both “Supernatural” and “Walker,” of being the one to deliver the news of a renewal or a cancellation to your cast and crew. How did that happen this time around?

Yes. I talked to David Stapf at CBS and Brad Schwartz at CW before the announcement was made. And when Brad and I were talking, he was wildly flattering of “Walker” and what we had done, and he has his directives as well. He asked me, “Hey, how would you feel if we release the news or if you release the news? Do you have a preference? You’re CW royalty. You’ve been here since Day 1. How do you want to do this?” I thought about it, and I was like, “You know what, man? I think it might be best if I go ahead and make the announcement.” He was like, “Cool. Just go ahead.” And I asked him, “Do you want me to send what I’m going to post to you first, or do you want me to just go and post it?” And he goes, “We know you. We love you. We trust you. You don’t need to double check it with me. Just go ahead and send it when you’re ready.”

It was not easy to see the keyboard on my phone through the tears in my eyes, but I was grateful that I was allowed to [do that]. So often, when these big announcements are made, it’s like, “OK, here’s what’s going to happen. Don’t say anything until 1 p.m. in three days because we haven’t called all the outlets yet.” It felt like a very human send-off to go, “OK, do what you need to say, and we will reiterate it.” It felt like a great part of the closure that I’m still seeking. 

Did The CW ever give you a reason for the cancellation? Did it come down to budgetary reasons? Do you know any of the particulars?

Yeah. I talked with the head of CBS and the head of Nexstar/CW, I talked with the other [executive producers] on “Walker,” and I think it was a multivariate kind of issue. My understanding is — and again, this is just what I’m told — that Nexstar is going in a different direction with The CW. I mean, they have an hour of “Trivial Pursuit” and an hour of “Scrabble” coming up. I don’t know why you wouldn’t just download the app or grab a board game and play with your friends, but they’re clearly just — what’s that great quote? It’s like, “If somebody tells you who they are, ask questions. If somebody shows you who they are, believe them.”

I feel like The CW that I was a part of last year is not The CW that I was a part of under [former chairman and CEO] Mark Pedowitz for that entire, almost 20-year stretch. They’re just changing the network around, where it’s not really going to be a TV network as much as it’s going to be, “Here’s something fun for an hour that you’ll never watch again, but hopefully you watch it. And it’s cheap!” And I hate to say that, but I’m just being honest. I mean, fuck it. They can’t fire me again. I’m just being brutally honest. I think it felt to me like they were looking for really easy, cheap content that they could fill up time with.

You’ve only had a few weeks to process the cancellation, but have you given any thought to what you will do next?

I left two days [after the cancellation was announced] to go to Europe for work and then for play. My wife and kids met me out there, and we took a little vacation that was already planned. It was strange, and it was both horrible and wonderful. It was horrible because I really wanted to grieve. I really wanted to sit there and grieve, and call my cast. But here I was, eight or 10 hours ahead of their time zone, and I couldn’t make a phone call to everybody I wanted to make. The texts would come in when I woke up in the morning, and I just wanted or needed a personal connection with everybody who I had worked with for so long. But it was great, because I had a lot of distractions.

But I haven’t taken a whole lot of time just yet to think about what’s next. I kind of said this at the end of “Supernatural”: I wasn’t interested in acting [again], per se. I do love producing. I love the production aspect, and I love the problem-solving that comes with it. So there are a few things that my wife and I are in the process of developing that I would love to produce and act in. But beyond that, I still feel like I haven’t grieved the loss of “Walker,” so I don’t know yet if I trust my feelings. That sounds like a cop-out. I’m so sorry.

No, that’s a totally valid answer, considering that you openly spoke about how you hoped “Walker” would last just as long as, if not longer than, “Supernatural.” It’s natural that you wouldn’t necessarily know where to go from here.

Yeah, I don’t want to disappear into the bushes by any means, but I kind of want to disappear into the bushes. But hopefully, at this point in my life, and much like Cordell realized at the end of Season 4, I need to take a good, long, hard look at my personal life and the time I spend with my family and my friends, and I need to stop being so aggressive and obsessed with work. I still want to work, but for now, you’ll find me in and out of the bushes, hanging out with family and seeing friends. If a project comes up and I don’t care about it, then money doesn’t matter. But if a project comes up and I love the story or there’s somebody I really want to work with, then all right, [I���ll do it].

One of the people that you presumably want to work with again is Eric Kripke, who already recruited your former “Supernatural” costar Jensen Ackles to star in his current show, “The Boys.” Now that your schedule has opened up, are you officially joining the final season of “The Boys”?

Well, I’ll say this: Kripke and I texted today. It’s not been written yet, but I think he was saying [the final season] doesn’t even film until 2025. So yeah, I’m going to go play in Kripke’s newest playground. I had a great time the first time around, so I’m sure I’ll have a great time here again. I love the show. I think it’s hilarious and exciting. But you were asking what my plans for the future were — and I love Jensen and Eric Kripke. Obviously, I’ll be indebted to [Kripke] and entangled with him forever. I met my wife because of him. I was Sam Winchester because of him. “Supernatural” happened because of him. So working with him on a show that I enjoy, I’m like, “Yeah, when do I fly out?” But I don’t think we would film until at least January. 

Your body of work has spanned so many genres, but is there a specific genre that you are looking to explore next?

I thought “Walker” was kind of a mixture of “Gilmore Girls” and “Supernatural.” It was a family show with excitement and stunts, and macro storylines married with the micro. You know what? There’s a script that I love, and if we can get it turned into something, then I’d love to be a part of it. It’s actually a sitcom, but not a slapstick or knee-slapping sitcom. It’s kind of like a family-esque sitcom. It could actually be an hourlong show that you’d kind of define as a sitcom.

One of the things I really enjoyed about “Walker” was the humor that I was able to try and bring to screen, because my characters on “Gilmore Girls” and “Supernatural” were more stoic and serious, and I am by nature a much goofier person than the characters I’d played for 20 years. It terrifies me, because I think I’m funny among friends, but I don’t think I’m a funny person. I just think I’m goofy.

I’d like to explore that. It’s scary. It’s something I haven’t done, and I think I’d be very intrigued. 

It seems very difficult for dramatic actors to make that transition to comedy.

It’s so difficult!

You’ve now starred in over 450 episodes of primetime network TV, which is no small feat. What is your biggest takeaway from the time you’ve spent on The WB and The CW? When you think back to your biggest aspirations when you began on “Gilmore Girls,” how did your dreams ultimately compare to your reality?

Yeah, it’s been a long time. I think there’s some form of the saying, “If I only knew then what I know now…” Oftentimes, [this is] such a cutthroat industry. I think I spent so long in my adult life trying to get to a point where I could live my life, where I felt comfortable, where I felt safe and secure. I love storytelling. I love storytellers. I love raconteurs. I love that friend we all have that can just talk for an hour, and you’re laughing, you’re crying, you’re interested, and you’re learning. I love being able to pretend to be one of those characters on screen.

But I think along the way, it feels like I really learned, “Hey, don’t work to earn. Work to learn.” And at some point in time, you’ve got to look in the mirror and go, “Hey, you’re working towards some ever-moving goalpost. Why don’t you try and enjoy it now?” I think that’s kind of where I sit now. We’re just about a month [removed] from the announcement that we weren’t picked up again, so it’s kind of funny how life imitates art, or art imitates life. What Cordell went through in the finale and what I’m going through now are mirrors. I’ll be 42 next month. Am I waiting until I’m 60 and I have 800 episodes of television or something? I have to live my life now. I’ve got a 12-year-old, a 10-year-old, and a 7-year-old. 

I think, ironically, in trying to tell somebody else’s story for so long, I’ve realized that my story has value too.

Variety

[lvmimis]

cw: fluff. you and todo are besties, somehow. you're thinking about someone else.

“If I’m gonna be seen out in public with you, I’m gonna need you to act sane, Aoi,” you offer, huffing. He barely looks up, still taken by the convention programme in his hands and you sigh, not bothering to repeat yourself as you pull your knees to your chest. It’s cold, and Todo is warm, so you rest on his shoulder and he’s kind enough not to shrug you off (or perhaps too distracted by the chance to see his ultimate waifu to). 

In another world, you’d be jealous, but you’ve long gotten over the potential of romance, settling comfortably into a platonic sort of siblinghood over the past year. God let you dodge that particular bullet and you’re thankful for it, although you’re staring down the barrel of Cupid’s shotgun. You shake your head away from thoughts of the pink-haired ray of sunshine, and look at your own schedule, wondering how Todo convinced you to come to camp out here this early in the first place.

You yawn loudly, raising your head up to see the sunrise along the horizon, past other huddled bodies dotting the streetside. Rather than be upset at Aoi for having such delusional aspirations, you should be glad that despite all that you’ve all been through in the world of curses and worse, he can still invest in something as ridiculous as fanatical love. Even normal, attainable love terrifies you to the very core, chilling you more than the winter frost trying to seep into your bones.

“If you’re going to ignore me, I’m not doing this again,” you say out loud. Todo looks at you finally, but instead of meeting your annoyance similarly, he grins widely. 

“Ha, actually, can’t wait till you come out with me for the international tour!”

You glare at him, then check your watch.

“Wasn’t this shit supposed to open hours ago?” You ask.

Todo shrugs, eerily calm. “I’ll wait hours for her.” Your nose scrunches in disgust.

“Okay, you might, but what about me?!”

Todo gives you a look, shrugging his broad shoulders again, something that irritates you. “Love is patient, you know?”

“Okay, that’s enough.” 

You get to your feet and he considers reaching for you, then remembers you don’t have the heart to ditch your friend anyway. Crossing his legs and resting his face on his planted elbow, he waits and watches you. As expected, you stand and make to leave, but turn on your heels and sigh before sitting back down. For the next few minutes, you don’t say anything additional until finally Todo glances at you. 

“Text Yuji back.”

You blink.

“What do you mean, ‘text Yuji back’?” 

Todo has intermittently pulled out a boar bristle brush and smooths down his edges, preening in the mirror, and you can’t believe how many hair products are in the small pouch he brought with him. You wait for him to respond, blood pressure rising as he takes his time, then places his brush down on the camping blanket.

“He’s worried about you.”

You grimace.

“Tell him to mind his business.”

Todo looks at you sideways. “You are his business the same way Takada is my business.”

You would argue with him that Takada, again, is not going to fuck him, but it would involve admitting that the unaddressed part of that statement is true.

“I respect you-“

“Debatable,” you interrupt, but Todo continues as if you haven't said a word.

“But that’s my brother, you know?” 

By now, Todo is spritzing perfume on himself, enough to make you choke. You’d strangle him if his neck weren’t so thick.

“Tell your brother I don’t like him,” you murmur. 

Todo pats his face with overpriced lotion. “I’m not lying to him.”

“Aoi, I swear to God.”

He rummages through the bag again, and spritzes you this time, a floral scent that has you swatting the air.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“I can’t have you cramping my style. Takada needs to know that my friends smell good too.”

You can’t believe that you woke up early to do this, but bite your lip and decide not to rage further. Before you can ponder what exactly to do about the friend of a friend who very clearly is in love with you, the gates open and Todo has packed up in a millisecond, warning you not to slow him down. 

He’s fanatical in love, and while you’ve once wished someone would adore you to this extent, it’s been more than you can handle to have even a fraction of this type of adoration pointed towards you.