#i don’t remember what kind of car he drived i just remember it being blue and fast 😭

[fizzytoo]

i remember being 10 years old and my tio taking my brothers and i to street races ,,,, why were we there

[theoldsports]

Married | Part II

LINK TO PART ONE

Coriolanus Snow x Reader | 5.1K words

FILTHY SMUT 18+ ONLY. oral (m and f receiving), dubcon, alcohol makes consent messy, brutal sex, blackout drunk, bad media coverage, lingerie, exhibitionism (a little), they’re both terrible for each other in the best way possible, possessiveness <3 this one gets a bit dark.

Married, back by popular demand. hope it’s okay. i worked hard, i’m a bit nervous. let me know what you thought. requests always open.

“Not a villain,” Coriolanus scoffed. “A star.”

He inhaled and set his sights towards his next objective. Already leaning in, Coriolanus pulled [Y/N]’s earlobe between his lips tantalizingly. “Now, I seem to recall being promised a blowjob, my Darling.”

[Y/N] sighed. “I had hoped you’d forgotten.”

Coriolanus smirked, inches from her face. “I never forget a promise.” He muttered.

The driver pulled up in front of them with his car and Coriolanus pulled [Y/N] inside. [Y/N] put her head on Coriolanus’ shoulder instead of putting on her seatbelt for the short drive home. She was drunk enough not to care if she was touching him, or if he was touching her. Coriolanus was touching her. He was touching her too much already at her thighs and hips. The pair of them had already broken the touch barrier that evening, but her brain was too loopy to try to push any kind of new/old boundary.

[Y/N] blinked heavily. She was able to tell that Coriolanus was already becoming frustrated with the bulk of tulle that was her black gown. It was funny for an engagement party when she thought about it, since it stood in stark contrast to her crisp white wedding gown. Coriolanus couldn’t seem to figure out how to touch her right under all the fabric as he had then they were standing earlier.

“Is your wedding dress going to be easier to handle?” Coriolanus said into the back of her ear. “This one is starting to get on my nerves.”

“I can’t tell you that. You’re not ‘pposed to see it til you see it at the alter.” She giggled sadly.

Coriolanus frowned. “Ancient superstition,” he said. “I’m not seeing it anyway. You’d be telling me about it. It’s different.”

“Nice try.”

Coriolanus’ frown deepened as he rolled his icy blue ice. “May I ask you something else, then?”

“It depends.” [Y/N] said clearly. Too clearly, really. That was the problem with drunk people, they knew they were drunk, but they tried to prove to everyone around them that they weren’t.

Coriolanus laughed at her expense. She was behaving like a child. He found it equal parts charming and frustrating. “Have you ever given a blowjob before?” He asked too loudly for [Y/N]’s liking.

“Coriolanus!” She gasped, smacking his arm.

“I’m just asking! You don’t have to strike me. Haven’t we had enough of that for one night?”

[Y/N] hated Coriolanus. He made her blood boil. “What does it matter?” She growled.

“I was curious if you had offered because it was a matter of superior ability, or because that was the only thing you had to offer.”

“You’re calling me desperate!”

“I wasn’t specifically, but since we both agree that it’s true…”

“All this was shaping up to be halfway tolerable, and you open your big mouth again. Fuck you!”

“Yeah, I know. You fucking me is what I was aiming for. Yes or no on the blowjob thing? I was assuming you had, if it makes any difference.”

[Y/N] paused. She had given a blowjob. Quite a few, actually. They were very convenient for getting out of a bad situation fast. She didn’t answer. [Y/N] still didn’t have the courage to say that in front of the driver.

“You can say yes. I know you’re not a virgin.” Coriolanus said bluntly.

Coriolanus would know that. Prior to their engagement, it was true that [Y/N] had pulled Coriolanus in for a quick fuck at a University party. She was shocked that he implied he even remembered that for as drunk as she recalled him being. [Y/N] wondered if the two of them would only ever be able to love each other under the influence.

“Can this conversation wait a few moments, we’re almost home.” [Y/N] replied.

“You didn’t have much of a problem back at the party in front of damn near everyone that’s ever known you. Is one driver going to make a difference?”

“FINE!” [Y/N] snapped. “Fine. I have, I give a decent blowie. Happy?”

Coriolanus smiled an uncharacteristically wide grin. The driver coughed slightly and loosened his tie. [Y/N] would have been incredibly embarrassed if she had any dignity left. Coriolanus grinned even wider at his driver’s behavior. His new favorite pass time was seeing how far he was capable of pushing [Y/N] to do whatever he wanted. So far, so good. Her initial resistance before her moment of breaking and behaving even worse than himself is what made this all the more fun.

The driver pulled up in front of the steps to their city apartment. Coriolanus gathered [Y/N]’s long forgotten shoes from the car’s floor. The driver got out to open the door for [Y/N]. Ever the gentleman publicly, Coriolanus ran around the side of the car to get it faster. He helped his fiancée out of the car. A Herculean task when you consider the alcohol in her system and the weight of all the fabric in her ballgown. “Come on, Darling,” he said, yanking her somehow elegantly towards the stairs, “we have business to attend to.”

Coriolanus helped her up the stairs and into their apartment. It was easier than it had been on the way out in those deathtrap heels he had purchased her.

Faintly, [Y/N] heard the door snap shut behind her and the deadbolt click resolutely. She leaned up against the wall. Coriolanus left her field of vision for a moment. When he re-entered her sights, [Y/N] blinked up at him. “Hi.” She said.

Coriolanus smirked at her curiously. “Hello.” He replied.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” [Y/N] started. She took a clumsy step towards Coriolanus and grabbed the lapels of his coat for support once she could reach him. “You’re quite pretty,” she said. Coriolanus began a laugh. “No! Don’t. Don’t do that. I mean, you’re a very attractive man. You are. Too bad that you’re—“

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Coriolanus cut in with a scoff. “Here, let me help you,” he pulled her in closer. His hands moved nimbly down her back to pop open one button after the other on her dress while still allowing her to support herself against his front. For the first time, Coriolanus didn’t care that much if she wrinkled his clothes. When the majority of the buttons were undone, her dress slid down her body and landed in a large heap at her feet. What was left under the dress was [Y/N] in no bra (which Coriolanus had not expected, even under the strapless gown) and alarmingly red lace panties, stockings and garters (also unexpected). “I… Wow,” He said cooly. His eyes raked hungrily down her body. Coriolanus had never seen so much of it at once before. “Is there a bra that goes with this?”

“Mhmm,” [Y/N] nodded shyly.

“Hm, I think I would like to see it sometime. This isn’t half bad, though,” He said. He could Coriolanus’ large hands his hands slid down her chest. His hands held her breasts firmly. His eyes widen watching her nipples pebble under the touch of his thumbs. “Why’d you wear this?”

The lingerie wasn’t the most stunning set he had ever seen—it seemed more practical than anything else— though, he could fix that. Coriolanus felt the crotch of his pants tighten at the prospect, knowing that she was already into wearing such things. He was going to call for a lingerie catalog in the morning and buy all of it.

“It’s most of what I wear. I—I like it.”

“I’ll remember,” Coriolanus nodded. She was confident he would remember. She probably wouldn’t remember saying it, though.

Coriolanus stared down at their hardwood floors. He hated hardwood. It creaked too much and only looked good with an abundance of maintenance. Coriolanus wanted [Y/N] to suck him off as soon as possible and figured that she would probably be appreciative of getting it over with faster, but his mind was racing thinking about the unsightly bruises the hardwood entryway would leave on her knees.

Then the bedroom had the issue of the rug and the rugburn that would give. Further, which bedroom would they go to? Coriolanus hated that [Y/N] insisted on staying in her own room. He would have to fix that. She was clearly just as exciting as he had recalled from childhood, it had merely taken them both a moment to get to that level of vulnerability with each other. Coriolanus decided to lead [Y/N] to his bedroom. He also decided he would insist she kneel on a pillow. He hated the look of bruised knees. It reminded him of the war.

While he pulled her along, he glanced down at her. “The tears at the party, were those real?”

[Y/N] laughed in surprise at the question. “No! Well, maybe twenty percent, if that? Because once I get started, it’s hard to stop.”

“Really?” He replied, leaning her against his open doorway. “You’re sick. I’m rather impressed. That takes a lot of… What’s the word?”

“You said ruthless earlier.”

“Yes, that too, but… It’s brilliant that you can do that at the drop of a hat. Very valuable to you. Scary for me, I’m sure.”

“… Thanks. I’ve been doing it since I was little.” [Y/N] replied dryly. She had never seen Coriolanus’ bedroom before. He had seen hers. Coriolanus thought he could barge in whenever he desired. His own room was previously off limits. [Y/N] figured it wouldn’t have been off limits had she wanted to have sex with him before now.

The room was clean, neat and lacking personal items almost entirely. There was a red rug, a vase of white roses on the nightstand and a small desk for when he took his work to bed with him. The bed, specifically, was enormous. It was piled high with pillow after pillow and the softest white sheets she could imagine. It made the bed she had spent all these weeks in look like a joke.

“Yes, as I recall, you were the fucking… crybaby in school until we were fourteen. And you mean to tell me it was fake?” Coriolanus threw his least favorite pillow on the floor for [Y/N]’s knees with a hushed thump.

“I mean, yes.”

“Why?”

“I like the attention.” [Y/N] said plainly. They both knew she wouldn’t have been so open about it without the alcohol, but boy, did Coriolanus desire this version of her. He saw her in that moment, standing mostly nude in his bedroom. He saw her for the first time for what she was. She was real. [Y/N] was a real person made up of a mess of contradictions. She was a very calculating person. Coriolanus saw that ruthlessness and that icy deadness to her. That was exactly the thing he thought he could love the most about her.

“Freak. What else can you do?”

“I dunno. I just… Do what gets me ahead. Don’t we all, Coriolanus? And, uh, when I see someone I don’t like, instead of saying ‘good to see you’ when they say ‘good to see you,’ I say, ‘yes! To see you!’ And I kind of mumble so it’s not obvious that I’m incapable of saying ‘oh yeah, nice to see you.’ You know I hate pleasantries.”

“Freak,” Coriolanus repeated with a smile. “No pleasantries then, get on your knees.”

[Y/N] walked the few steps towards towards the pillow he had thrown down and sank to her knees on it. She was clumsy when she was drinking, Coriolanus thought. More often than not, she was violently ungraceful more often than not. Coriolanus had rarely seen her be graceful at all. He liked that. He thought he’d moments of clumsiness and carelessness were alluring. [Y/N] looked helpless to him sometimes and he admired that. He wanted to be the thing that held together her broken and unsure nature. He thought of all the things he might have to help her accomplish in their future shared life together.

Coriolanus could see himself reaching easily for things she could not reach in the kitchen. He could see her being unable to lace up her winter boots due to the tightness of her dress, so he would get on his knees and do it for her. If she tripped on the sidewalk, he would pull her to her feet. If [Y/N] was too drunk to get up the stairs, he would carry her. When some strange man dared to look at her the wrong way, Coriolanus would kill him. She seemed so fragile and needy to him. Coriolanus loved that.

He needed her to need him. He wanted to be the only thing she ever need.

She was to be his.

“Stop looking at me,” She said. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Wow, that kind of talk really gets me hard.” Coriolanus walked towards her, undoing his black leather belt and tossing his coat on the floor. She thought about the amount of excess he would afford her if he cared so little for his own possessions to leave them on the floor. [Y/N] thought about her own position on his floor briefly.

“We agreed no pleasantries.”

“Come on, you’re going to be mine for the rest of our lives. At least let me look at you.”

[Y/N] tipped her head down with a frustrated sigh. He stared wolfishly at her as she knelt half-bare on his floor. She couldn’t help but blush at how exposed she felt. [Y/N] felt more on display and exposed in front of one man, the man she was to marry, than she did in front of every guest at the party earlier in the night.

“Don’t look away from me,” Coriolanus said firmly. “Those eyes are too beautiful to look at the ground like that.”

She looked back up at him begrudgingly, her eyes wide with fear, or lust. She had no choice but to watch Coriolanus popped open the button of his trousers open. [Y/N] could see the imprint of his dick against his thigh. He rubbed himself through his pants for a moment. [Y/N] swallowed nervously. Coriolanus was a broad, imposing man. The size of his cock shouldn’t have been surprising, but her eyes bulged all the same.

Coriolanus pulled his cock free of his pants. Logistically, [Y/N] was officially concerned about offering the blowjob. His long cock was what her the rest of her life looked like. She would surely have to get used to it eventually.

Without hesitation, [Y/N]’s mouth fell open as he approached. Her hands instinctually gripped the back of his thighs. Coriolanus, after loosening his tie, buried his hands in her once elegantly styled hair and forced himself down her throat.

Coriolanus moaned through gritted teeth in sync with [Y/N]’s gag when she took him in. There was little chance of taking all of him down her throat at once. Unsurprisingly, Coriolanus fucked hard and fast. Brutally so. [Y/N] hardly had a chance to breathe through her nose. Fortunately, at least, Coriolanus did all the work by maneuvering her face up and down on his length. He regulated the tempo and the pressure. All [Y/N] could do was try to swallow and hollow her cheeks out as best she could. Don’t think, just follow. I’ve got you, echoed in her mind.

Tears ran down her cheeks. Real ones.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Coriolanus grunted after several moments. [Y/N] raised her tongue slightly against him. Through wet eyes, she saw Coriolanus’ eyebrows lift and his forehead crease when she did. That was effective. “[Y/N]!”

The only sounds in the room after that were gagging and heavy breathing. Coriolanus’ breathing, not [Y/N]’s. She couldn’t remember the last time she was able to breathe, it felt like. She was really blowing for her life here, she could barely catch an inhale through her nose. [Y/N] felt herself get more and more lightheaded and she did all she could to keep her eyes open.

Quickly, she tapped the back of Coriolanus’ left thigh. It was universal symbol for this isn’t great for me. Coriolanus understood this signal loud and clear. He thought he would keep going, but almost immediately decided he would rather have a wife in one piece instead of a perfect blowjob and slowed his pace significantly. Like a good husband.

He got gratification from slowing down too, because he could see the relieved and grateful gleam in [Y/N]’s expression. Coriolanus had gifted her that relief. He was getting close.

“Swallow.” He choked out. [Y/N] turned her eyes up at him again to confirm his request. Coriolanus’ eyes were tightly shut. [Y/N] had no idea if this had been minutes or near an hour. Her jaw ached. She felt his cock twitch against her tongue as she sucked.

That was the last clear memory [Y/N] had that night. The build up of the alcohol that had been genetically modified to be strong enough to get one drunk faster, the stress, the sweat, the tears, the blowjob, the lightheadedness, the dancing, the fear and the anger all happening on one night culminated into a good old fashion liquor blackout.

She had brief flickers of memory instead of a picture of the night. She was unsure if Coriolanus had finished or not. [Y/N] vaguely remembered Coriolanus unhooking her garters and taking off her stockings. She could feel the clean sheet and duvet over her exhausted body. She swore she could recall Coriolanus’ arm over her her waist and his lips against her ear whispering something. If only she could remember what he said.

—

The next morning, [Y/N] woke up to the birds and the traffic noise. All of it sounded world-shatteringly loud. She felt sick to her stomach. What was that dreadful taste in her mouth? Her head pounded. Too much posca at her engagement party. Desperately, she wanted a cup of coffee. [Y/N] groped at the covers to drag them over her face to block out the morning light that filtered through the window.

Hold on.

As she pulled the covers over her head, [Y/N] realized these covers did not smell like her. They smelled of roses. That, and something else more metallic that lingered under the palatable rose smell. Coriolanus smelled like that. Coriolanus’ bed.

Buried in the comfortable duvet, she couldn’t bear to crawl out from under it. She was filled with panic. How had she ended up here? She could feel that Coriolanus wasn’t beside her, so where had he ended up? Had they slept together?

Had they slept together?

The phrase and all of its meanings bounced around in her head. Her hand slid down her body. She had no top on. That was a bad sign. Her hand continued further down her body and landed on lace underwear. She exhaled and let her hand flop back down on the bed. From another room, probably the living room, [Y/N] heard the phone ring. She wished it would stop. [Y/N] rose from bed with some difficulty.

It was clear upon standing up that the only thing that would make her feel better was vomiting. She dashed madly for Coriolanus’ en suite bathroom and knelt in front of the toilet, empty the contents of her stomach for a good couple of minutes. The pressure of her headache decreased afterwards, but the terrible taste in her mouth grew. [Y/N] flushed the toilet and stood in front of the mirror. She had never looked this bad in her life.

Dark ringed eyes, leaking leftover makeup and smeared lipstick, a bold hickey on her neck like a seventeen year old. What had she done?

[Y/N] grabbed Coriolanus’ burgundy robe off the back of his bathroom door and cinched it around her waist. She walked back through his bedroom. Her knees burned a bit with each step. Maybe from the heels she had worn the night before. Her eyes landed on the flat pillow on the floor right next to Coriolanus’ belt. This seemed like a bad omen.

Suspiciously, [Y/N] walked into the too bright hallway light. [Y/N] stumbled to her own bathroom and frantically brushed her teeth before facing Coriolanus. It hurt to hold her jaw open to brush her molars, but anything to rid herself of the salty, stale taste that had taken up residence. Finally then, she moved into the living room.

There was Coriolanus smiling on the couch like he was most mornings after some sort of party. His hair lacked product and lay rich and curly against his forehead. Boxer shorts and an open dress shirt with the sleeves pushed up left little up to the imagination about his body. He was so pale that he practically reflected the sunlight from the open window back at her like a mirror. Coriolanus was perfect, even first thing. How annoying.

“What time is it?” [Y/N] croaked hoarsely. Coriolanus nearly knocked his mug of bitter coffee off the end table in surprise as he reached for the remote. He abruptly clicked off the television.

“Eleven. There about,” Coriolanus replied, vocally calmer than his body would betray. He rose from the mauve couch and moved to [Y/N]. He ran his hand down the sleeve of his robe that she wore. “Is this mine?” He asked softly.

“Yes, sorry. It was all I could find. I’ll go swap it for—“

“Please. What is mine, is yours,” Coriolanus interrupted. “It suits you,” he said with a hand running across his own gold CSB monogram on the breast pocket of the robe she wore. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine, I suppose,” but what she really wanted to say was ‘what did we do last night?’ “And you?”

Coriolanus chanced an animalistic smile. “Last night, you said no more pleasantries.”

[Y/N] scanned her brain for a memory of saying that. She did not remember that phrase specifically, but she did catch a lot more glimpses of her night in her mind’s eye. [Y/N]’s strongest images were her mother’s shocked eyes, the empty glasses of posca, Coriolanus with a red handprint on his cheek, and his hard cock at her eye level.

“Coriolanus, what did I do?” [Y/N] asked, realizing exactly what she had done.

“Which part?” Coriolanus asked cautiously, sliding his hands around her waist and pulling her close. Coriolanus wanted her to feel held and ravished for a moment since he knew she would go ballistic at what was on the TV, in the newspaper, and on the lips of everyone in town. She felt like a still from an old moving picture; being held like that.

“How bad?”

“Hm? Oh, your mouth was lovely—“ he tried to expertly redirect with an innuendo.

That assumption of what they had done had been correct. Damn. “No, shut up, stop. The… The TV, the news, the—“

“Do you want to know?”

[Y/N] felt like deflating. It must have been bad. She thought back to how he had turned off the television so fast when she walked in. “I… Will I like what I see?”

“How about we sit down, Darling?”

Coriolanus sat [Y/N] down gently on the middle cushion of the couch and folded his lanky legs into the seat to her right. She looked worried. Coriolanus hated watching other people worry, it was distracting for him and often created too many new problems. He swallowed down the urge to snap at her for pouting like that. He hated pouting too considering how unproductive it was. The blonde man reached his right hand out and used a pointer finger and thumb to tip [Y/N]’s chin up so she was forced to look him in the eye. “Hey,” he said calmly. “Any press is good press.” Coriolanus repeated their mantra from the night prior.

[Y/N] inhaled through her nose. “Any press is good press.” She agreed. Coriolanus nodded and pressed a dutiful kiss to her temple to praise her for that answer. [Y/N] stared at the dark and glassy TV screen. Coriolanus clicked it on.

A fuchsia haired newswoman sat behind a desk with the regular Capitol News studio set up for an morning gossip show. The headline was plastered on a chiron in the lower third of the screen: ‘SNOW HEIR’S GIRL OUT OF CONTROL.’ In the top right hand corner of the frame was a photo of [Y/N] sobbing on her knees in front of Coriolanus’ who wiped her tears. [Y/N] wasn’t able to listen to the grating anchorwoman who was speculating about whether or not Coriolanus should send [Y/N] to rehab.

Coriolanus watched [Y/N] watch herself on TV. He grew uncomfortable when he couldn’t automatically read her expression. He had prepared himself for some tears and a temper tantrum, but neither came.

“What are you thinking about?” Coriolanus asked her. [Y/N] was too still. She didn’t respond quickly. “[Y/N]?” Coriolanus nudged her with his elbow. “What are you thinking about?”

“The headline.” She finally replied.

Coriolanus bit his bottom lip. He kept his voice as level as she had. “Okay. What about the headline?” He asked.

“Well, it isn’t very good, is it?”

“What?”

“It’s too plain.”

Coriolanus narrowed his eyes. “It’s too plain?”

[Y/N] nodded slowly. She finally ripped her eyes away from the television set and looked up at him. “It’s informative, but it’s not eye catching beyond being alarmist,” She replied. [Y/N] pointed at the TV, smiling. “That’s my picture. That’s us up there, Coryo, and that’s the best headline they could come up with? It’s weak.”

Coriolanus couldn’t recall her calling him Coryo before, even when [Y/N] had heard it from friends, family and classmates. She was saying something. He should have been paying better attention, but [Y/N] looked lovely wearing his robe. “Coryo, are you listening to me?”

He wasn’t. Too bad. Coryo. “I got distracted, I’m sorry, Darling. You were saying?”

“I said, please get me a piece of paper and a pencil. I want to work on something better and call in a suggestion for a correction since obviously—Mmph!“

[Y/N] sentence was never finished. Coriolanus leaned in towards her face and slammed his lips against hers hungrily. Habitually, [Y/N] grabbed his biceps as they toppled flat back onto the couch. Coriolanus wasted little time pressing the tip of his tongue against her lips aggressively. He knew he gave into an open-mouthed makeout too easily, but it was so much fun.

Both pulled back after some time for a breath. “Coriolanus…” [Y/N] panted.

“Coryo, please. Nobody calls me that anymore.” He said, staring down at her.

“Coryo, I want a pencil and a piece of paper.”

“You’re crazy. You want to call in a correction on a story about yourself because you want to make it worse. You’re beautiful. I don’t tell you that enough.”

“Then tell me some more after you get me—“

“Not yet,” Coriolanus said. His hands untied her robe like she was a gift box. The best present to come out of this engagement party, certainly. “[Y/N], do you know what you did last night?”

“A few things, at least.”

“Very funny. I mean…” Coriolanus sighed. His hormones raced. He could barely make eye contact with her since his eyes were drawn elsewhere. “I mean, you bulldozed your whole life. You Thirteen’d your life off the map.” he said. She nodded. She shivered at the reality of his statement. [Y/N] had nothing left but ashes. She had burned almost every bridge she had.

Except him.

“Not the part with you,” [Y/N] said. She smiled. She said it to please Coriolanus and it seemed to work. He was much easier to play than she thought he was. “You’re all I’ve got left, Coryo.” That was absolutely true. For better or worse, Coriolanus was inevitable.

“Let me take care of you,” Coriolanus said. “You’re about to be my wife. There’s no one else you need. You’re mine. I’m not going to let you fall through the cracks.” He said.

“Promise you won’t?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Coriolanus said honestly, but he didn’t feel strongly enough to really promise. “Do you like these panties?”

“Yes.”

“Shame. I’ll buy you a new set.” There was a horrible tearing sound and after that, Coriolanus’ mouth was on [Y/N]’s pussy. He licked and sucked for all he was worth.

[Y/N] did not expect Coriolanus to be good at this. All this time, she had disallowed him from touching her because she thought he would be a selfish lover. There was still potential that he was, but fuck, Coriolanus sure was good for this. His long thin nose bumped her clit as he pressed his tongue deeper into her folds and she moaned. Her hands sank into his curls.

“Don’t touch my hair.” Coriolanus said into her cunt.

“No,” She said, pulling on his hair. Coriolanus was irked, but let her do it anyway. He had never felt pleasure from someone tugging his hair like that before. [Y/N] wrapped her legs around his shoulders. Coriolanus used his strong, callused hands to hold her thighs open. He was going to make her cum with only his greedy mouth, like she had for him last night.

Quid pro quo. That was the nature of their whole operation, Coriolanus realized. It was fine by him.

It was still early and Coriolanus had the day off. He was ready to make up for lost time. He was going to make her cum in every room of their home. Coriolanus was addicted to her taste. He was addicted to her mind. All of this felt cloaked in danger; it was too personal for Coriolanus. Oh well.

By day’s end, [Y/N] wouldn’t be able to climb out of bed for a couple of days on her own. Coriolanus’ constant tongue-fucking pulling orgasms from her had turned her brain to mush, but not before she was able to force Coriolanus off and jot down a few headlines of her own while he marked up her neck.

‘GAMEMAKER’S FIANCÉE: FREAK OR FOOL?’

‘CAPITOL’S GOLDEN BOY FALLS FOR BAD GIRL.’

‘ALLEGED CHEATING SCANDAL SHAKES CAPITOL YOUTH.’

‘GAMEMAKER WALKS OUT THE VICTOR AFTER PARTY DISASTER.’

‘’WEDDING IS OFF’ SPECULATES PLINTH FAMILY.’

‘GAMEMAKER’S FIANCÉE LIES, CHEATS AND STEALS THE NIGHT.’

‘SNOW’S FALLING (STANDARDS).’

Half of her ideas dripped as moans while Coriolanus worked on her pussy. She was weak enough to do little more than pull his hair and try to clench around whatever he pushed into her. [Y/N]’s orgasm-addled mind finally comprehended that Coriolanus made her better. He made her more creative, bolder, and free from every burden except him. Finally, willingly, [Y/N] gave Coriolanus the last thing she had to give: Herself.

It felt fucking incredible

TAGLIST:

@badwicht @stelleduarte @cinnamongirl127 @prettyppetty @soulessien @bejeweledreverie @jjstyles @arminsarlerts @chmpgneprblem @co1dmountains @miscellaneousmoonchild @lille999 @pumkinnxsmut @taykorsyogurt @ndycrls @watermelonharry @nananarwhal @ohantonia @catlover420sstuff @justaproudslytherpuff @notarabellasstuff @scarytiger111 @zucchinimalfoy @secretsicanthideanymore @h-l-vlovesvintage @dannydevsbbg @clintsupremacy @lookclosernow @10ava01 @or-was-it-just-a-dream @lucielsstuff @fairyydvst @spencereidbasis @a-mellifluous-life @daenerysqueenofhearts @heavqn @dangelnleif @lapisthelovely

apologies again for the tags that did NOT work.

[vinomino]

Failed Kidnapping Attempt

A joke of a kidnapping leads a rather strange man into your life.

Featuring: Endo.Y x f!reader

Contents: NSFW MDNI, mean!endo(when is he not), slight yandere!endo, assault(?), pet names, light choking, cunnilingus, squirting, pussy slapping, creampie, enemies to ???, hate sex, not beta read

WC: 4.1k, please I bs’d this in 3 hours idek what this is either…

The metal chair creaks when you cross your legs, leaning back into the hard shell. The bob-cut man raises his eyes at the noise, slightly squinting them before returning to typing on his laptop. Besides the clacking of keys, a radio box is tuned to a random station, and the man in the device is going on and on about vitamin drinks. The sound cuts off every few minutes but then returns with a static crack. There’s an old retro TV installed in a corner and a thick layer of dust is settled on the screen, turning it gray. The digital clock on the wall reads; 1:21 AM. It’s been more than three hours since you left your workplace and more than two hours of being in this chair. The rusted stoppings under the legs scrap on the concrete floor when you nudge it backward. 

“Hey, stop that.” Bob-cut shoots you a glare. 

“Stop what?” 

“That– Moving around. It’s annoying.” 

You dramatically glance around, “And do what instead? Sit here until the sun comes up?” 

Without your phone, there was nothing to do but stare at the clock while listening to advertisements. The station was the odd kind that doesn’t play any music and if you had to listen to one more spiel about juice, you were going to smash it into pieces. “Well, I’m so sorry for annoying you– I mean, I’m just as annoyed as you!” The absurdity of the situation was starting to get to you. “Would anyone be happy in my situation? Please do tell me. I would love to know– because surely I’m not the first one.” He shakes his head at your sarcastic tone, not even bothering to think of a response. The lackey was stuck doing the underdog work of babysitting. 

You watch him pick up his phone and tap his fingers on the screen. “Listen, just be quiet for a few minutes.” He groans, fatigued just as much as you were.

“You said that an hour ago.” 

The cool-toned lighting wasn’t doing much to stave off your tiredness, you wondered if you should try your luck, fight the man, and book it. Every single second was testing your worn-thin limits, so you stand up and walk over to bob-cut and sit down in the chair across from him. He sighs and crosses his arms with no effort to stop you. The blue cushion on the office chair was dirtied, but it provided some comfort over the metal one. Your phone sits in front of him, turned off– silenced. 

“When can I go?” You ask again. 

“I don’t know that.” 

“Then I’m going to go now.” 

“You don’t even know where you are.” He’s blunt, with no firm emotion on his face. 

They didn’t blindfold you in the car, however, trying to remember an hour-long drive was impossible, but anywhere would be better than this crappy old rundown office building. You click your tongue, rubbing your neck, “Well, I’d rather be walking down the street than sit here for another hour.” You debate on the two outcomes; being killed, or getting sold off. The first made more sense because selling someone off in the 21st century had to be the dumbest idea. People in your everyday life would notice your absence, your friends would try to find you, and your family wouldn’t stop until they have found you. The GPS tag on your keys, which were currently in your bag, was another safeguard. Selling someone off without a trace could happen, but the people who were holding you right now were not anywhere near the power and wealth required to pull off such a feat. If it came down to kill or be killed, then that would just suck. 

Pushing that thought to the back of your mind, you would deal with it when it happens. 

“Can you play some music?” 

No response. 

“Hey, do you wanna see a funny dance?” 

Silence. 

“C’mon, at least tell me your name, because if I die I’ll be cursing you as ‘bob-cut guy’.” 

A hard stare. 

He runs his hands over his face, “Enough talk.” 

The entrance door hits the wall, “Obiki!” A burly man steps into the room. 

“Hashirao.” The bob-cut— Obiki, stands up to greet the new guy.  

“This is the girl?” Hashirao juts a thick finger out at you. 

“Hey~ sorry for taking so long.” A black-haired man strides in. “Got a little sidetracked.” He has tattoos covering every inch of skin you can see. “Alrighty, you guys can head out now.” The man laughs. 

Obiki glances over his shoulder at you before following Hashirao out. 

Now, you were alone with who you presumed to be the leader or someone with more information since those two listened to his word without any resistance. They also seemed too afraid to meet his gaze. The tatted man plops down in the chair next and swivels to face you, “You tired? It’s late.” He smiles and leans his arm on the table. “Aw, are you mad? What’s with that face, not feeling like chatting?” 

Maybe sticking with Obiki wasn’t so bad. 

“Can I leave now?” 

His eyes widen, a coral blue, “Hmm? Who knows.” Another shit-eating grin. 

“Are you going to kill me?” 

“Straight to the point~ but I don’t have any plans on killing you. It’s the truth.” 

So, he is the mastermind behind this. 

“Then why am I here?” 

He shifts and spreads his legs a bit to get comfortable, “Someone wants to see you and they’re paying a lot to make it happen.” His fingers rub together to portray cash. 

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously.” 

You stand up and snatch your phone off where Obiki put it. “Then, I’d like to leave.” The more he spoke, the more he infuriated you. Making a ruckus at your work to lure you out, forcing you to sit past midnight in a chair because someone wants to see you? It’s insanity and you already know who wants to see you. That dude you kept refusing to give your number to, who sits outside your work in a spit-cleaned car to try and pick you up. He had to be an idiot to resort to paying someone to deliver you to him. The tattooed man grabs your wrist, “Why so sudden, pretty thing?” 

You grimace, “That someone will be dumb enough to send you all the money with a little lying.” 

“Seems like you know the contractor.” He chuckles, not budging. His other hand comes up to rub at the infinity symbol on his neck. “So much oomph to you, huh?” His lips creep into a lop-sided grin. Then, he starts listing off your information, your name, birthday, age, height, address, and everything someone would find in a medical file. “That’s you right?” A cocky tone.

Leaning into him to the point where you can see his pores, “You’re not very smart, huh?” You whisper back with a lace of malice, at this distance, you can see his pupils contract and the swirls of his irises. You’d like to believe that he’s taken aback, but he immediately goes back to his aloof demeanor. Unfortunately, you miss the way his cheeks faintly reddened.   

“Is that supposed to scare me?” You scoff and pull away. 

“What makes you think that?” 

“Anyone can get that information on me.” A dull pain slowly builds at your wrist. 

Lowering your arm, you also bring him down as well, his hand is still wrapped around you. “Let go.” An amused expression is all he gives you. He tilts his head to the side, his black hair bunches out on his shoulder, and he lets out a hum. “You’re not going to do anything, so just let go.” You attempt to call his bluff. His eyes darken, and immediately he shoves you backwards into the wall, grabbing your other wrist to pin both over your head. Your phone thuds on the ground, slipping out of your grasp. You let out a squeak, your arms are raised high enough that your top lifts and exposes your navel. He presses his body against yours, you feel his abs through his thin tank top. His forehead is above yours, black hair tickling your eyes, and you smell mint. “There are other outcomes than being killed.” His breath invades yours. His face goes all creepy, giving you goosebumps. Your eyes shake as you force them open– to not shut them tightly closed. The pounding of your heart fills your ears. 

He releases you and takes a step back, “Alright, I’ll call this whole thing off.” Spinning around, he holds his arms apart. “I’m in a good mood.” 

Rubbing at your wrist, you suppress your trembling, and start deeply inhaling to stabilize your breathing. Little black spots appear in your vision, blinking them away, you watch him grab your bag. “I’ll take you home.” 

Your phone screen pops up color, it’s now half past two. The street was practically pitch dark, and you had a gripping voice in you to turn and make a run for it, to get as far away from this man as possible. In front, stood a motorcycle. Sleek, black, and definitely expensive. “I’m not getting on that.” You protest, you’d rather walk for miles than be pressed up against him again. “You got no other choice, sweet cheeks.” If you punch him hard enough in the nose, would he never smile again? The engine revs up, he situates himself on the bike, and then turns to you, gesturing with his head for you to get on. Giving in, you throw your leg over the seat, sitting a few inches away from him. “You’re gonna fall off if you sit like that.” 

“Shut up and go. You should already know where I live.” 

“That I do.” 

To your demise, you end up with your chest all up on his back, the air whips around you as he speeds down the highway. Shutting your eyes, you squeeze your arms tightly around him to the point where his ribs poke you. “You’re squeezing me to death here.” He loudly laughs. Annoyed, you dig your nails into his stomach and claw at him. “Easy now.” His hand squeezes yours. 

The two of you travel into a tunnel, fluorescent yellow stick lights make it bright enough to the point where your sight struggles to adjust. You sit back enough to move your head to see past his shoulder, the underpass seems to be endless. You’ve never ridden on a motorcycle through a tunnel before, the lights resemble an operating room. Unknowingly, your grip gets loose, and he clasps your hands tight into him, “Don’t let go.” 

It must be approaching four. Tired, you rest your head on his shoulder blade, listening to the sounds of the city and rumbling engine. When you come to it, he pulls into your street, stopping at your apartment. Wordlessly, you hop off and head towards the front door. 

“Hey,” he calls out to you on the motorcycle, “it’s Endo.” Endo raises his voice so you can hear, though he doesn’t know how conscious you are. “Endo Yamato! Don’t forget it!” You slowly blink at him and turn the lock. Stumbling inside, you slam the door shut behind you. 

“What do you mean I’m fired? I didn’t do anything– that mess wasn’t caused by me!” The first thing in the morning you did was return your boss’s calls. The unsavory news of being fired was not how you wanted it to go. You even went willingly went Obiki and the other men so they would stop causing a scene. 

“You sound alright so, yeah– you don’t need to return anything. Have a good day.” 

“Wait–” The call ends. 

You spent the rest of the day moping around on the couch. Squeaky clean and dressed in comfortable clothing, you run through the events that took place last night, the terrible kidnapping and Endo. You damn him to hell. You also damn that other douchebag to hell as well.

The doorbell dings and peeking out the peephole, you see Endo. What a bastard, you thought. Walking back to the couch planning to ignore him, he begins to bang on the door. “I know you’re in there, open up sweetheart!”

“How nice and cozy.” Endo swings his arm on the couch.

You give him a disgusted look. “Why are you here?”

“I missed you.” He giggles and claps his hands. 

“Get out.” 

“Aw, no way.” 

“Leave me alone.”

“Let’s watch a movie! Oh, you were halfway through this one, let’s watch it together. Sit down–” 

You snatch his collar, “I got fired because of you! Reimburse me!” 

His blue eyes widen and he purses his lip. “Okay, what’s your routing number?” 

“You happy now?” Endo grins, examining your face. You stare at the huge amount in your checking. Even if you worked every day for the next five years, you wouldn’t even come close to the number. 

“You’re not going to report me? Sue me or throw me in jail?” 

“Why would I do that?” He snickers at you flinching when he rubs the back of his finger along your cheek. 

Now, you’re watching the rest of some drama movie next to your kidnapper/whatever he was. The circumstance was baffling, but Endo had the happiest expression on his face. The credits roll, you don’t even remember what the movie was about. 

“What do you think about it?” 

You scrutinize him under your gaze. “How many people have you kidnapped? Do you do this every girl?” 

“That’s a secret.” He says with a hushed voice, blues twinkling.  

Endo left and you’re laying in your bed trying to process what his intentions are. You couldn’t get a read on him at all, everything he did made no sense. Why did he even bother to get his lackeys to fetch you? Why is he even doing work if he’s well off enough? Why does he continue to bother you? Your phone dings again. He’s a weirdo. After hours of racking your brain do you fall asleep. 

For the next month, he pops up out of nowhere and sticks himself to your side for hours. If you’re grocery shopping? He’ll spawn in next to you and ask if you’re getting scallions or leeks. You’re at the mall? He somehow finds you and tries to dress you up. At a bar? He’ll slide into the seat next to yours. Hiding in the library? He’ll find you. At a bus stop? He shows up on his bike. You debate sending all the money back, you haven’t touched it yet, and inform him to leave you alone. Even if you were with your friends, he’ll introduce himself and swiftly mingle in. It’s driving you mad. 

“Are you stalking me?” You cross your arms.

“What’s that?” Endo plays dumb. You groan. 

“Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me?” 

“Nope.” He grins while eating his popsicle. 

Stopping in the doorway, “I’m going to go to sleep. Go home.” 

He hums, “What if I don’t wanna?” 

“Go away!” You shut the door shut in his face. 

The prick crashed your date. The man you were meeting became more interested in talking to Endo about his golfing hobby than even looking at you. You got all dolled up for the occasion and now your mood is in a dump. Cursing at him, you punch your pillow. What in the world is wrong with him? 

“Is this place alright?” 

The random guy from the bar scratches the back of his neck. You were standing outside of a love hotel, something you thought you’d grown out of, but here you are. “Yeah, it’s fine.” Smiling, you wrap yourself around his arm. Endo needs to stay out of your business. You haven’t seen him all day. To be honest, you thought he’d appear out of thin air the moment you stepped into a bar again. When you make it into the rented room, you won’t see him for the rest of the day. With his constant presence, no man ends up taking you home and they either get weirded out by him or end more interested in him. 

“I’ll pay for a room.” He goes to grab the door handle. 

“Pretty girl, what’re you doing here?” A pair of arms wrap around your shoulders and your blood pressure rises. 

The bar guy raises his brow, “Do– do you know him?” He points to the man behind you.

You cringe. 

“Well, I don’t know you. So…you either scram, or I break your nose.” Endo speaks with intent. 

He coughs at the look Endo gives him and scampers off while muttering something under his breath. 

“Hey.” You shake out his hold and shove at his chest. You’re about to right-hook Endo in the jaw, but instead you give him the meanest glare you can muster. “What’s your problem? Are you seriously stalking me? Are you obsessed with me or something? Stop–” 

Endo places his hand behind your head to push you into a kiss, easily sliding his tongue in since you gasped. His finger loops the belt hoop of your jeans and tugs your hips into him. To your horror, you moan and feel your knees buckle. Going celibate for over a month had worked you up enough. Stumbling back, you’re mortified, that one; you kissed Endo, and two; your panties feel damp. “What–” 

“You’re quite worked up? Don’t you agree?” His eyes are creased, overjoyed that you’ve fallen into the palm of his hand. 

The second you two were in that hotel room, he was all over you. Endo sucks on your bottom lip while his hand unbuttons your jeans. You tugged on his hair, pulling him in to deepen the kiss. He slides in hand into your pants, gripping at your ass before trailing his fingers right over your cunt. Endo smirks when he sees your debauched face, kiss-swollen lips, and hazy eyes. 

“This wet from kissing?” 

“Shut up.” You bark back, grabbing his shirt to continue making out. With enough movement from his hand, your jeans slip off your hips and pool on the floor around your ankles. He places a hand at the bottom of your ass, you get the memo and jump, wrapping your legs around his waist as he lifts you. Endo walks over to the bed and lays you down on it, mouths never breaking apart. He sprawls you over the sheets before leaning back, taking his tongue out your mouth to peel his top off. Fabric discarded somewhere on the floor, you’re finally able to see all the tattoos on his upper body. Black ink littered his skin. He bends down to kiss your stomach and pull your undies off, you bit your lip in anticipation. Your hormones override your thinking.

“Fu-Fuck–” You mewl when he slides another finger in as he sucks on your clit. If you weren’t so out of it, you’d be embarrassed by how loud the squelching was. But you couldn’t care less, not when you were receiving pleasure for the first time in months. Endo pins your hips down when you start trashing, nearing another orgasm. “Sh-fuck–I’m gonna–” Panting out. 

“C’mon, gimmie another angel.” 

Your legs quiver and your back arches off the bed as you gush on his face again. A high-pitched moan rips out of you as you squeeze your eyes shut. Endo beams at you, his eyes full of something you can’t describe. He lays a hand on your stomach and pushes up— pushing your top up and revealing your bra. In a swift tug, your shirt is on the floor and he clicks your bra open. He licks his lips at your bare form. A harsh pinch on your nipple has you whimpering, “Y-you asshole…” His hand comes down, a slap on your pussy makes you seize up. 

“That’s not my name.” 

“I don’t care–”

Another slap. Your pupils are blown wide open.

“Hmm?” 

“Bastard…” You mutter under your breath. 

Another slap. 

“I heard that. Try again.” 

Asshole. Prick. Piece of shit. You want to get up and leave. 

“E-Endo…” 

“That’s better, now, tell me what you want.” He rubs his hands along your folds. You’re starting to tear up. 

“Just– just do it.” 

“Do what?” 

Frustration fields your entire body, and you bite your tongue, swallowing up your pride and ego because if you don’t get dicked down today, you’ll lose it. “Fuck me.” 

“That wasn’t so hard was it, sweet cheeks?” Endo grins. “Say please.” 

“Please— please. Please fuck me, Endo….” Fat droplets roll down your face. 

He pulls both his pants and boxers down, you curl your toes already wanting him to be buried deep inside you. Without any notice, he flips you over, arm over your hips to have you on fours. You struggle to steady yourself, your breath getting stuck in your throat when you feel the tip of his cock sliding into your folds. Of course, he’s going to get as much satisfaction as he can. “Endo…I’m going to kill you.” You glare at him over your shoulder. He gives you an innocent look, “You remember my name? I wanna hear it.” That same shit-eating grin. 

You have no dignity left after squirting on his face, “Yamato– I swear, I’m going to kill y–” 

His cock slides in, stretching your walls out. Losing your balance, your face ends up on the mattress. Your jaw slacks open wide as he bullies his dick into your cunt, filling it up. Endo sighs when he bottoms out, “Damn– pussy feels s’good. You’re s’damn perfect…” 

The bed muffles your voice, “Yam–shit…mnh! Fuck– slow–slow down!” The grip he has on your hips helps him pull you back into him, matching his thrusts. You bite the sheets as they soak up your drool. His balls hit your clit and all you can hear is the sound of skin on skin. You can’t even hear what you’re saying. His cock was practically smashing your cervix in, making you choke on the air. Endo wraps a hand on your throat and yanks you up till your back is against his chest. You cry out. 

“Yeah? You– like that? Pretty girl can’t talk?” He mocks you. 

All you can do is cry on his cock as he fucks you into oblivion. You don’t even register him flipping you onto your back until your knees are by your head and his dick is hitting new places. Yamato Yamato Yamato. You’re only allowed to think about him and the pleasure in you. This was the best you’d ever had. An unknown pressure builds up in your tummy. You need it. You need it so bad. “Your gonna cum again? Fuck– your s’sloppy baby.” His voice is making your head spin even more. “Hmm? You agree?” 

It’s coming and you squeeze your eyes shut, pushing out tears. But then it abruptly ebbs away, “W-Why? Why? Please– I need it–! Please–” You see him laugh wildly, taking in the utmost delight you’re supplying him with. A feral gleam in his eyes. “Tell me who you belong me, okay? I’ll let you cum if you do.” 

“You–shit…you! Yamato!” You plead, vision unfocused and saliva coating your chin. 

“Pussy belongs to me, right? You’ll let me fuck it whenever I want, right?” 

“Yes–yes! Ple–ease!” Agreeing to everything he says, you don’t care at this moment. 

Finally, satisfied. Endo returns to his brutal pace, pounding into your gummy walls. Your eyes roll back into your head when you topple over. The orgasm rips throughout your body, crashing your nerves apart. Your nails dig deep into his shoulder as you breathlessly scream. He continues to fuck you through it, not giving you any rest. Overstimulated, you shake like a leaf, and the sheets below you feel wet. The pleasure sent you into another dimension. Endo now works towards his own peak. His brows furrow together in concentration, teeth grinding as he spills himself in you. Hot cum stuffing you full. You collect your bearings as Endo sucks on the skin of your breasts, leaving dark purple marks in his path. “Mmph…”

“What?”   

“Ngh…”

Ring Ring Ring.

The phone on the wall blares through your afterglow. Endo gets up and walks to pick it up. You can faintly make out what he’s saying. 

“Time……………........yeah…..can I add more time?..........thanks.”

He shortly returns to you, covering your body with his, shielding you from the cold. 

“Angel, you alright?” Endo pushes your sweaty hair out of your face, a smugness emits.

Clenching your jaw, you raise your arm to card your fingers through this hair and tug as hard as you can, kissing him again. Maybe he’s actually obsessed with you. Maybe you’d end up just as obsessed as him. You want to burn him inside out, get back at him. The drenched cotton under sticks to your skin as you inhale the floral scent from the air fresher on the table. The lights are slightly dimmed and all you can hear is Endo. Even he doesn’t know what this is, an indescribable lust that wrecks his mind and a fiery passion that should’ve never happened in the first place. 

[billlydear]

Touch starved Billy Hargrove ✨a concept✨

HC - TOUCH STARVED BILLY HARGROVE

W.C 1680 - INBOX (please request !) - CREDIT TO GIF OWNER

mmm not touch starved billy, love starved billy. he gets plenty of skin-on-skin. a backhand or a shove from his dad, a quick fuck in the backseat of his car, hell, why do you think he takes his shirt off to play basketball, a contact sport? he wants to feel touch, he's just never been given a kind one.

and that's where you come in :) from the very first date you're already shyly reaching for his hand, slipping your fingers between his over the vinyl table of the small diner you're eating at

you watch carefully for his reaction, and he's not really able to hide his shock, he kind of goes stiff. so you're worried you've overstepped, and you start to draw back with an awkward apology, but just before you can pull your hand away completely, he tightens his grip, and squeezes your hand, holding it in place.

“Don’t apologize.” Normally that would be said in a teasing, lighthearted tone. But instead his face is strangely intense, eyes shining under the low lights of the diner.

then it escalates from hand holding to a hug. He drops you off at your front step, and instead of just staying in the car, he walks you up. It’s a pretty cliched first kiss scene, you tell him you had a good time and he agrees with a dazzling smile. There’s a slow, heart-racing lean-in, hitched breath and an eager shine in your eyes, and then he kisses you so soft, you’re not even sure he’s there. He’s not really about special first kisses, preferring to tongue a girl behind the gym. But when your hand comes up to press gently, softly against his cheek, he knows he’s addicted to kindness, soaking it up like a sponge and letting the excess compel him to hold your waist.

he’s not handsy like he normally would be, he keeps his hands firmly planted there while you kiss. It’s soft, slow, sweet, and it feels like waking from a daydream as his pretty blue eyes flutter open to stare into yours.

“Goodnight, Billy.” You whisper, and he’s a goner.

there’s tenderness in your voice, your touch, your gaze, and he lays awake that night thinking about it. It warms him up, knowing that you’d treated him like you care. Maybe you do, maybe you dont, but the feeling is intoxicating, and he doesn’t feel as perpetually angry at the world that night

max notices a change after that. Neil shouts at him, tells him he’s good for nothing, weak, disappointing, and instead of slamming his door and blasting music, probably kicking the bed frame, he offers her a ride to the arcade.

"What?" / "A ride, dipshit, I'm going out and I'll drop you on the way."

and the most insane part, he doesn't even bitch at her in the car. she sits silently and so does he, and when she gets out, he says he'll get her at 8. no threats, no name-calling, just 'i'll pick you up at 8'.

when she gets in the car at 8:10, she's absolutely certain she'll be griped at for being late. but he backs out of the spot, and even asks her about the slap bracelet she'd won inside.

"You get that in there?'"/ "Yeah. I had enough tickets so..." / "What?"

She squints hard at his face while they're stopped at a light, and his own face scrunches in displeasure, "What is it?"

"Are you wearing chapstick?"

The light turns green, and he punches it hard, only remembering to slow down as he pulls his lips between his teeth to lick them. she doesn't ask again, but she spots a tube of it on the ground, strawberry flavored, and definitely not hers.

billy had taken you to the drive-in, and apparently it had fallen out of your pocket when you'd leaned over the center to kiss him. he brought it back to you the next day, knocking at your door and greeting your mother who surprisingly loved him. he wasn't really sure how to react to that, because no girl's mother has ever liked him before, but he's welcomed in and finds you in your room, folding laundry.

he spends the entire day with you, a saturday, just being with you. you teach him how to fold laundry your way, and he definitely teases you about the bras and underwear he finds. in retaliation you whack him with a pillow, and he pretends to be greatly injured after the attack, sprawled out over your bed with his tongue out in a cartoonish display of death

you straddle his waist, peering down at his minutely-fluttering eyelashes. you take his face in your hands, gently, sweetly, and turn it to face you, watching as his pretty blue eyes make a reappearance. he's staring at you, and he looks almost nervous, but he could easily push you off it he wanted to, and he doesn't, so you take that as a good sign.

you trace his features, fingers grazing over the tip of his nose and down through the crease of his chin, just below his lips. then beneath his eyes, along his cheekbones, and smoothing over his forehead. he watches you breathlessly the entire time, a thin layer of tears glossing over his eyes.

when you notice them you stop, nervous that you'd upset him. you ask him what's wrong, hovering over his face only inches away

"I love you." He murmurs, reaching up to cup your cheek.

it's breathless, it's passionate, and it's.. a little early. but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel it. he's just quicker to figure out when he loves someone 'cause he doesn't very often, so it's a new feeling that sticks out to him.

now that he's said it for the first time, watch out.

he's gonna say it 24/7, any opportunity. you hand him a chip? he leans over to bite it out of your hand and goes 'I love you'. he hands you a chip? when you reach for it he'll hold it out of your reach, wait 'till you look at him like wtf? and then say 'love you' with that shit-eating grin of his

he clings to you. his hand is always somewhere on your body, whether it be prying at your own and pulling it into his lap or laying around your shoulders, pressing your sides together

play. with. his. hair. seriously, scratch your nails through his hair, he'll purr like a kitten. brush it out right before his shower, give him a little head massage, that way you can mess up the curls and he'll just reform 'em. comb through it, braid it, put serums and products in it, anything as long as you're touching his scalp

i think he'd really appreciate forehead/cheek/nose kisses, of course he appreciates them on the lips too but it's different, casually intimate and sweet. he's addicted to kissing your cheek, he'll be walking beside you in the mall and yank you closer by where his arm is laid around your hip just to press his lips to your cheek

he kisses your forehead in bed, tugs you into his chest and leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. he might not even lean back up, he might just fall asleep with his face pressed to yours

he's.. obsessed with kissing. like, your lips are constantly swollen. of course he's game for a good steamy makeout session but mostly it's just lazy, slow, soft, sweet kisses, just laying together and swapping spit and touching each other, your leg thrown over his, your foreheads bumping together, his hand on your stomach

speaking of, he'll sleep with his hand under your shirt most nights, either flat and warm against your back or your stomach. and if you ever sneak your hand up his shirt to scratch up his back, he shivers. fully body shivers.

he loves loves loves it when you hold him in your sleep, sometimes he stays awake while you drift off just to watch you get comfy and unconsciously snuggle into his warmth. The first time you do it is while you’re watching a movie on your couch and he misses the last half of the film because he’s just watching you sleep peacefully all snuggled into him

he’s not only grateful that you’re his safe space, but he’s amazed that he seems to be your own. he’s never had a safe space before, even when his mama was around Neil was too. so being with someone he loves without any fear or anxiety is very meaningful to him. It means that when you pass out on his shoulder at the drive-in or let him cart you around to parties just as long as he keeps his arm around you the entire time, he recognizes that you feel safe with him, and that means more to him than he’ll ever be able to express

it’s why he takes such good care of you, he doesn’t ever want to let you down or be someone who fails you. the movie’s too loud and you’re starting to wake? he doesn’t need to see the end of it, the two mcs probably get together. he’ll just drive quietly and slowly back home and let you snooze in the parking lot. party getting too wild? he’ll take you out into the backyard and sit on the porch swing with you, smoke a cig and blow it away from you, let your head fall onto his shoulder with his arm around your waist.

your touch grounds him. he feels safe, secure, loved, supported, happy, and content all at once when he’s touching you, even if he’s just knocking his foot into yours from under the lunch table.

Billy may get touched a lot, but not loved, so when you come into his life, a beacon of all things sweet, he’s going to bask in it, soaking up your love like a big sappy sponge and letting it heal his wounds

[be-my-ally]

I Feel The Earth Move

for the prompt: something weather related. (wow, a genius must have come up with that)

I, I don’t know how or when this turned into 5k (7k now), I truly don’t - take it from me, nothing happens in this fic, it is pure (somewhat domestic) fluff and smut. It’s also - well, this is probably the closest you could get to a peek inside my brain of my current favourite sleep/daydream fantasy - i.e it's just reader and elvis having a chat?

warnings: 18+, smut (of the gentle kind), slight body-negativity (from reader, about herself). Because this is fanfiction, suspend your disbelief and assume Elvis was allowed a day off during his November 1971 tour during which this fic takes place, and that Joyce isn’t available. Red being a bit of a dick. I change tenses about 12 times.

1971!Elvis x fem!reader – soft belly mentioned.

wc: 7.3k - idk enjoy my long descriptions of choosing pjs, and sitting around watching Elvis sit there.

(It's been so long since I posted a non-series fic, that I truly can't remember taglist info so here is a PSA to message me/comment if you want me to tag you in everything!)

Elvis had called you, unexpectedly, just a few days ago, to join him for the rest of the tour and though you’d found the whirlwind of movement and activity exciting you were already tired. You couldn’t imagine how Elvis himself must be feeling. So, you were grateful that you were stopping for a little while, even if it was just for the night. The town you’d ended up in wasn’t anything special, just a convenient stop-off for the brief rest before you all continued to the show the next night. The hours from the show the night before, and the following afternoon weren’t long enough of a break for anyone to go home and relax, but Elvis had been twitchy and anxious to do something else for the day, and you weren’t surprised to be told there was to be a new car delivered to the hotel to play around with.  

When the new, shiny, black car had pulled up outside the hotel you’d stood beside him at the window, nodding as he pointed out specific features, ooh and aahing at the right moments, even though, as far as you could tell it looked much the same as the others you’d seen him drive. But it made him happy and that was what mattered. Elvis had grinned at you and curled an arm around your waist, asking you oh so nicely if you wouldn’t like to go out for a ride with him in it. He’d had a long week, it was all getting a bit much - the tour, and the travelling and he just wanted to feel normal for an evening - you get that right? You’d readily agreed once he’d hitched your shirt up to brush his thumb against your skin and whispered he wanted it to just be the two of you. You would have agreed regardless, truthfully you would have agreed to anything he suggested after having had the call, so unexpectedly out of the blue, to come and spend a few days with him; you wanted to make the most out of every second.  

You soon live to regret that sentiment, however, as you hurry to the car with your arms wrapped around yourself. It’s freezing and, though it isn’t raining yet, the dark grey sky isn’t looking particularly friendly. Elvis starts to follow you down the motel steps after a few muttered words to the boys, but pauses for a moment - watching you rapidly trot to the car before disappearing back into one of the rooms. You watch, shivering from the passenger seat, hoping he won’t take too long when he appears a minute later, hurrying down the stairs himself, this time carrying a second of his coats - a short but thick suede and shearling jacket that he throws onto your lap before climbing in himself. He’s wearing a red suede coat that falls to his knees, and he’s forced to unbutton it to sit down in the car. He mutters to himself about it, as he stands back up before finally getting in and slamming the door shut. He glances over at you,  

“Look - get that on ya now, there we are - I’ll, I’ll turn the heat on in a mo, once we’ve got her running.”  

“Thank you,” You shoulder into the jacket gratefully, “I didn’t realise it was so cold.” He hums at you, twisting the ignition and sending the car purring to life. He grins at the engine noise, turning to look at you with boyish delight.  

“Alright then, honey, let me show ya what this can do.” You squeal as he takes off, and he laughs as you grab at the handle while he wildly turns the first corner, calming down a little himself once he was on the open road. He sings along to the radio, The Temptations are playing, Just My Imagination, and he hums along to the words he doesn’t know, singing the ones he does. It’s absurdly endearing and you’re momentarily breathless getting to watch and hear him like this. You have no idea where you are, too distracted with watching him than the passing scenery. He’s so pretty in the early evening light, happy and relaxed. He taps his hand on the wheel to the beat, moving his head, turning to sing to you. You smile, overwhelmed but not wanting to scare him off and unsure how to respond, but he clearly understands your facial expression and appreciation, offering his palm up on your thigh for you to hold.  

You drive in what feels like an endless combination of loops and “Which way looks exciting baby? You wanna go left or right here?” until, somehow, it’s been almost two hours and you were passing through a small town on the outskirts of the city, gaining more and more distance from the hotel. If you’d started to pay any attention to your surroundings you’d realise you were starting to recognise them.  

The storm starts slowly, just a little rain, a grey cloud here and there, and Elvis ignores it as he drives, laughing when he drives through a forming puddle and splashing up the water onto the windows. Simply turning his radio up higher in response to the worsening rain patter. You’re showing him your fully choreographed dance routine to I Feel the Earth Move, and he laughs at your wiggles and shakes while you giggle performing it, signalling to the sky and emphasising the ‘tumbling down’ lyric that matches the downpour picking up.  

Almost at once, as the rain increases in tempo, the car starts to slow, sputtering and shuddering to a halt. The radio keeps playing although you immediately reach out to turn it down,  

“Uh… what, what’s happened?” You have no clue about cars, but you’re hopeful Elvis might have some idea. Elvis growls, trying to turn the ignition again, the car sputters but refuses to start.  

“Fuck, fuck, just fuckin’ great man.” He slams his hands on the wheel in frustration, and you flinch, turning to look wide-eyed out into the rapidly darkening evening sky, stormy and intimidating, the rain falling into flowing streams down the road. Elvis tries again, yanking his glasses off like that might make a difference, but it just won’t start and though you really don’t want to annoy him any further, you have, while peering over at him, noticed something that might be related to your sudden lack of power.  

“Um, El, is - is that the gas blinking at you?” Elvis lifts his head up from the wheel, frowning at the fuel indicator. He swears again,  

“Fuckin’ piece of junk - it must be broken already! I swear, honey, it had a full tank when we left - didn’t, it gave me no ind’catshun it would do that.” He shakes his head, muttering about a hunk of junk new cars while the E continues to flash. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth,  

“Uh, well, at least we know what the problem is,” You rack your brain for a solution, “We’ll just have to get one of the guys to run us some gas!”  

“Yeah real smart idea, ‘cept we don’t have a phone.” You whirl around to look into the backseat but sure enough, no phone. “In the goddamn middle of nowhere,” He slaps the wheel again. You look out of the windows, realising with a start exactly where you were. You debate for a second if you should confess but the rain picks up again, hammering down even harder than before, and you realise you don’t have a choice. “Guess our only choice is to go knocking on some people’s doors.” He sighs, putting his head into his crossed arms on top of the wheel,  

“We-e-ell, not quite.” He rolls his head to peek at you,  

“What d’ya mean?” You blink at him,  

“Uh, my house is right around here. Just - just a little past that next corner.” Elvis sits fully upright, mouth agape, with a furrow forming in his brow,  

“Your house? Around that corner?” You nod, anxious that he’s about to be mad that you hadn’t told him. He side-eyes you suspiciously,  

“Thought you were from…uhhh, wasn’t it, uh, Louisville?”  

“Well - yes and no, that’s where I go to college - my parent’s house is right around that corner ‘s only about another, I don’t know - maybe a 20 minute walk?” Elvis looks at you a little strangely again, but after he looks up at the sky, he nods.  

“We’ll have to make a break for it I guess. Not quite how I planned the evenin’ - your folks be ok witchyou bringin’ me home?” You nod,  

“Course! And, well, they’re visiting my aunt at the moment up in Chicago anyway - she’s just had another baby.” He pauses looking at you questioningly,  

“And you didn’t wanna go? Don’t women like babies?” You roll your eyes,  

“God, no I didn’t want to go! What can they do at that age anyway?” He frowns like he’d wanted to protest your point, but then realises he can’t deny it’s true, “I’ll go and see her when she can stand and look at me - and, well, I, I, I had plans made by then anyhow.” He grins at you and pleased that he liked your plan you continue,  

“I can’t promise the fridge’ll be stocked, but there should be something we can eat in the pantry while we wait for the guys, and obviously we can use the phone -“ Elvis shakes his head, eyes bright,  

“Yep, needta tell ‘em where we are, wouldn’t want them sending out a search party but…” He makes a show of peering out of the window, leaning forward, “You know, I wouldn’t want to make any of ‘em come out in this.” You blink at him, it was a bad storm, sure, but it would be a push to call it undriveable, “I s’pose we may as well stay the night.” He pats your thigh and you stare at him for a second, processing, before nodding.  

“I suppose that does make an awful lot of sense. It wouldn’t be right for them to get stuck out here too…” 

“Be nice to spend the night alone with you, baby.” He winks, nodding at the door, “Whenever you’re ready, hon, lead the way, I’ll follow you.”  

You’re both soaked through by the time you reach the little front porch. Although your matching suede jackets had done the job of keeping some of the rain off, you had had still been out in the rain for a little too long - it had been a rapid walk, or slow jog for about fifteen minutes before you’d reached civilisation, frantically picking up the pace as thunder started to rumble overhead, for the last few minutes of dashing to your street. You scramble under the little decorative frog on the top step for the spare key, desperately hoping your mother hadn’t decided to move it while they were away. You hold it up triumphant, oblivious to the way the moonlight was reflecting off your blouse under Elvis’ open jacket, the rain making the white totally see through. Elvis grins at you encouragingly, and you open the door with a flourish, allowing you both to tumble into the empty house. You slam the door shut, leaning against it, dripping wet, to watch Elvis look around curiously and you anxiously begin to fill the silence. 

“Um, I don’t know what clothes I have here - but, I definitely have something and I’ll bring down something for you, uh, you’ll probably have to wear my father’s pyjamas, and he’s a touch bit bigger than you, but we have a dryer!”  

“Thank you sweetheart, that’s mighty kind of you -“  

“So, I can get your clothes dried for you.” Elvis is looking at you with bemusement, and you can feel yourself rambling, and you force yourself to take a breath before continuing, “I’ll have to check if daddy’s left the water on - we might have to make do without a shower, but I’ve got plenty of blankets to warm us up instead.”  

“Sounds great - I’m sure that’ll -“  

“So if you just -“ you gesture to the kitchen doorway, “-I won’t be a minute, help yourself to anything you like. The phone’s just on the wall there if you wanna call the hotel.” You sprint up the stairs, furious with yourself for the rising panic you were starting to feel - what were you thinking. You were an adult, you could cope with this. You could deal with Elvis Presley. In your house. With nothing prepared.  

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down, trying to think straight, right. First things first, you head into your parent’s room, quickly finding an inoffensive pair of button down pyjamas for Elvis to wear, and you’re about to take them down the stairs when you’re suddenly made aware of the sticking sensation of your wet skirt to your legs - Elvis must be soaked through too, so you detour to the bathroom to fetch him a towel, shouting down to him, 

“El! Here ya go!” He appears at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at you with some amusement, as he tries to catch your particularly terrible throw. Clearly he doesn’t normally have his clothes thrown at him from above and it makes you laugh watching him flounder on the opposite side of his stage scarf dynamic for once.  

“ ‘re you not coming down, baby?”  

“Um, I’ll be down in just a second! Just leave your stuff on the table and I’ll run it down to the dryer in a bit!”  

“Uh, well, sure thing, honey, thank you.” A moment or so later you can hear the clinking of what hopefully wasn’t too many firearms in your house as he gets undressed and then his murmuring voice as he speaks to someone on the phone.  

You really didn’t have much by way of clothes still in this house, and even less that you would consider acceptable to wear with Elvis Presley in the room. You stare into your drawer for a little too long, willing for another choice to appear. Such magic powers are, apparently, beyond you however so there’s just the two options; a little chiffon babydoll set you’d left behind because it was now pretty much indecent, or a gingham flannelette set complete with embroidered teddy bear on the pocket. On the one hand the little babydoll set was pretty cute, but you were also freezing and warm cotton sounded appealing to your damp skin - but was being so bundled up really the image you wanted to give off to Elvis? He’d never seen you in anything but your very, very, carefully chosen outfits. You start to unbutton your shirt, determined you’d just have to freeze for the sake of fashion but as soon as the cool breeze hits your damp skin you change your mind, rapidly rubbing yourself down with a towel and changing into the snug flannelette of your winter pyjamas. When you come bouncing down the stairs he’s stood waiting for you, and you pause near the bottom, suddenly uncertain. He grins at you, reaching up to lift you down the last step, placing you right in front of him.  

He’s taken his glasses off, tucked them into the breast pocket of the shirt, and clearly had been trying to tame his wet, lightly curling hair, into some semblance of order, the newly long shagginess pushed back against his ears. The borrowed PJs swamp his frame, Elvis is far slimmer than your father, and when you look him over you have to stifle a giggle. The pants ending about two inches too short and stopping far above his delicate ankles and bare feet. He looks down at them himself, following your eyes, and where at home he might have been self-conscious, here he takes it in his stride, smiling back at you with his eyes sparkling.  

“Think I oughta wear this on stage?” He points his toes and you giggle, shaking your head, and gesture to the living room.  

“I don’t know... I think we’d make a good looking pair.” You pose with your hands on your hips, blowing him a kiss,  

“Uh-huh, sure, ‘specially with your lil’ bear there.” He flicks at the pocket on your chest and you blush,  

“They’re warm!” He grins, pushing back his hair,  

“They sure look it, you look snug as a bug.” He grabs your waist, pulling you into him. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and you melt into his hold for a moment, before he pulls away, peering into the living room. You gesture,  

“Feel free to sit anywhere.” Elvis looks around before walking over and settling in the armchair, resting his ankle on his knee. You anxiously consider your options before settling onto the couch, feeling silly for being nervous in your own home. It’s silent for a moment, well, somewhat - Elvis humming to himself as he continues to look around - assessing the bookshelves, before he finally speaks up;  

“Don’t suppose you have any smokes ‘round here?” You shake your head apologetically,  

“No - My da-” Before you suddenly remember that you do, and go running off up the stairs, hoping you were right. You come sliding back down, socks slipping on the stairs much to Elvis’ amusement as you come racing back in, but he says nothing and gratefully accepts a proffered cigarette from the box you hold out.  

“Sorry, daddy doesn’t have any cigars - he doesn’t smoke.” You add on, as if otherwise you might have been embarrassed at not having any to offer. He shrugs,  

“S’ok, I don’t mind.” You go to put the box away and he shakes his head,  

“Jus leave it there - s’alright? Don’t of’fen smoke ‘em now-a-days but when I do, I uh, I’ll have a few.” He pauses as if remembering his manners, “If that’s alright?”  

“Oh of course - by all means.” You hand it back to him, sinking back down into the couch. He leans back, the picture of ease, studying you, a glint in his eye,  

“They your mama’s? I’ll replace ‘em.”  

“Oh no, she doesn’t either,” 

“You forget where you’d hidden them or somethin’?”  He says it delicately, and you can feel him teasing you - like he already knows. You inwardly cringe in embarrassment,  

“Uh, well, my parents didn’t like me to smoke - neither of them do, they’re not - they’re from before I went away, obviously, they were in my dresser still.” He grins at your bashfulness,   

“Sensible. I wouldn’t let my little gal smoke none either.” He offers you the box, and you shake your head at his gall at offering you your own belongings, but still take one, letting him light it for you. You sit for a moment, but the silence drags, and it gets all too much for you all too fast. You get up to turn on the television, but the signal keeps dropping no matter what you try to do, and eventually Elvis says,  

“Oh, look honey, just give it up - you gotta have somethin’ else we can put on? Look there’s your records over there,” He points to the player on the sideboard, and you readily agree. He sighs, pushing up to his feet and coming to stand next to you, crouching down to cast a judgemental eye over the collection. He pats your shoulder, pointing to what he wanted on, and you immediately obey.  

You sit back down, just for a second, before you realise you were starving. “Are you hungry?” You don’t even give Elvis the possibility to respond before you continue, “Sorry, silly question - I won’t be a minute, I’ll see what I can come up with.” You disappear, rummaging through the cupboards to compile as much of a meal as possible,  

“Well, there’s not much…” You bring in the tray, “But there’s pop-tarts!” Elvis looked it over, laughing -  

“Jeez honey, you got anything not rolled in sugar?” You blush,  

“Well sure but, it’s - I’m not a great cook Elvis,” He laughs, reaching over to grab a handful from the nuts you’d found, “Besides - there’s really not much here.”  

“Nah, nah, this is great honey, truly, great.”  You hand him a cup of hot cocoa, and he’s just as pleased with that as with his tray of exceedingly random snacks, and you settle on the floor by his feet with a deck of cards. He plays with your hair as you shuffle, swearing as the intimate moment is wrecked by your yelp at the strands catching on his chunky ring.  

Once you’re untangled you suggest gin, and you play for a couple of rounds, putting up with Elvis somehow winning every time before he sighs as if bored, picking up a book your father had left on the side. He opens it up, glancing at the pages, nodding in pleasure,  

He whistles, “Whoo, boy, your daddy’s got good taste - c’mon up here and I’ll read to you, baby.” You scramble up to clamber onto his lap, squealing as he tugs you onto him more than the chair, tucking your feet into the crease of the cushion and the arm and situating you into a comfortable position. You glance at the cover, internally groaning, it’s a WWII history, and you’d really rather not at this time of the night, but it’s harmless enough to let him drone on above you, his delicate cadence and deepening voice gentle on your ears. You don’t realise you’ve drifted off until he nudges you,  

“You’re not paying attention.” You wiggle your toes, yawning,  

“Sorry, sorry I am, ‘m just warm.” He snorts,  

“You were snoring,” You blush,  

“I don’t snore,” Elvis pokes your side as he laughs, nodding his head at you,  

“Oh, sure you do.” You frown - about to protest some more but he cuts you off before you can, “I think, I’ve gotta leave for the show in, uh, ‘bout eight hours, so prolly need to get some sleep.” It had gotten quite late, and while you wouldn’t admit to snoring, you had been asleep, so you readily agree.  

You hadn’t really thought about the sleeping arrangement past taking him up the stairs with you, just assuming you’d be in together - like you were at Graceland, or in the hotel but stood in the doorway of your bedroom with Elvis now you weren’t so sure. You have no idea what it is about your teenage bedroom making you feel nervous again, you’re an adult - you’ve spent more than enough nights in Elvis’ bed and yet for some reason you feel like you’re sixteen again, nervously sneaking a boy upstairs.  

He peers around you to investigate the room, assessing the floral wallpaper and curtains. He brushes past you to take a closer look, turning in a circle. You watch his brow furrow as his eyes land on the glossy magazine pages surrounding your mirror. It’s as if he can’t stop himself, nodding with self satisfaction as he puts the image of George Harrison face down onto your dressing table. He doesn’t seem to have the same issue with the images of his younger self. 

“Uh well, here we are. I guess if you have in here, I’ll go downstairs - or, I’ll go into my parents room.” He whirls around at your suggestion,  

“No, no, wanna stay with my girl in her bed, y’can’t leave me all on my lonesome inna new place; I might sleepwalk right outta here!” You shake your head, tummy flipping, even as you smile at his vehemence.  

“Well sure, but,” You gesture to the bed, “I forgot about this.” He frowns looking over at your pink, ruffled bed.  

“Forgot about what? ‘S not got clean sheets or something, honey?”  

“No, No, of course they’re clean!” Elvis smirks at your immediate outrage, “It’s just it’ll be uh…cosy. I forgot how small the - well, it’s not quite a full” You brace yourself for a second after you say it, forgetting that you’re not on the road with the boys at the moment, you’re in your home and he knows that. Knows that even if the situation would have normally caused him to pitch a fit he wouldn’t here. Here and now he’ll be on his best behaviour, and if you accuse him of acting any differently he’d deny it with a twinkle in his eye. You imagine how ridiculously polite he would be had your parents been home; “Why, this must be your sister! Thank you for having me over, I know it’s a real impo’sitshun.” and “Yes ma’am, you have a lovely home.” all, “No ma’am I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.” and of course why yes, he is a good southern boy. Although, if they had been, he probably wouldn’t be squeezing into your bed with you. Still that was probably unfair, he really had been on his absolute best behaviour all evening.  

“Cozy is a-ok with me, baby, y’don’t mind me getting real close do ya now?” He takes a step closer to the bed, patting the covers.  

“No, no but I - you’re used to, god your bed must be four times this - are you going to be able to sleep?” You ask, concerned, and he shrugs,  

“Prolly not - truth be told, but I don’t have my med’cation either. Hadn’t expected to be out very long.” Oh, of course. You frown continuing,  

“Oh - maybe it would be better then if we split up - it probably is too small for the both of us.” He shakes his head,  

“No, no, come sit over here now, listen here and I’ll tell you somethin’.” He pats the bed and you perch onto the side of it, watching him talk, “When I was little - just you know,” he gestures to his knees to indicate his height, “Momma an’ I used to share a bed that I’m pos-i-tive was small’r than this one.” He sits down next to you, leaning back on an arm to better look over it.  

“With your Mama?”  

“Yeah, yeah, we were - lord, we were poor as anythin’ and we just didn’t have no spare money for beds or, anything- and the like; while daddy was away ‘specially.” You didn’t know any of this,  

“Oh. That must have been hard.” It’s hard to imagine him as anything less than the expensive, gaudy, generous man in front of you. But then, it does make sense - no-one who’s that giving comes from money. 

“Well, you see, I s’pose I didn’t know any different - and I love my mother, I really do - did. That’s why I bought ma house, well, why I did everythin’ I suppose - it t’was all for her really.”  

“Oh - that’s, that’s really lovely Elvis.” He nods, a little sadly, shrugging,  

“Yeah, well, never mind. I know ‘s a little weird, but it weren’t anythin-” You interrupt his bashful commentary, hating the idea that this totally natural behaviour might be something he feels bad about.  

“I was 12 before I could fall asleep by myself - my mom had to lay with me, or daddy hadta read to me - so you know I don’t think that’s weird at all El, ‘specially if you didn’t have room.”  

“Yeah well, I was prolly a little too old by the time we could ‘ford a second bed, but it’s just like what you say - it weren’t anything strange.” You nod, pleased he seems less embarrassed. And wasn’t that just a wild thought - that Elvis might be the one embarrassed in your childhood bedroom.  

“Well, in any case, there’s no point being uncomfortable - maybe we should…maybe we should try my parents room?” Elvis shudders,  

“Sorry doll nothing ‘gainst your folks, but uh I don’t much like the idea of bein’ uninvited into someone’s bed…” You nod, standing back up and starting to tug down the sheets,  

“Well then, let’s give this a go…I’ll just go fetch the spare pillows.” He looks over at you incredulously,  

“Honey, you can’t possibly think we need more pillows?” He gestures to the overstuffed bed, “I’m not even sure how you fit in there with all of them!” You giggle,  

“I do!” You start to pull off the decorative ones, “Not these ones though - I don’t sleep with these, or those.” You point to the others, and he shakes his head as he joins you in throwing them onto the floor, leaving just the main pillows at the top. It still left five pillows though and Elvis shakes his head,  

“You got an itty-bitty bed and enough cushions for ten!” You laugh, defending yourself,  

“I just like to be cocooned!” You wriggle, as if imitating being wrapped up, and he laughs back at you, eyes crinkling as he watches you.  

“Cocooned! Well, you won’t need them tonight, can just sit’ate your bitty self right by me.” You smile, and he settles the nerves that were starting to swirl in your tummy as you’d continued to prepare the bed for both of you. “Seriously though - how’d you fit all these in?” He stands back, hands on his hips trying to picture your usual sleeping arrangement.  

“Well, I normally sleep on that one there, and then those two go on either side, and that one goes ‘tween my legs.” Elvis waggles an eyebrow, before placing the pillow you’d gestured to atop ‘his’ side of the bed.  

“Oh! and a friend!” As you tossed another cushion to the floor, the stuffed bunny tucked between the pillows had gone flying, you flush red at the sudden swirl of guilt as you watch Clarissa hit the floor, “Who’s this?” You force yourself to be nonchalant,  

“Oh Elvis - don’t tease me.”  

“I’m not teasin’ honey, you tryin’ tell me it’s not got a name?” He picks her up,  

“El, she’s no-one.” You shake your head,  

“Aha! A girl bunny!” He holds her aloft, “She’s mighty cute!”  

“Really - El, I don’t know how she got there again.” He sighs, tucking her under his own arm, whispering to her,  

“She’s gonna let you sleep out in the cold, yeah-huh, you’re right, it’s not right. You jus’ wanna be warm and fuzzy too don’t ya.” Though your tummy clenches at his teasing, the way he continues to have her tucked into his armpit, carefully placing her into the bed when you climb in and tucking her back into his chest makes you feel some soft sort of way. You climb in too, a little tense at first. It’s not like you’re unused to sleeping next to him, but there’s usually just a few minutes of cuddling before he rolls away across the vast expanse of mattress. But today he holds you close, arm wrapped around - your face smushed to his chest, it’s a little strange, the combination of him smelling like your home and him. Not that he has a choice but to hold you close - if either of you tried to roll away, you’d go clear off the side of the bed.  

“Goodnight Elvis,” You whisper, and he whispers it back to you, tucking his chin over your head. You try to settle your breathing, anxious to fall asleep as you feel his own breathing deepen as he settles in. He makes a little tutting noise a couple of times, and you worry you’re encroaching on his space, so you inch away, clinging onto the edge of the mattress.  

“Where y’going baby?” He mutters into your ear, “C’mon back here.” He rolls you into him,  

“Don’t wanna smother you.” He huffs a laugh, smoothing down your hair,  

“Wanna be smothered by you.” He settles with a happy hum, kissing your head again, and you relax your breathing, trying to will yourself to sleep.  

The way you’re tucked against him means every movement feels exaggerated, so when, a minute later he starts to kick his legs down you’re forced to just put up with the motion for a few moments - until it becomes a bit more vigorous;  

“El - stop.” He doesn’t stop, continuing to kick at the bedding. “Elvis! You’re kicking all the blankets off of me.” The motion ceases, but less because of anything you said and more because he’s succeeded in shoving the sheets to the bottom of the bed. He throws himself back, laying there on his back and dramatically panting as if in relief at the temperature change. You shudder in the chilly air, “Elvis! You can’t possibly be too hot, it’s - it’s practically freezing out there!”  

“You know I like it cool, hon.” You frown, tucking your knees up,  

“Well yeah? But I’m freezing!” He rolls his eyes, but tugs the sheets back over you, leaving one of his legs out.  

“There we are see, just cuz ‘m a gentleman.” He tugs you back to him, “Now, stop ya yabberin’ on and let me get some sleep.” You gasp in outrage -  

“Stop yabberin’!! It was you! You were the - “ Elvis hushes you, play snoring in your ear, and you snort back at him, settling with your back against his chest. You’re starting to drift off a little, not quite there, but not truly awake either, when his hand, that had been gently stroking your shoulder moves down to your waist. He snuffles a kiss against your shoulder, pushing the collar of your pyjamas down. Your eyes fly open,  

“Oh!” He hums behind you, pulling you closer and curling his arm across your abdomen. He mutters against your skin, whispering into your ear,  

“You gotta be all riled up, baby - I sure am, can hardly stand it, lying here all close to you.” He’s breathy on the hard consonants, breath tickling your skin,”Just need you, honey, need you real bad.” Whether it was intentional or not it sends shivers of arousal down your spine, tummy flipping as the heat begins to pool. His hand toys with the bow on your waistband, “Bet you’re close unner there, huh? Bet you’re right and ready for me,”  

“I’m - I’m…” You can’t think of anything past stuttering at him, but it doesn’t seem to bother him, and he moves his fingers to unbutton your shirt. It falls open, and he leans back just enough to pull it off - you allow him, docile as a doll and he returns to hug you, kissing your now naked back. 

“Gonna warm you up now, don’t you go worryin’ bout that, get you all nice and hot.” You wriggle against him, unsure what to do with your hands besides clasp at the sheets, “Mmhmm, that’s right baby, bet you’re all slippery already honey, aren’t you?” You gasp,  

“I think - I think so Elvis, god you’ve gotta touch me properly,” He giggles, slipping a hand into your cotton trousers. He brushes over the wiry hair there, gently twisting a curl with his finger. Stroking down, he rubs you with a single fingertip, between the seam of the trousers and your skin, and you rock into him, “El-Elvis, I swear, I’m good to go,” You can feel his smile against your skin,  

“Uh-huh, sure are, aren’t you? Feels like satin down here, you got satin skin baby?” You gasp at how his fingers dance over you,  

“What-whatever you say!” Elvis’ fingertips aren’t satin smooth against you, a gentle rough edge that cuts through the slipperiness of your slick folds enough to make your eyes flutter closed. He withdraws his other hand from where it had been curled around your shoulder, and a moment later you feel him against your back, tugging down his trousers and letting his already hard cock pop out. He rubs against you, almost as if inadvertently, and you arch your back with a moan, he wiggles himself down to better position himself, the whole while still gently petting you. 

Your eyes re-open as he growls, pulling his hand out and away to rapidly tug down your bottoms, letting you kick them off to the bottom of the bed, before clutching at you and tugging you even closer. You lock gaze with the judgemental beads of Clarissa and gasp out a giggle before reaching out to knock her flying to the floor,  

“I can’t - not with her watching.” Elvis laughs, the sound mixing into a groan as he presses into you. You’re wet enough for him to slide in, and the angle is gentle enough that you feel just the slightest hint of a stretch while he snugly fits in, rocking into you further and further.  

It’s not a position you’re usually in, and though he can’t really see you, you feel more self-conscious than you have with him before. Elvis’ hands rove over your stomach, and you’re unable to pull his arm up like you usually would, and instead his fingers are playing around the little overhang of your belly, brushing a finger on the sensitive skin there. “So soft doll, you’re like a little baby - so goddamn soft, I could, could just sink right into ya.” You gasp, it’s so antithetical to what you expected him to say,  

“Oh,” He hushes you, stroking your stomach again,  

“Lis’en to me, ‘m so lucky, honey,” You make a noise of agreement, “So lucky, you’re so goddamn pretty, y’hear?” Your leg moves of its own accord, up a little, giving him a little extra wiggle room that he quickly takes advantage of, continuing to rock into you. His hand on your stomach has slid down to stroke the crease of your thigh, reaching around to rub at your clit, and he leans down to kiss your shoulder and neck. You don’t expect it, enjoying the intimacy enough that you didn’t really care if you achieved it, but the feel of his lips on your neck, the speed of his hand, the rocking deep into you is all enough to cause your thighs  to clench, fists gripping the sheets as you ride out the shakes of a gentle orgasm.  

Elvis follows momentarily later. He stays where he is, curled around you, slowly slipping out his softening cock, breathily heavily against your back, his hand still stroking you even as he moves his arm to rest upon your stomach. His touch briefly disappears for a moment to swipe clumsily at you with your own trousers, and with the motion you find yourself suddenly bursting into overwhelmed tears. He immediately rolls you over to look at him,  

“Oh no, baby, what’s’a matter?” His eyes crinkle at you, “C’mon now, ‘nough of that,'' He wipes the tear tracks away with a thumb and you gulp at him, breath hitching as you find yourself unable to stop, “You’re too pretty to make yourself all red,'' He changes tact, attempting the stern tone that sometimes seems to work on the audiences. “C’mon, stop it now, take it easy.” He sighs, pressing a kiss to your cheek when you can’t stop yourself.  

“I’m,” Your voice wavers, “sorry - I don’t, don’t know - I’m so-“ He cuts you off, tugging you closer to him,  

“Alright, alright, you just stay there, just let it out, that’s it, c’mere, go on, I don’t mind.” He tucks you into his chest, “Shh, shh, didn’t meanta make you cry, honey - it’s alright.” He soothes, large palm stroking your back until you calm down into sniffles. God how embarrassing, you feel stupid for it - how silly can a girl be?  

“Oh nah, now, not silly, honey, ‘s just, just the effect I have on the girls I reckon, god knows why, but seems to be the case.” You hadn’t realised you’d said it aloud and you let out a watery giggle against the soft fuzz of his chest. “C’mon now, curl in and let’s go to sleep,” He shifts a little, to make it easier for you to practically lie on top of him, he tugs the covers around you, effectively tucking you in, shushing you when you start to sniffle again, before you drift off to the sound of his steady heartbeat.  

You awake with a start, the phone ringing insistently. You quickly realise, though, that it wasn’t the phone that had awoken you, but Elvis shouting on his back for,  

“Daddy!! God I swear, Charlie!! I swear to god man, I swear to god. Someone shut that damn phone up ‘fore I shoot the goddamn thing off the wall!” His eyes are still closed even as he roars out the order and you can’t help, now that your heart has stopped racing, but laugh at him. He sits bolt upright at the sound of your giggle, blinking in the daylight,  

“El - El, it’s my phone - you can’t go round shooting other people’s houses.” He flops back, just as dramatically as last night, patting at your thigh and back,  

“Oh lord… they’ll be wantin’ somethin’ offa me - go on then little’un - go see what they want.” The phone stops for a second, and you look over at the clock on your bedside, 12:04. 

“They’re probably going to say we’re late.”  

“Late? Nah, barely, barely slept, got plenty of time.” You throw the alarm clock at him as the phone starts up again and, grabbing your robe from the door on the way, you start to head down to answer it, leaving him swearing behind you. 

You regret picking it up, almost immediately being shouted at from the guys on the other end of the line. Whoever had been the one calling had been pleasant enough, for the brief “Hello” you’d been allowed before the receiver had been taken over by Red and you were now near tears again at the way you’re being spoken to, told off, and degraded for keeping him out. As if it were entirely your idea, and how you can forget about accompanying him on the rest of the tour. You were, according to Red, a goddamn liability - the monologue had just turned into questioning your motives, suggesting you were heading to the tabloids any minute when the phone was plucked out from your hands. You’d failed to notice, in the haze of trying to absently defend yourself, Elvis coming down the stairs.  

“You talk to all my girls like that?” As much as you enjoy his angry tone, you didn’t love being reminded in that moment that you were probably one of many. Still, his furious expression made your heart feel like it was pounding out of your chest, a deep glow emanating. There’s silence, then, “Whatever, man, I’ll talk to you ‘bout it later, not got time right now - ‘s the car ready? Gonna be late for this show else, Colonel’ll have my ass I swear, if that car ain’t out there -“ He pauses, “Well, why the hell not? Thought you’d have been - right, okay, well that’s what it’ll have to be - just get it out here in twenty.” He hangs up the phone without a goodbye, immediately turning to you and cupping your cheeks in his hands as he kisses you. “Pay him no mind, he don’t know what he’s talkin’ ‘bout.” You nod,  

“Ok, but Elvis - you know I would never; that’s not what I’m - “ He shakes his head,  

“I know, I told you - don’t listen to a word he says.”  You do your best, even as it reverberates around your head as you collect up your clothes from the dryer, watching Elvis redress. You wonder if you should go with him, where you’re so clearly unwanted, and though he doesn’t say anything you can tell Elvis thinks you’re being weirdly quiet. It’s barely any time at all before the car outside honks, and it’s time to leave. You make the last minute decision that you’ll see him to the car, but stay behind, but as if he can read your mind, after he climbs into the car Elvis turns to look back at you, 

“You’re comin’ too, baby, right?” He holds out an arm, and despite feeling the glare from the guys in the car, you grab onto it - your desire to stay with him outweighing any worries.  

taglist:

 @ellie-24 @vintageshanny @thatbanditquee @lookingforrainbows @whositmcwhatsit @from-memphis-with-love @missmaywemeetagain @peskybedtime @powerofelvis @shakerattlescroll @dkayfixates @18lkpeters @literally-just-elvis-fics

[lovebugism]

i need more of “the customer is always right” before i wither away and die <3 the anticipation of IT happening is quite literally killing me ilysm

THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT | b-minus

summary: eddie munson takes the unconquerable english midterm that's forced him to repeat senior year two times. dustin henderson gets a pep talk. uncle wayne gives his nephew a warning. you cook your eddie spaghetti some spaghetti. (17k)

pairing: virgin!eddie munson / f!reader

tags: idiots in love, experienced!reader, domestic bliss, staying the night, eddie munson tries to get used to being loved TW probable typos, swearing, discussions of being poor, talks of insecurities, kissing, heavy petting, oral sex (m!receiving) 18+ only!!

a/n: hi. hello. me again. you probably don't remember me because it's been almost TWO MONTHS. i'm really sorry about that btw this semester of college was sent from the actual depths of hell. please take this sixth installment of tcar and find it in your heart to forgive me <3 ily all xoxo

( PREVIOUSLY ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( NEXT )

 ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

“Okay, this is officially the last time I let you drive me anywhere,” Eddie gripes from the passenger seat of your too tiny car as one excruciatingly happy ABBA song bleeds into another.

He shouldn’t have expected anything less. You’re made of the same stuff you listen to — sunshine and melted ice cream and summer breezes. You match the blue skies above you as you belt the lyrics to the song you seem to know by heart.

The sight makes Eddie grin to himself, still beaming no matter how hard he rolls his eyes.

This was the only good thing about the breaks of his van going haywire and having to bum a ride to school from you — getting to see more of you in your element. 

As much as he loved having you in his passenger seat, bobbing your head to whatever rock song he’d popped into the cassette player, there was something entirely different about seeing you in the driver’s seat.

This car was your safe space, spotted with stickers on the console and polaroids on the speedometer, where you could sing any damn ABBA song you wanted to because it was your own little bubble where nothing could touch you. 

Eddie’s grateful you let him see it, all these parts of you that you reveal slowly to him like so many tiny rays of sunshine.

It’s even better to witness with a full stomach, which was maybe the second good thing about driving with you. You picked him up with time to spare to get breakfast — to take the long route to school and watch the rising sun sparkle over Lover’s Lake. There was no reason to speed through town like a maniac because he wasn’t in a rush. Today might be the first time all year he’s not five minutes late to first period.

He tells you to sing louder when you get all shy and hyperaware of his gaze, feeding you bits of your breakfast — but only on the instrumental parts so you don’t miss your favorites. The boy props his arm on the center console and folds down the wrapper of your greasy, plain biscuit with his thumb so it doesn’t get in the way of your bite. He doesn’t even complain when you try to sing through the mouthful. 

He figures that this is what love is. A part of it, at least. That stupid, philosophical feeling people have been trying to describe for ages is sitting right beside him — with crumbs sticking to the corners of her mouth as she mixes up the words to the Dancing Queen chorus.

Love isn’t butterflies or tight chests — it’s this. It’s letting a person listen to music you hate because you know they love it and not caring that they’re singing horrifically off-key.

And it’s not like Eddie’s in love with you or anything. He’s just got a lot of adoration for you. It’s the kind of innocent affection that makes him love ABBA and think you’re one of the best damn singers he’s ever heard in his life — even though neither would be particularly true if he didn’t care about you so much.

It’s sort of like the love he’s got for Dustin, to still care about the little shrimp even when he’s annoying him to no end. But, at the same time, it’s not like that at all. Because Dustin Henderson isn’t the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. Dustin Henderson doesn’t make him feel like his heart is being trampled by an entire stampede of zoo animals. 

No one quite makes Eddie feel the way you do. But even if he was in love with you, he’s got no way of knowing the difference — between loving and being in love. The only thing he’s really sure of is that he doesn’t know a damn thing. And that the sick feeling in his stomach he gets every time he looks at you can’t possibly be normal.

“Oh, stop being such a baby,” you retort. Your words come slurred and slightly muffled through the bite of biscuit in your cheek. “I know you secretly like it.”

“Of course I do!” he shouts over the catchy bass guitar and your subsequent laughter. “It’s just not the kinda shit I wanna listen to right before I take the biggest test of my life.”

It’s true. The past two times he’s been forced to take Ms. O’Donnell’s impossible midterm exam, he's listened to the exact same song — ‘Ride the Lightning,’ Metallica. It’s the only song that gives him enough of an adrenaline rush to gather the confidence to fail the same test. Twice. 

Eddie Munson is a creature of habit. Today marks the third anniversary of the dreaded day that makes or breaks his high school career, but instead of spending it with Metallica, he’s spending it with you. He wants to believe you’re a good luck charm or some kind of lucky omen, but he’s terrified of getting his hopes up.

Expect the worst, and you’ll never be disappointed. That’s what Uncle Wayne always said.

“I think ‘When I Kissed the Teacher’ has plenty of useful advice, Eddie Spaghetti.”

The boy turns to you with a bemused wide-eyed gaze. “If you’re suggesting I makeout with Ms. O’Donnell to pass her class, I’m gonna hurl— like actually hurl. And I will deliberately do it all over the floor of your car.”

“Would you rather repeat your senior year? Again?”

“Yes,” he answers without missing a beat and with a very enthusiastic nod that makes his wild curls sway around his face. “I would rather be a senior for the rest of my life than kiss Ms. O’Donnell.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you won’t have to, right? Because you’re totally gonna ace this thing.”

This is what you’ve been doing for over a week now — twisting everything negative into something more overtly positive. You meet Eddie’s pessimism and self-doubt with a sort of hopefulness he lost somewhere between the first and second time he got held back. 

You force him to study in the gentlest way possible because you’re never anything but soft with him. You make him pretty little flashcards and flip through them with him on the opposite side of his bed, obviously more enthusiastic about the whole thing than he is. You give him sympathetic pecks on his cheek when he gets a question wrong and kiss him totally breathless when he gets the odd one right.

Eddie would be lying if he said the incentive didn’t help at least a little bit.

There is no hint of impatience or sign of hubris that makes him feel stupid. You just teach him to be kinder to himself with tiny little reminders that you’re doing all this right along with him.

“Considering I’ve failed it twice already, I highly doubt that, sweetheart,” he counters, and he’s kidding — mostly. He says it with a teasing lilt and a twinkle in his squinted eyes, but you know that’s his way of covering up that he’s totally serious. 

He really doesn’t think he can do it, pass this stupid exam. He’s got absolutely no faith in himself — but that’s okay, because you’ve got all the faith in him in the world.

“Well, that’s because you didn’t have me to help you study,” you argue, just before accepting the last piece of biscuit he plucks from the parchment and offers to you.

You speak through the mouthful. “But now you do! And we’ve been going over this all week and—” You cut yourself off to swallow the dry pastry. “—And you totally got this. You’re gonna blow ‘em outta the park, Eddie Spaghetti. I can feel it.”

Your optimism makes him smile even though he doesn’t really feel like smiling. He lolls his head against the seat to look at you, finds you with a pretty grin and tiny biscuit crumbs on the corners of your mouth, and has the sudden urge to tell you that he loves you.

It comes out of nowhere. It bubbles up all at once like vomit and startles him with its unexpectedness. The sudden and unfamiliar feeling makes him feel sick, like he just went upside down on a rollercoaster. Whoever said love felt like butterflies was a liar because it feels a whole lot more like getting punched in the stomach.

The words rise from his throat like bile and linger on the edge of his tongue. Eddie forces himself to swallow them back down again. The unsaid ‘Holy fuck, I love the shit outta you’ tastes far more bitter going down.

“What do I get if I ace it then, huh?” he wonders after an awkward blink of silence.

“Uh, I don’t know,” you shrug. “Your diploma.”

“I meant as a reward, dummy.”

“I feel like graduating high school is enough of a reward.”

“I just think I should be compensated for a job well done, is all,” he proposes with a lopsided grin. The teasing nature of his words drips from his mouth like honey.

You glance at him once, eyes wide and dumbfounded, then back to the road. “Eddie Munson…” you scold in a lighthearted lilt. “Get your head outta the gutter. It’s not even eight o’clock.”

That sort of thing wouldn’t have bothered you before. Any other time, you would’ve been all too happy to pull over and jerk him off in a barren parking lot, relieve all his pent-up stress about the exam in the form of a quick handjob. But you’ve been quite obviously keeping your hands to yourself since he told you he was a virgin. 

You were serious about what you said before, about starting over, and Eddie learned that very quickly. You take to giving him tiny little pecks on the cheek and holding his sweaty hand in yours and hardly anything else — like you’re a couple of kids going steady.

Eddie likes it, though, the comforting nature of your unhurried disposition. He just hates the ache it leaves him with.

“It’s all I’m gonna be thinking about,” he confesses with a scrunched nose. “Just so ya know.”

“As long as it helps you pass,” you respond with the shake of your head.

“As long as it helps me pass…” Eddie echoes, quieter. 

“Just think about the biggest kiss I’m gonna give you when I see you again,” you tell him, flashing him a beam as you slow at a stop sign. You trap your smile between your teeth and flash him a glance that can only be described as whimsical — full of shy smiles and fluttering lashes and sparkling eyes. “‘Cause I’m gonna kiss you absolutely stupid, Eddie Munson.”

A rose-colored hue sprinkles along the apples of his cheeks. He never thought a threat could sound so appealing.

“Cool…” is the only thing he could think to mutter in the moment, too busy trying not to smile too wide. He turns his glowing cheeks towards his lap and purses his smile towards his fiddling fingers. “But, uh, I have Hellfire after school, so… Maybe tomorrow?”

You meet his disappointed glance with a shrug. “You could come over after if you want?”

He wants to. He always wants to.

“It’ll probably be late.”

“Then just stay over.”

Your offer comes effortlessly but strikes a deep feeling of complexity within him. Eddie doesn’t know why it makes him so suddenly nervous, only that it makes his palms sweat almost instantly.

The two of you haven’t crossed that threshold yet — of sharing a bed to sleep. He’d catch you dozing on occasion, slouched against his headboard with your head on his shoulder, and he’d wake you. Not because it made him uncomfortable, but because he didn’t want your neck to ache. 

You’d rouse with a groggy apology — “I should probably leave before Bowie starves to death and I drool all over your shoulder,” you’d tell him. 

And it’s not like Eddie wanted you to leave, but he was more than happy to sleep alone. What if he snores obnoxiously loud or he does something gross in his sleep? If you got instantly turned off by some sleeping habit he didn’t even know he had, he thinks it might destroy him.

Eddie can’t control the front he puts up around everyone when he’s sleeping. And for a boy who’s still trying to impress a pretty girl, that’s a very frightening thought.

“Uh, okay… Are you— Are you sure?” he stammers.

His apprehension confuses you. The offer hadn’t felt like that big of a deal to you. “I mean… yeah? We practically did it over the phone last week. It’ll be just like that — but, you know, in person.”

“Right… Okay.”

“I can make us dinner, and we can watch a movie or something,” you propose and grin at the daydream of it all. You wouldn’t have to miss Eddie if he was beside you all night. You wouldn’t have to drift off to thoughts of him either, because he’d be right there. “Bowie would be stoked if you stayed over. She’s practically obsessed with you.”

The thought makes Eddie smile to himself. His heart swells at the idea that other parts of your life have already started to accept him. It makes him feel all warm and fuzzy in his leather jacket and ripped jeans and chunky metal rings.

“Her mom is too, right?” he asks you, mostly playful. He smirks all smug, but his cinnamon-tinted gaze gleams with sincerity.

“Oh, obviously,” you scoff without a second thought. “Have you seen her? She can’t get enough of you…” Your teasing lilt and soft smile fades as you squint at him. “Don’t tell her I told you that, though.”

Eddie pinches his thumb and forefinger together, zipping them across his lips, then rolling down the window to toss the imaginary lock out of it. 

Wind whips through the small car with vigor, making a wild halo of Eddie’s already less-than-tamed hair. The intrusion forces you to squint, even more so when you laugh. 

The sound of your giggling is like glitter or sunbeams. It’s as bright as yellow and soft like summer rain. It makes him smile, too, because that’s all he wanted to do in the first place — make you laugh. It’s all he ever wants to do.

Eddie cranks the lever to roll the window back up again as you tell him: “And, you know, if you stayed over, then I could give you that reward we were talking about.” 

You’ve successfully stooped to his level now: head stuck in the very depths of the gutter. Most of your thoughts are innocent, cooking for him and holding him while you slept. Others, not so much.

“And that would be…” he trails off with raised brows.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” you squint at him as you turn the steering wheel to pull into the bustling parking lot of Hawkins High. 

The place is as wretched as it always was. It hasn’t changed a bit, just sort of deteriorated with time. The nameplate on top of the building has started to grey and the tiger mural painted on the bricks is fading, but it’s still the same. The familiarity of it all hits you with an ice-cold pang of nostalgia.

“I would,” Eddie nods a very vigorous nod, all innocent and wide-eyed, as you park on the far side of the lot. “I would very much like to know.”

You lean across the console to press a swift kiss to his cheek. “You’ll find out later,” you assure him, lingering just ahead of his face. Closer by an inch or two and the tips of your noses would nudge against one another.

“Have mercy…” Eddie murmurs to himself, eyes and limbs suddenly heavy under the weight of his desire for you. 

You made him promise he’d stay sober for the exam — no drinking the night before, no smoking while he got ready. Before now, he’d been perfectly clearheaded. Then you go and look at him with that look, and he’s instantly drunk on you.

He tries to close the distance between you but succeeds only in brushing your noses together before a loud honk blares from ahead of you. It sends the two of you jerking away from each other almost instantly, heads whipping toward the direction of the too loud beep. 

It comes from Steve Harrington’s maroon Beemer that he’d parked just ahead of your Volvo. Him and his friends file out one by one — Robin from the passenger, Dustin Henderson from the back, and then Steve from the driver’s side. 

The former two are beaming, far too happy for it to be so early. Steve looks more like a victim to the morning as he leans against his open car door. His smile looks like a wince and he props his wrist on the door, throwing his fingers up in the place of an actual wave. Dustin and Robin are far more enthusiastic with their gestures.

You and Eddie wave a tad bit awkwardly back at them.

“Look at him,” the boy says, trying and failing to hold back his laughter. “King Steve. Carpooling his kids like a real mom.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s a babysitter first and a human being second,” you joke, then more seriously tell him: “You don’t have to come over if you don’t want to, you know?”

“I know,” he nods. “But I want to.”

“Okay… I just— I don’t want it to seem like I’m trying to, you know, force you or something—”

“It didn’t.”

“—I was just saying it could be nice, you know? But I feel like it sounded like I was being a little pushy.”

“You weren’t.”

“And I don’t want you to be, like, scared to say no to me or something, you know? It wouldn’t hurt my feelings or anything, okay? I promise,” you ramble, partly lying because you know it would hurt a little, but you’d never tell him that. “The ball is totally in your court, so… Whatever you want to do, it’s completely—”

Your nervous blathering is brought to an unexpected halt when Eddie brings his hands to your face. He cups your cheeks in his palms, brushing his thumbs along the apples of them. The sleeves of his leather jacket tickle your chin. He sprayed his wrist with cologne this morning, you can tell; the musky cedarwood and tobacco are more prominent now. 

The boy laughs softly when the suddenness of his action makes your eyes go wide, chuckling louder when he squeezes your cheeks and makes your lips pout softly.

“I wanna come over, okay?” Eddie assures through his laughter. “And you’re never annoying me when you ask. I promise. I’ll probably say yes to just about anything when it’s coming from you, sweetheart.”

“And you’re not just saying that?” you press, words slightly muffled with the way Eddie’s holding your face.

“I’m not just saying that,” he echoes more confidently. He shakes his head at you, then moves your jaw back and forth with his palms so he’s shaking yours too. You jerk away from him with a grin. 

“I’ll see you later?” he asks you while he collects his things from the floor, which is just the little tin box he carries everywhere. He swears it has everything he needs in it. You assume it’s just a dull pencil and a couple of baggies of weed he plans to sell between lunch shifts.

“Yeah,” you answer with a smile.

He clicks the handle to open the car door, then kicks it open the rest of the way. He rolls his head back and puckers his lips for a kiss. You happily oblige him, meeting him halfway but turning at the last second so his mouth meets your cheek.

“Kids are watching,” you joke at his surprise.

And even though he’d only pecked your jaw, it makes Robin and Steve roll their eyes. “Gag me with a spoon,” the girl gripes as she walks past the hood of your car.

Dustin follows behind her, too preoccupied to care. He’s got an anticipatory grin on his face that reveals the blue and green braces on his teeth. The composition notebook in his hands has the Hellfire logo drawn in red and yellow sharpie on the front of it.

You’ve never met the kid, but he’s exactly how you’d expected him to be.

You heard a lot about him — from Steve mostly, but from Eddie too. Robin has the occasional story about the boy from whenever he visits Family Video. They all call him little shit most of the time, shrimp on occasion, and Dusty Bun when he’s done something particularly sweet.

It’s all from a lighthearted place, though. You figure it must be because Steve Harrington is waking up at seven in the morning to take some fourteen-year-old to school. And Eddie’s even worse — the second Dustin calls asking for a ride, he’s hopping in his van without a second thought.

The boy barely lets Eddie get out of the car before he starts bombarding him with questions about the latest D&D campaign. He prattles on and on about it while they walk towards the school, pointing adamantly at the notebook in his hands. You imagine it’s full of conspiracies and potential ways to beat the Cult of Vecna. 

He’s so invested he doesn’t even care when Robin slips the cap from his hand and flips it backwards.

“Have the best day ever, kiddos!” you shout through your rolled-down car window.

You get a half-hearted wave from Dustin, but he doesn’t even glance at you when he does it. Eddie blows a dramatic kiss your way, but Robin rivals his sweetness with a middle finger and a rouge-tinted smile.

The bell chimes overhead, high-pitched and too familiar. The parking lot empties slowly, and the mindless muddled chatter fades too.

Steve saunters to your car after everyone else heads inside. He folds his arms along the passenger door as he leans down to look at you. 

His hair is un-styled, but in a cool sort of way that only he can pull off. Chestnut strands fall down over his forehead while others are pushed back from where he’s ran his fingers through them. His jaw is dusted with a fine layer of stubble that sprinkles a shadow of a mustache on his cupid’s bow.

You’re both wearing the elements of your uniforms.

He’s got on a pair of faded jeans and the mandatory collared shirt, even though he swears Keith only makes him abide by the dress code. You’re wearing the all black get-up required of all Enzo’s waitresses. The flowy blouse and a-line skirt are now wrinkled from the drive over. You’re only missing your floral apron and Steve his forest green vest.

“How long until your shift starts?” he asks you, voice deep and gruff with the morning.

Your eyes flit down to the flashing clock on your dashboard, then back up to him. “I don’t have to go in until eleven today, but I was gonna see if I could pick up an extra shift.”

He nods and juts out his lips as he turns to squint down the parking lot. He looks back at you with a more hopeful gaze. “Wanna go fuck around at Family Video instead?”

And, of course, by “fuck around,” he means popping popcorn and playing some terrible, terrible slasher film on the television behind the counter that has more boobs and blood than actual plot.

You’ll stop for junk food on the way like you always do and spend the bulk of the movie tossing gummy bears and M&Ms into Steve’s mouth. You’ll waste hours talking about nothing, but it’ll feel like only minutes have gone by when it’s time for your shift.

“Are you kidding?” you scoff like it’s not the best idea you’ve heard all morning. Or maybe second best because Eddie’s proposal of a reward is still swirling around in the confines of your mind. “Of course I do.”

 ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

By sunset, Eddie Munson’s got a B-minus on his midterm, a crowd of kids singing his praises, and a date with the hottest woman on the planet. Life, as it turns out, was really starting to look up for the local freak.

“Best… campaign… ever!” Dustin shouts. He’s still so boyishly excited about the whole thing that he has to take in deep breaths before he says each word. 

The emphatic exclamation echoes through the dim, empty hallway of Hawkins High. The rest of the school had left some time ago; all that’s left now are the scraps — the basketball douchebags, the theater geeks, the D&D nerds.

The Hellfire Club gets the entire west wing to themselves, and the unusual vacancy allows them to saunter down the corridor’s length like they own the damn place. 

They don’t have to look over their shoulders for assholes that might trip them or stuff them into lockers. Still bubbling with the after-effects of such an utterly sadistic campaign, they feel like they’re on top of their own little world.

Eddie Munson hasn’t felt this good in a long, long time.

He spins on the heel of his worn-out sneaker and walks backwards ahead of his friends so he can examine each of their faces. He’d unleashed the whole Vecna lives twist that he’d been keeping in his metaphorical back pocket for some time now.

You were the one that gave him the idea, sprung it out of nowhere during a smoke session so many months ago. It feels like it’s been forever now. That was back when you were just his customer, and he was just your dealer — when all you needed was a little free weed, and Eddie just needed to pass a test.

You both somehow ended up with far more than either of you bargained for, but he’s not complaining. He hopes you aren’t either.

Dustin had sort of predicted Vecna’s resurgence. He’d scribbled it down in his journal with all the rest of his endless conspiracies. Well, actually, he suspected that Kas was still a villain and hadn’t slain Vecna like they thought — which wasn’t exactly right, but it was still pretty damn close. Eddie’s never met someone who cared so much about one of his campaigns.

So, needless to say, the curly-haired boy is beaming. His green-blue braces and pearly whites are on full display, partially from excitement but mostly because he was sort of right — in a vague, roundabout way.

Mike had been enthusiastic about it too, but that was before he had to suffer through his best friend’s endless boasts. His brown eyes roll damn near to the back of his skull as he huffs, angled jaw clenching from gritted teeth.

“Well, when you spend eight hours coming up with, like, a thousand different theories, one of them is gonna be right,” he’d finally groused. 

Dustin only smiled at the lankier boy, totally unfazed by his grumbling. “It’s not my fault you have exactly zero work ethic. You’re just mad you lost.”

“Yeah, because staying up all night writing in your diary makes you a real winner.”

“For the last time, Mike, it’s not a diary!”

Lucas was too far away to join in on the bickering. The boy had been distant for a while now, actually. Eddie joked that he must’ve been upset about missing basketball practice with Carver and the rest of his goons, but Lucas hadn’t laughed as loud as he’d hoped. He only chuckled under his breath, shook his head, and said it was just girl troubles.  

Gareth, meanwhile, is still grumbling about Vecna killing his ranger. Even though Dustin’s bard brought them all back with a resurrection spell in the end, he doesn’t like to lose. Eddie doesn’t blame him, but he’d be lying if he said the angry scrunch contorting his best friend’s features wasn’t hilarious.

Jeff had lost his druid too, but he was a much better sport about the whole thing. He usually is, especially compared to the rest of the club. He’s perhaps the only one who doesn’t treat every loss like the end of the world.

“Well, thank you, Ser Dustin,” Eddie responds in a fanciful sort of accent, bending at the waist in a gracious brow. “But I cannot take all the credit, I’m afraid.”

Dustin’s brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”

“He means that his girlfriend helped him put it together,” Jeff lisps.

“No way!” the boy gapes, totally dumbfounded. “The girl from this morning? In the car? She’s… She’s into Dungeons and Dragons?”

“Not really. No,” Eddie shrugs right before flashing a shit-eating grin. “But she is into me, so…”

The less-than-humble brag makes Gareth groan. His sandy curls fall back as he tilts his head toward the ceiling, ocean eyes rolling and then fluttering closed. “If I have to hear about your stupid girlfriend one more time…” he’d griped after the first few times Eddie managed to bring you up in every conversation — about a million of them ago now.

His annoyance doesn’t lessen Dustin’s confusion. “I don’t get it…”

“Gareth's just mad because he’s in love with Eddie’s girlfriend,” Jeff clarifies once more, feigning pity as he pats the boy on the shoulder.

“All I’m saying is, I would’ve tried a little harder to get her attention if I knew she was into freaks,” Gareth grieves, a little forlorn and distantly heartbroken, but shrugging it off like he isn’t all that affected by it.

You were a bit like Steve The Hair Harrington in that way. A little like Vicki Carmichael or, god forbid, Billy Hargrove. You’ve garnered a sort of popularity that’s made you into a sideshow attraction that everyone wants to ride — literally.

You’re popular in a much, much different way than Steve or Vicki or Billy. It’s left you acutely fetishized in an extreme sort of fashion, an object of desire for many in disgusting, lurid ways.

It seems Gareth didn’t go unscathed with his lust for you either.

Well, too little too fucking late if Eddie had anything to say about it. But he would never, because that’s his best friend, so he decides to scoff and tell him: “Like she’d be into you anyway.”

“Oh, please. I’m a total catch.”

“Is there anyone she isn’t into?” Jeff chuckles, too kind of heart to realize the mercilessness in his words. “Isn’t that, like, her whole thing.”

A sharp pang of anger strikes like lightning in Eddie’s chest. It’s ice-cold and red hot, a burst of adrenaline that feels like fight or flight. His hands curl into fists before he even realizes it. If it had been anyone else and not one of his best friends, he imagines he might’ve swung before he even thought about what he was doing. 

Before the words to defend you spill like venom from his mouth, another beats him to the punch.

“Hey,” Lucas scolds from a little ways behind the group, making them all turn to look at him. His brows are furrowed slightly, but the rest of his face is contorted in an unreadable way. His hands are tucked deep into the pockets of the puke-green letterman he wears over his Hellfire tee. “Leave her alone.”

“How do you…” Eddie starts, then squints past the group, gaze zeroing in on the boy. “Since when do you know my girlfriend, Sinclair?”

“She’s friends with Max. And she’s, like, really nice. So maybe we shouldn’t talk about her like that.”

The boy with the wild hair grins something wilder. His gaze is stern but no less playful when he turns back to Jeff. “You heard the kid. Leave my girlfriend alone, Jeffy.”

When the phrase leaves his mouth, for perhaps the billionth time that day, he realizes how often he must say it. My girlfriend, he says. My girlfriend, my girlfriend — because he can’t get enough of how it sounds.

With a grin on his face and his dream girl on his mind, Eddie spins on his heel again to swing open the double doors of the high school’s exit. The chill smacks him in the face almost immediately.

It’s the strange knick of time in early spring where the days are warm, but the nights are so, so cold. This one isn’t any different. A bitter breeze pounds at his chest, ruffles through his curls, and pierces the fabric of his jacket. Eddie’s body mourns the sudden loss of warmth almost immediately.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dustin continues to whinge, even though the rest of them have more than moved on. “Does— Does everyone know her but me? Mike, do you know who she is?”

The boy perks up at the mention of his name. He tends to get a little reserved unless he’s bickering or talking bout his girlfriend. The kid’s a complete and utter wreck when he’s been away from her for too long. Eddie used to make fun of him for it. Not so much anymore.

Mike runs a hand through his lengthy raven hair, then scratches at the back of his neck. His eyes squint and his nose scrunches. “Uh… not really? I mean, I think she knows El because she knows Hopper, but… I don’t know… No?”

Dustin’s face falls flat at his answer. Or lack thereof.

“Wow. Very enlightening, Mike, as always. Thank you,” he deadpans, then turns back to Eddie. His features go from deadpanned to hopeful: eyes wide, brows raised, lips quirked. “So when are we gonna get to meet her? Do you think she’d do a campaign with us? Holy shit— she could be the fairy! You know, of the Firethorns! I mean, you did just say the campaign was feeling a little empty—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Take it down a few notches, alright, Dusty Bun?” Eddie chuckles as he slumps a heavy arm around the boy’s shoulders.

“Don’t call me that. We talked about this; that name is reserved for Suzie and Suzie only—”

“Didn’t you guys break up?” Mike wonders with a sort of blandness to his tone that only he could pull off.

“Shut up, Mike,” Dustin bites in response.

It was still a bit of a sore subject for the boy who’d just lost the so-called love of his life.

Suzie was a girl he met at summer camp about a year ago. Things were going pretty well until they weren’t. Something about her family being uber-religious and not approving of Dustin’s more agonistic disposition.

She broke up with him over Cerebro and hasn’t been on the channel since. It was cold. Ice cold.

Dustin still hikes up to Weathertop every now and then with nothing but a packed lunch and the hope that she’ll answer. She hasn’t yet.

And Eddie can make a mockery of just about anything — it’s practically a superpower at this point — but he knows when to leave well enough alone. Even the most innocent question can send the boy into a spiral of despair. Even now, he gets so suddenly weighed down by the burden of his sadness; lips turning downward and the insides of his brows curling slightly.

Eddie smiles a sad sort of smile down at the boy, but he’s too busy moping to see it. He pulls him closer with one leather-clad arm and uses the other to pat the boy on the chest. Their feet stumble less than gracefully over one another. 

“Yeah, you’re never gonna meet her…” Eddie says in a mournful sigh.

Dustin blinks up at him, confused and even more hurt than before. “What? Why not?”

“Because she’d obviously like you more than me,” he scoffs like it’s obvious. “And I can’t have anyone taking my girl, Henderson.”

That confuses him even more. He was more prepared for one of Eddie’s stupid quips than something short of a compliment. It takes him by surprise at first, leaves him gaping for a moment, before rolling his eyes. “Shut up…”

“I’m serious!” Eddie chuckles, all loud and boisterous. The sound echoes through the vacant lot, made somehow emptier by the cold.

He stops walking suddenly and makes Dustin stop walking too. He takes the boy a tad bit roughly by the shoulders and looks down at him like it’s the first time he’s seeing him. 

“I mean, look at you! What’s not to like, huh? You got their hair, the smarts, the personality—”

“And Eddie’s only got one of those things, so you definitely win,” Gareth quips from a few feet behind them.

“Exactly! Suzie was an idiot to let you go, Henderson.”

Dustin winces when Eddie jabs him in the chest. His saddened gaze flits to the pavement for a moment, then back up again. His eyes are brighter now, but still a bit melancholy — sort of like the streetlamp that flickers across the way. A light that’s going out but grasping for reasons to stay burning.

“You think so?”

“I know so, Dusty Bun,” Eddie grins — smiling wider when the kid’s beam falls flat again. He wraps his arm around Dustin’s punier frame. It’s supposed to be a hug, but it looks more like a headlock. “Never change, Dustin Henderson. Never change…”

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

Eddie hasn’t been to a sleepover since he was ten.

Fifth grade. Franklin Kowalski’s place in the suburbs. Trampoline in the front yard, pool in the back, and an assortment of soft drinks in a fridge in the garage. Maybe he remembers it so vividly because it's perhaps one of the more traumatizing experiences a prepubescent boy growing out a buzzcut could go through.

He knew he didn’t belong there — not in the good part of town with a bunch of boys in brand-new tennis shoes. Eddie Munson was trailer park trash, through and through. He wasn’t used to new clothes or two-story houses or underground pools. But he didn’t care where he came from. And neither did Franklin. Not at first, anyway.

The other kids were nice enough to him. They offered him their swim goggles when Eddie didn’t have his own and made sure he wasn’t left out of any of their conversations. It was all in a tongue-in-cheek sort of way, though. Their kindness was manufactured, a mask for pre-teen boy cruelty. 

See, they only gave him their goggles so they could laugh when they got tangled in his curls. They only included him in conversation so he could be the punch line to each of their jokes. 

All of it went over Eddie’s head. He was too innocent to realize he wasn’t being treated nicely, he was being taunted. He laughed along with each of their inside jokes because he wanted so desperately to be included, having no idea it was himself he was laughing at.

It took him until two o’clock the next morning to understand. He woke up all alone in the living room and found that everyone else had migrated upstairs without him. They were still awake, still laughing — and Eddie was forgotten in the dark.

He nearly cried when he called Wayne. He wasn’t sure if his tears were from anger or from sadness, but they stung all the same. 

He punched the numbers on the keypad with a clenched jaw to keep from sobbing out loud. His gaze was still blurry with unshed tears. It made it dreadfully hard to see, and what little light spilled from the television — which had turned to static after midnight — didn’t help either.

“It’s three A.M., Eds. You sick?” his uncle gruffed into the landline.

“A little,” Eddie half-lied. He twirled the curly wire around his fingertip until it turned purple. He prayed he didn’t sound as sad as he felt. “Everyone else is asleep… ‘M scared I’m gonna puke everywhere.”

Wayne was there barely fifteen minutes later. He drove his rusted pick-up to the suburbs, found his nephew waiting on the curb, and didn’t ask questions on the drive back to Forest Hills. 

Eddie hasn’t been to a sleepover since.

He’s got a feeling this one will be different, though. Because pre-teen boys are a hell of a different kind and you’re… you. 

He’s pretty sure you couldn’t be mean to him even if you wanted to be. You’re nice, far nicer than he deserves. You’re lovely and sweet and decent — every synonym of the damn word in a thousand different languages. It still floors him that it would ever occur to you to be kind to him. 

Eddie doesn’t feel all that worthy of your sunshine. He happily basks in your golden rays anyway. Maybe it’s because he’s selfish. Or maybe it’s because he’s so damn pale — in both the literal and figurative sense.

Eddie packs his overnight bag without a hint of methodology.

He isn’t totally sure of what to bring as he rifles through his disorganized drawers, so he ends up packing bits of everything. 

He does the sniff test for each of his crumpled-up t-shirts. The one’s that smell the freshest get stuffed to the bottom of his bag. He can’t be sure of how many he’s shoved down there now — three or four, maybe five. It makes it harder for his pants to fit, two of the pajama variety and two of denim. 

He grabs multiples of everything, just to be on the safe side. It takes only minutes for his backpack to fill up. He nearly breaks the zipper trying to fasten it, and still, he worries he hasn’t brought enough.

The bag sits upright on his mattress as Eddie bends down to grab the box of condoms that’s been idling under his bed for a year. The cardboard is coated with a fine layer of dust and time. He holds it between his ringed fingers, debating whether or not to finally break the seal and bring a few — just to be on the safe side. That’s when Wayne walks in.

The man isn’t looking at him. He’s too busy wiping his oil-stained palms on an already-stained rag, but his presence is sudden enough to freak Eddie out. The boy jumps like he’s been caught red-handed, scrabbles for a hiding place almost immediately, making the box sputter out of his grip. The thing falls to the ground with a dramatic thud.

He kicks it back under his bed again.

Wayne’s eyes finally flit up to his nephew’s at all the commotion. His bushy grey brows furrow when he finds him standing upright, hands behind his back, totally not suspicious at all. Raising a teenage boy has taught the man not to comment on what doesn’t concern him, so he keeps on swiping his fingers between the fabric of the grimy rag. 

“I finished looking at your van,” he says, accent deep and husky and not of Indiana origin. “Turns out that noise you were hearin’ was a damn rock in the break line.”

Eddie scoffs, then eyes a stick of deodorant sitting on his dresser. “Wow,” he marvels as he swipes the thing from its place. He stuffs it into the side pocket of his bag. “A measly pebble coulda killed me, huh?”

“Should be good to go now, though.”

“Sweet,” the boy nods.

Eddie squints as his eyes flit around his room, head darting in either direction to make sure he’s got everything. Wayne watches him with an identical squint. “Where you runnin’ off to now? You just got home, what, fifteen minutes ago?”

“Uh… I’m gonna go see a friend,” Eddie answers, voice trembling and slightly far away. He unzips his bag again to make sure it’s sufficiently filled. He does a little mental checklist: shirts, pants, PJs, shoes— how the hell is he supposed to fit shoes in here?

You’ve only got one pair of shoes, Munson, he reminds himself. Where the hell do you think you’re going, anyway? A nature walk?

“Oh, right,” his uncle nods. A smile plays on the edges of his lips, but it weirdly still looks like he’s frowning. “The friend.”

“Yeah— Well, she’s my… She’s my girlfriend, so…”

The admission makes Eddie blush in a way he isn’t typically used to. He can’t count the number of times he must say it in a day, but something about saying it in front of Wayne feels different — real.

He turns his glowing cheeks down to his bag and makes difficult work of zipping it back up again.

Wayne doesn’t bother to hide his excitement. The bright emotion is almost unfamiliar. “Well, shit,” the man’s chuckle sounds from the depths of his chest. “Look at you, Eds. My nephew’s finally got his first girlfriend.”

The boy rolls his chocolate eyes. He jerks under the pressure of the shoulder clap Wayne gives him. It’s equal parts annoying and embarrassing — to be talked to like a child in this way. Maybe because most children have long had their first girlfriends by now, and it took Eddie all of twenty agonizing years.

“We were gonna hang out at her place since I passed my English test and everything...”

The excitement washes from Wayne’s tired eyes. They widen, as though in shock, and reveal more of the glassy whites of them. He just blinks at him for a moment, like his words are still processing. “You… You passed?”

“Yep. Got a B,” Eddie nods, a tad bit sheepishly. He finds it hard to meet his uncle’s mystified gaze. “Well, a B-minus, but… Turns out, I might actually graduate this year.”

Wayne seems to experience every emotion at once. He’s surprised, of course — it makes sense. Eddie spent two years failing the damn thing, after all. Then he’s proud, overjoyed that there’s a chance his nephew might finally grow up. He’s distantly saddened by the exact same thought.

The man swallows thickly, as though to down each emotion. He nods and tries his best to smile. “Damn. Good job, kid. I’m… I’m prouda you.”

Eddie isn’t sure whether to take the praise or cower from it. At a loss, he opts to deflect entirely.

“Yeah, well, she— the friend helped me study and everything, so… I feel like we should probably be thanking her, you know?” he half-jokes as he swings the pack over his shoulder. His winces under the weight of it. “I probably wouldn’t have passed if she didn’t force me to read that stupid book. I mean, it’s 1986; who cares about the roaring twenties and blinking green lights—”

“Hm…” his uncle grunts. It isn’t an acknowledging grunt, though. It’s more of a bemused sort of grunt. And he’s got this quizzical twist to his features that makes Eddie confused too.

“…What is it?”

Wayne only shrugs, trying to act like it was nothing, but can’t help but to ask: “You’re real serious about this girl, aren’t ya?”

Eddie, feeling a bit weighed down by such a heavy question, shifts on his feet.

“Uh… A little bit, I guess. Yeah,” he stammers in the place of an honest answer. If he were being totally truthful, he would’ve said something like, “As serious as a goddamn heart attack.” But that might’ve actually given Uncle Wayne one, so he doesn’t answer with all that.

The man seems to hear all the words Eddie doesn’t say, though. He always does. Eddie figures that’s what happens when you raise a kid for fifteen years — you get attuned to their every thought like a superpower or something. 

It doesn’t make it any less annoying, though. Eddie’s never been able to keep a single damn secret from Wayne because he’s a total mind reader. It’s entirely possible Wayne knew Eddie was in love before he did.

“Just be careful, alright?” the man advises. He looks genuinely concerned, eyes glinting and brows pinched, like you’re a treacherous road or poison ivy.

The misplaced cautiousness makes Eddie breathe out a soft laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“C’mon, Eds. Don’t play dumb,” Wayne tells him with a gruff chuckle — not totally unkind, just a Munson sort of curt. “You know what I’m talkin’ about. I didn’t even know her real name until you started bringing her around, 'cause all the kids at the shop call her the—”

“Don’t,” Eddie interjects sharply.

The bitterness in his tone is foreign. It contains the sort of venom he’s more like to spit at Jason Carver or Mike Wheeler if he’s being particularly dickish. Never at Wayne.

But that dormant urge to defend you rises like a sleeping dragon that just got poked in the belly. The words rise like bile in his throat and spew out before he can think to stop them.

Uncle Wayne is a weathered man. He’s seen a lot of the world, too much of it, but nothing’s ever quite taken him aback like this. He’s never seen his nephew’s chocolate button eyes hardened into something so cold.

Eddie gets all hyperaware of the heart on his sleeve and starts to crack under the pressure of it. He deflates, stern features crumbling into something softer.

“It’s different, okay?” he assures with his chin brought down to his chest — brows raised and wide eyes twinkling. It’s the same thing you’d said to Hopper not too long ago. Eddie hopes you met the words as wholeheartedly as he does now.

“And even if I explained all the reasons why it’s different, you still wouldn’t get it.”

His melodramatic tone makes Wayne scoff. “What? ‘Cause you don’t think I’ve ever been a kid in love before?”

“No,” Eddie shrugs playfully. “‘Cause you’re old.”

The foreign tension ebbs all at once with a pair of laughs. One is gruff, a couple of sharp exhales more than anything else. The other is a lighter, far more boyish giggle.

“I’m just trying to look out for you, alright?” Wayne tells him once the laughter fades.

“Yeah, I know. You always do,” Eddie lilts with a disposition that might make it seem like he’s displeased by his uncle’s constant pestering. In reality, he knows it’s saved him from a world of shit.

Like that time he wanted to get tacos from a new food truck that gave the whole town food poisoning. Or when he’d wanted to ask Tina Burton, the most popular girl in school, on a date his sophomore year. 

It was Wayne that saved him the embarrassment from either. It’s like he can smell bullshit or something.

“But this is, like, the first good thing that’s happened to me since Ride the Lightning came out… So, I’d kinda like to enjoy this whole thing while it lasts,” Eddie winces like it’s a joke, but he means it more than anything.

Wayne nods understandingly. “Will do, kid. But first girlfriends are always hard, okay? Remember that. Try not to let it hurt you too much, Eds.”

His uncle claps him once, then twice, on his shoulder before swiping away the grime he’d accidentally spotted there. Eddie lets him, too far away to shrug him off. He doesn’t even move when Wayne walks out of his room.

He knows his uncle means well, but something about his cynical words makes his chest burn. It’s like he’s betting on his relationship with you not working out or something. 

And Eddie knows he isn’t wrong. First girlfriends are hard. He’s heard enough shit from his friends to know that. Hell, Mike and Dustin have spent all year complaining about how complicated relationships are. 

But it’s different. 

Because they’re just a couple of kids and their girlfriends aren’t you.

Whatever form you come in, lover or executioner, Eddie’s more than ready to receive you.

 ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

You’ve never cooked for anyone other than yourself. And maybe Bowie.

That’s not to say you were a stranger to dining in company. Binging on takeout with Robin and Steve was routine. You’re pretty sure Benny at the diner has made more dinners for the three of you than you’ve ever made for yourselves — combined. 

But it was different, to make something for someone with your own hands. It took a relative amount of care, an acute sort of attentiveness that only felt deserved for someone really special. 

And Eddie was really special and then some.

There isn’t a word that encapsulates all the special he is. It makes you feel a bit guilty sometimes. You wish you were smarter so you could think of a big enough word to describe how much he means to you. But since you aren’t, you stick to making him homemade spaghetti and hope you can pour enough love into it that he feels all of yours.

Eddie arrives at your apartment before you’re ready for him.

You’d wanted to do more with your appearance by the time he came around — with your hair and your makeup and your clothes. Not because you ever had to, but because you thought Eddie deserved a girl who took extra care of herself in that way.

You got a shower in before you started cooking, but that was it. Your hair is unstyled and air-drying; your face bare and glistening in all its naked glory.

Clad in nothing but a hilariously oversized t-shirt and a pair of fluffy socks, you look more ready for bed than date night.

The knock at your door sends you into a momentary whirlwind. You scramble like someone’s seconds away from catching you naked — like there are four different fires in every direction and you don’t know which one to put out first. The panic is elaborate and fleeting, a bucket of ice-cold water on bare skin.

You figure that’s another part of caring about someone. You make them spaghetti because you love them and get nervous when things aren’t perfect. Love is all things stressful and homemade.

Eddie knocks on your door with several rhythmic raps. They’re evenly timed and spaced out. You recognize the bass line to ‘Crazy Train’ almost immediately. Da-da… Da-da, da-da, da-da. He must’ve been listening to it on the way over.

“Uh, come in!” you waver after an awkward beat. You’re yelling a little because you’re still standing at the stove, stirring the pot of noodles.

The door clicks once when it opens, then again when it shuts. The wall that separates the kitchen conceals your view of him, but you can hear Eddie’s shuffling in the living room from where you are because he’s never done anything quietly in his life.

Eddie toes off his sneakers before he heads into your apartment. You never asked him to do it, so it always confused you as to why. He’d told you, when you asked, that he knows he’s not the cleanest and that he cares too much about your space to make a mess of it. 

He tells you he can’t take care of you in the way he would like — that if he had it his way, you’d never have to work at Enzo’s again; that he wishes he was rich enough so you never had to wait on snobby stay-at-home moms or misogynistic businessmen. But since he isn’t a rockstar yet and The Hideout pays their busboy’s fuck all, Eddie figures the least he can do is not leave shoe prints on your carpet.

It’s boyish and strangely profound and so, so sweet.

He drops his backpack and leaves his sneakers by the doormat like he always does. They fit neatly between the wall and the roughly textured rectangle that reads ‘glad you’re here’ on the front of it. One is upright, the other falls to its side.

Bowie blinks at him from where she idles on her perch, green eyes wide and pupils set in narrow slits. “Hey, pretty girl,” Eddie greets in a quiet coo, scooping her up in his arms. Despite her round belly, the calico weighs no more than a feather. 

She meows once after being so suddenly plucked from her flower petal spot but settles into him instantly. He scratches at her chin to make her purr and revels in the soft buzzing sound she makes. Eddie waltzes into the kitchen with her, cradling her against his chest like a newborn baby.

You look over your shoulder and smile at the sight of them — at your two favorite beings on the planet, so obviously taken with one another. Bowie lolls in Eddie’s arm like he’s made of clouds and cotton candy. Her blinks are slow and lazy, her purrs audible to even you. She’s only this affectionate for him. You can’t even blame her. 

“Smells good in here,” the boy compliments trying his best not to blush at the wide smile you give him. He’s still not used to being looked at so tenderly. 

Failing to feel deserving of it all, he averts his chocolate gaze and flushed cheeks to the counter, where he plops Bowie down beside her half-empty food bowl.

You could only get her to eat so much of it before she got annoyed with you. Now she laps happily at the chunk of cat food like it’s the first time she’s ever tasted its goodness.

“Thanks,” you respond with a slight tremble to the edge of your voice. You turn back to the pot of spaghetti you’ve been stirring for close to ten minutes, eyeing the mixture of noodles and sauce and beef with intent because you need it all to be perfect. “I probably should’ve asked what you liked before you left this morning, but I only know how to make spaghetti, so… I made spaghetti.”

You look back at him, flashing the boy a nervous tight-lipped smile. It makes him grin, too, as he makes the terribly short trek over to you.

“Well, I actually love spaghetti,” he confesses, and it isn’t totally a lie. He just stopped caring for it around the millionth time Wayne made it because it’s one of the only things he knows how to cook too. 

Eddie lingers at your side, hip pressing into the counter, radiating warmth like a sun stuck in human form. You can’t tell if he’s toasty in his leather jacket or if you’re just cozy in the honey-coated tenderness you have for him. You don’t even realize you’re smiling at him when he scrunches his nose at you. 

“You should be careful, sweetheart. I’m kinda starting to think we’re soulmates.”

“That’s crazy,” you marvel, wide-eyed. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Wow… We really were made for each other, huh?” he huffs with a similar sarcasm.

You try to keep the joke going, but it’s hard not to smile when you feel his hands creep around your sides. His fingers are soft on your waist, featherlight and a little unsure as he slithers along your back. The affection feels foreign on your skin. You bite back a shiver.

“Looks like way,” you affirm with a nod, tilting your head back so you can meet him halfway when he leans down to peck you.

It’s a soft and swift little thing, a brief brush of the lips that doesn’t mean anything but also the entire world. He kisses you just to kiss you — because he likes the feel of you or because it’s the sort of thing he can do now as your boyfriend. Either way, you revel in the unfamiliarity.

“Did the, uh… Did the test go okay?” you ask once he parts from you. You try not to sound like you’ve been agonizing over it all day and more like the thought had only just crossed your mind.

Eddie bites back a smile as he turns to walk to the opposite side of the counter. He makes sure any traces of the smirk have washed away when he hops onto the edge of it.  The forlorn look he gives you is manufactured, all pinched browed and gloomy eyed. 

“Um, no…” he fibs. “I, uh— I failed it again.”

You eye him from over your shoulder and notice how he shifts on his weight, looking down at the tile rather than up at you. It doesn’t cross your mind once that he might be joking. You just hope the flash of disappointment on your features was too quick for him to catch.

“That’s okay,” you assure and cover your chagrin with a smile. You shake your head and shrug. “We just try again, right? Not the end of the world.”

A grin tugs slow at Eddie’s lips. It’s bemused slightly and still sort of sad. He can’t believe how supportive you are of him even after he’s just told you outright that he’s failed — still loving even when he’s not good enough.

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a packet of stapled-together papers. It’s perhaps the first piece of schoolwork given to him that wasn’t immediately thrown away. He’d folded it twice in half, then tucked it safely away with the intent to show you later. He unfolds it again to marvel at it once more.

The letter grade is written in red and circled twice. Ms. O’Donnell’s fancy cursive is scribbled just beside it — “Finally! Good job, Eddie! I’m very proud of you!” Even though the boy has never been particularly fond of the woman, her compliment makes his chest swell.

“Oh, shit…” he murmurs under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear.

“Hm?” you hum back in response. You don’t look at him, though, more focused on not burning yourself as you pull a tray of golden brown garlic bread out of the oven.

“I read it wrong…” he answers, feigning surprise. “This isn’t an F. It’s a B.”

The pan clatters to the stove when you spin around the face him. Your eyes are wide and your brows are raised, each of your features agape with shock. You’re not entirely sure how he could’ve misread it, but you’re prepared to celebrate with him anyway. 

Eddie flashes you a pink, lopsided smile as he flips the creased paper around. He puts the grade on display for you with a knowing, mischievous glint in his cinnamon eyes. He’s too pretty and you’re too proud of him — you can’t even care that he was tricking you.

“Oh, my god, Eddie!” you shout with a bubbly laugh, all but launching yourself at him. You have to stand on the tips of your toes to reach where he sits on the counter. The bottom of your stomach digs into the granite as your arms wrap around his neck. 

You don’t realize until you’ve locked him in this embrace that you’ve still got your oven mitt on.

Eddie bends awkwardly to reciprocate the hug, meeting you halfway so you’re not doing all the work.

One hand keeps hold of his midterm, but the palm of his free one spreads wide and warm along your back. The tops of your chests collide, soft and snug. They press together in such a way that it confuses him how he could’ve gone so long without feeling you like this — even in the most innocent way.

His chin settles along your clothed collarbone. With his nose digging into the cotton of your t-shirt, he inhales to find your warm floral scent. Eddies sighs and relaxes against you without thinking. He doesn’t know if anyone’s ever hugged him like this before.

“I’m so proud of you!” you praise, chin bopping on his shoulder. “I knew you could do it.”

Eddie chuckles softly at the severity of your hug, so full of intent — louder when you peck him on his cheek and then the rest of his face when you realize you can’t just kiss him once. His stubble is rough against the plush of your lips as you press them to his jaw and chin and nose and mouth.

He tries to kiss you back, but he’s smiling too wide.

He’s almost certain no one’s ever gotten this much loving over a B-minus.

“It’s ‘cause of you,” Eddie insists.

“No, it’s because you’re smart.”

“Mm, I don’t think that’s it,” he retorts with the shake of his head, too damn stubborn to take a compliment.

His chin pulls closer to his neck when he parts from you. Your noses are barely inches apart, lips so close he can taste them. He could kiss you if he wanted, but he doesn’t want to stop looking at you.

“I’m pretty sure I only passed because I was thinking about you the whole time...” 

His words trail off. He’s got a crooked smirk on his lips like he’s only teasing, but brings his ear to his shoulder and gazes at you that way — so full of love and mischief. You think he might actually be sincere.

“Eddie Munson…” you scold at his suggestive tone. 

A smile dances on the corners of your lips as you pull back from him completely. You finally slip the mitten off your hand as you return to the stove, clicking the knob on the back panel until it turns off again.

“I just hope you’ve been thinking about that reward,” the boy lilts as he slips off the counter. He grins and walks until he’s leaning on the refrigerator beside you. He’s no more than a couple of feet away, but he somehow feels much closer than that. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe we agreed that I’d get something if I passed…”

Eddie’s only teasing. He doesn’t actually want anything. Spending time with you now is enough. Making you blush was just a bonus. 

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t cross his mind, though, far more times than he’d like to admit. 

And truth be told, you had thought about it, too. But that makes it sound too simple. It plagued you, really. First, it was the “oh god, what if he doesn’t pass,” and then the “what the hell am I supposed to do when he does?”

A passing grade isn’t usually that big of a deal. You’ve certainly never received anything from one. But passing a test after failing it the first two times and having to suffer two more agonizing years of school because of it certainly deserved to be celebrated.

Eddie was strange, though. He wasn’t materialistic or overtly enthusiastic about anything other than music and D&D. Maybe if you had more money, you could’ve gotten him a cassette or a new Dungeon Master’s manual. But thanks to Enzo’s salary, you’re lucky if you’re able to pay bills on time. And it sucks because Eddie deserves nice things, and not just for passing some stupid test. 

You hate that you don’t have anything other than spaghetti and adoration to give him.

It’s not fair to either of you.

You’d lamented to Steve about all this over gummy bears and buttered popcorn as Slumber Party Massacre played on the tiny television above the counter. The film was ripe with blood and random nudity, but you hadn’t fully paid attention to a single scene. You don’t think Steve had either because he was too busy trying to fuse two different halves of gummy bears together.

“Okay, you just passed a test you failed two times in a row,” you tell the boy, painting him a picture of your dilemma. “Your girlfriend wants to do something nice for you, but she’s boring and poor. What would you want?” 

“A blowjob,” Steve answers without missing a beat. His brows scrunch together like the answer was far easier than you made it out to be. He shrugs and squishes the strawberry head of one gummy bear onto the blue raspberry bottom of another. “Obviously.”

You didn’t think the answer was so obvious. Especially not when you’re trying to take things slow. It wasn’t an easy feat either — not with Eddie at your place, looking at you with that look. His features drip with honey as rose petal spill from his mouth. It’s like he’s trying to tease you. 

He’s got no idea he’s quite literally dealing with the master of teasing.

“We’ll see how tonight goes,” you tell him, flashing him an arched brow and a knowing smirk as you drag two of your fancy, ten-dollar porcelain plates from the cabinet. “Only if you’re good for me, yeah?”

Eddie quite literally forgets how to speak.

Like, if you’d asked him a question, the only thing that would spill out would be unintelligible murmurs of made-up words. 

His brain turns to mush with the look you give him — a two can play at this game kind of smirk that makes his mind melt. And your words are so effortless, so smooth, like you know just what to say and exactly how to say it to work him like a wind-up toy.

He’s in way over his head. The realization makes his breath hitch.

All he can do is nod like an idiot and let you fix him a plate of your “finest batch of spaghetti.” That’s what you call it, and he figures you must be right because you lay an entire three-course meal out in front of him. Well, it isn’t quite that extensive, but it feels that way.

Plates of pasta, a bowl of salad, and stacks of garlic bread decorate your small square dining table. Eddie almost feels like he’s at Enzo’s, even though there’s never been a world where he’s been able to afford Enzo’s.

You wine and dine him like the finest of them. Even though it’s nothing more than homemade spaghetti and apple juice in wine glasses, it makes him feel special — the kind of special people spend hundreds of dollars to feel. But he gets you for free and fuck, he doesn’t deserve any of it.

He got so damn lucky with you. 

He’s done trying to figure out why. He just wants to be more grateful for it.

Once he’s pleasantly full on a home-cooked meal, you usher him to the bathroom. There’s a bag full of stuff waiting there for him — toothbrush, toothpaste, body wash — all the essential shit that he’d forgotten all about. It makes his chest ache.

It’s less so that you knew he’d forget and more so that you thought about him at all.

Eddie imagines you getting off work, still in your Enzo’s-appropriate skirt and blouse uniform, scanning the aisles of Bradley’s Big Buy for things you think Eddie might need.

It’s mundane, but so beautiful still — to be remembered in the most minuscule of ways.

“—I didn’t know what to get you, and I couldn’t afford a lot, so I just got you that 3-in-1 stuff,” you ramble as you pull the dark green bottle out of the brown paper bag on the counter. You wave it mindlessly in your hand. “I don’t know, it was affordable, and you seem like the kind of guy who might use this sort of stuff, so—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddie chuckles, trying to act like he doesn’t have an off-brand bottle of the stuff sitting in his shower back at the trailer.

“I don’t know,” you answer with a giggle of your own. You shrug and sit the thing back down. “You don’t have to use it if you don’t want.  I just wanted you to have some stuff here so it could, you know, feel more like home…”

Your words strike something profound in Eddie’s chest, a lightning strike or a punch to the stomach. In that moment, he comes to the realization that home isn’t a place. It’s not four walls or the little trinkets that fill it. The people that make you feel all warm and cozy inside, the people that make you feel like you have a place in the world — that’s home.

It’s Wayne and it’s Hellfire and it’s you.

So it’s easy for Eddie to feel at home in your little apartment, and not just because you bought a bunch of stuff to make it that way. 

He’s warmed by the hot shower and the thought that you’re waiting for him in your bedroom down the hall. The idea that he gets this night and so many others you with makes him feel all giddy — like he’s ten years old again and no sleepover has ever traumatized him.

Eddie uses everything you bought, still a little dizzied that it’s for him, but opts to use your vanilla body wash. It’s sweet smelling, with hints of deep musk and high lavender.

The scent of it on his own skin makes him feel like you’re on him and all over him. He has to flip the hot water to freezing before he steps out of the shower. Because, sure, he’s been less than shy about how much he likes you, but walking into your room with a hard-on is a bit more forward than he’s used to.

Eddie finds you waiting for him in your bed. You’re idling at the very center of it, knees up to your chest and back against the headboard, like you’ve been waiting for his return to get truly comfortable there.

You smile when you see him again. It’s that same grin you always look at him with, as though every time you see him is the first time.

He brings an air of cleanliness in with him. He's dressed in fresh pajamas, curls damp and still drying. Steam radiates off his skin along with the scent of freshly baked cookies and flower petals. It’s familiar to you because it’s yours, but it’s different on Eddie in a way you can’t describe.

“You smell good,” you compliment as he maneuvers through the velvet darkness of your bedroom. The black night is evaded only by your dim yellow lamp and the streams of orange that filter through your curtains from the streetlamps outside.

Eddie scoffs as he climbs onto your queen-sized bed. “Did I smell bad before?”

“No. You just smell sweet now. Like a milkshake.”

You shift to make room for him, pulling back your green gingham comforter so he can slip in beside you. Even though you’ve given him ample room to sit down, there isn’t any hint of distance between you. You keep yourself intently pressed to his side despite the several inches of space next to you.

Eddie hopes you never realize there’s a whole world of other places you could be than right next to him. He doesn’t ever want to see a day where you’re separated by more than an inch or two. 

“A milkshake, huh?” he echos as he leans back against the slatted headboard and all your pillows. You twist until you’re practically on your side — hip digging into the mattress, shoulder propped along the cushions, chest pressed against his arm.

“Yeah. Like whipped cream or… vanilla cake…” you trail off, quickly losing interest in describing the scent of him when you’re staring the pretty boy in the face.

One half of him is bathed in shades of golden orange, the other half coated in a deep, deep navy. Eddie’s eyes are somehow darker than any night sky. They swim with their own galaxies and stars that twinkle back at you.

He looks at you and all words lose meaning.

“Yeah, I’m totally stealing your soap before I leave,” he jokes.

You shake your head at him, but smile anyway. “Thanks for letting me know, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Just like all the times before, neither of you realize you’re kissing until you already are. The gravitational pull that brings the two of you together is effortless and natural. You’re like the moon and Eddie’s like the tide — you drag him to you without trying and he bends to your every whim.

Kissing him is easy. It’s like breathing. You don’t ever have to think about it, you just do it. 

You press your lips against the rosy plush of his, and it’s like taking a deep breath of fresh air. It’s an atmosphere kissed by the sun and the trees and the morning dew. It fills your lungs with a new life, makes it impossible to quit kissing him.

But when his tongue swipes against your bottom lip, when his mouth pries yours open to slip the pink muscle inside — that feels like getting the breath knocked out of you. The rough pattern of his tongue slides against your own, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

Your lungs stop working, your chest aches, and there’s nothing you can do about it but let the moment pass.

Eddie keeps kissing you soft, though, coaxing fresh air back into your burning lungs. He helps you breathe normally again.

You move together like entwining summer breezes. Your thigh swipes against his lap and his hands find your hips to help guide you the rest of the way over. He’s halfway lying down now and you’re looming like an unconquerable mountain above him. Your back arches like a cat’s and your palms cradle his jaw while your tongue makes uncharted territory of his mouth.

The warmth lingering between your thighs presses into his lower stomach. It makes his grip on you tighten, hands pulling your hips further against him until he hears you moan.

The pressure of your clothed pussy against the pudge of his stomach brings you a distant pleasure. What really does you in is the thought of what little separates you — just the fabric of your cotton underwear and Eddie’s faded grey Tatcher Tire t-shirt.

But it’s hard to be indulgent when you’re so stuck in your head. Your mouth moves with Eddie’s on autopilot while your mind travels elsewhere. Because this isn’t supposed to be about you — it’s supposed to be about Eddie. You want to make him feel good for a change, but you have no idea how to go about it.

The foreignness is strange. It leaves you fumbling like you’ve never done any of this before.

In a way, you haven’t. Eddie is different from any guy you’ve ever been with. Not just because he cares about you, but because you’re practically the only girl he’s ever cared about in this way.

He’s a blank slate and you’re scribbled all over.

You don’t want to taint the pristine image he’s painted of you.

“Hey, Eds,” you murmur. The words are halfway spoken against his mouth because you don’t pull away in time to say them clearly. 

Your tongue darts out to feel how numb your spit-slicked lips have gotten after being kissed so ardently. You know they’re probably swollen and more vibrant in their color now. Eddie’s a lot of the same, mouth rosy and obviously kissed.

“Hm?” the boy hums back.

“Do you wanna… Do you wanna do something else?” you ask him, all slow because you don’t want to say the wrong thing. His brows furrow beneath the thin curtain of his curly bangs. The silent question eggs you on. “Would it be okay if I gave you a blowjob?”

Eddie’s eyes widen for a moment. He swears he goes blind because he doesn’t typically see white when he blinks. The question isn’t the weirdest for a guy in this predicament — with a pretty girl on his lap with his spit staining her mouth. It just catches him a little off guard.

“Would it be…” he tries to echo but trails off with a breathy laugh. You say it like it wouldn’t be perfect — to have you between his legs with your warm mouth on his cock, looking effortlessly beautiful while you swallow him whole. 

“Yeah… Yeah, I think that… I’d be a total idiot to say no,” he manages to stammer out, though words have long lost meaning by now.

The sight of his glazed-over eyes, warmed cheeks, and pink mouth makes you smile. He always looks at you like you’re the most amazing thing he’s ever seen — like you're the infiniteness of space or a deep, deep ocean — something profound he desperately wants to discover.

“I feel like you deserve it, right?” you squint down at him, partially teasing. “For a job well done, you know?”

Eddie nods until he finds the words to respond. “Yeah… Right. Totally.”

“Do you wanna lie down? Or would you rather me get on my knees?” you ask him.

Eddie swears he’s dreaming. He isn’t quite sure how you manage to say something so sinful with such sincerity.

“It might be comfortable to stay like this, but most guys like the visual of girls on their knees better so…” 

There is no seductive lilt to your voice, no mischievous teasing to rile him up. It’s just a question of how he wants you, and it’s a very dizzying thought. Knowing he can have you however he wants makes his stomach all whirly and his vision start to swim like he just spun around ten times.

Eddie just blinks at you. His chocolate eyes and heavy lids flutter slowly like he’s trying to look at you through a layer of honey.

It takes him a second to answer because he doesn’t know what he wants — he rarely ever does, but now especially. How is a boy who wants you in every way imaginable supposed to pick only one?

“Uh, can you—” he starts before the words get caught in his throat. He grunts out a cough to clear it. “Could you, um… get on your, uh— your knees? Please?” 

You smile at how politely he phrases it. You don’t think anyone’s ever said please when asking you for a blowjob before.

Eddie fidgets awkwardly beneath you, and you’re not entirely sure why. You’re the one that just offered yourself up on a platter, totally and unequivocally happy to do whatever he wants. He’s not the one that should be embarrassed.

You nod down at him, still grinning like an idiot. “Sure. You can stay sitting if you want. Whatever you wanna do.”

“Okay…” Eddie mumbles in response.

He watches you with wide, inquisitive eyes as you maneuver off his lap and onto the rug beside your bed. When he swings his legs over the edge of it, you settle intently between them. His cock twitches at the sight of you below him, blinking up at him with sparkling eyes that almost look like they’re begging.

Your palms settle on his clothed thighs as your knees press into the woolen rug beneath you. Your chest warms when you’re finally level with his concealed cock. It makes your heart go silly, the sheer thought of what you’re about to do. You don’t think you’ve ever been this excited to suck dick before.

You wait patiently for him to make the first move — then you realize he doesn’t know how because he’s never had to before. Instead, he’s waiting for you to tell him what to do. With button eyes intently focused on your form and hands anxiously gripping the edge of the bed, he’s entirely prepared to move however you want him to.

“Take off your shirt, Eds,” you guide gently.

He listens to you without thinking twice. His fidgeting fingers reach for the fraying hem of his shirt to yank it up and over his head. He has to tug harder when the neck gets caught around his chin.

It isn’t the first time he’s been shirtless in front of you. Between changing and heated kisses, he’s had ample opportunity to get over his lingering insecurities.

For a while there, he found himself comparing his body to all your other more prominent escapades — the Billy Hargroves and the Steve Harringtons. The overtly masculine types with bodies that scream, ‘I peaked in high school.’

Eddie doesn’t look like them. He isn’t as toned or as thin. He’s got pudge on his belly and sparse hair on his sternum in the place of defined abs and pecks covered in layers of chest hair. He doesn’t look at all like those basketball douchebags that could easily model for whatever magazine basketball douchebags read — if they even know how to, that is.

But you don’t seem to care. You love on him anyway.

Even now, your eyes rake over his bare upper half with a gaze that isn’t anything short of hungry. You reach for his face to pull him down for a ravenous kiss that does little to quell your appetite. Your fingers tangle in the drying strands of his hair in the same way your tongues do. 

Eddie’s patient hands curl around the insides of your elbow as he keeps his lips obediently parted for you. He sighs into each of your eager kisses, more than content to let you swallow him whole.

You move down to his jaw and then to his neck. You nose his curls out of the way to sprinkle wet pecks to the warm skin there. You somehow manage to take your time and move with haste all at once — loving on all the places that need loving, but not lingering in one place for too long because there are too many of them to count.

The tip of your nose trails down his milky torso in time with your craving kisses. You press a final one between his ribcage, tongue darting out briefly just so you can hear his breath tremble before pulling away entirely. 

Eddie’s hands remain on each of your arms as your fingers curl around the hem of his plaid pajama pants. It makes his grip unknowingly tighten.

“Wait,” he blurts with his eyes squeezed shut. You tense almost instantly. “Can you— I mean, can we, just… you know…” he trails off, voice tight like he’s holding his breath. It’s probably because he is.

“What?” you pry with wide eyes and the sick feeling like you’ve done something horribly wrong. “Is this… Is this not okay? We don’t have to, like, do any of this if you don’t want. It was just a suggestion, Eds. We can just—”

“No!” he exclaims, eyes flying open to find your panicked ones. He shakes his wild head so vigorously down at you it makes his curls sway. He both wants to quell your worry and plead for you not to stop. “That’s not it. I— I want to, okay? I do. I really… really do. I just… You’re so far away like this…”

His words drip with a soft sincerity, his honeyed eyes even more so.

Your alarm curls into a gentle smile at his reassurance.

You haven’t had many firsts in a long, long time. Your first kiss was on the playground of Hawkins Middle. Your first handjob was in the locker room of the community pool not too long after. Your first time having sex was on a towel in the grass beside Tina Burton’s pool after her birthday party when everyone else had gone to bed.

All your stereotypical firsts happened lifetimes ago, but you’ve had a billion more with Eddie.

You can say with more confidence than you’ve ever had in your life that this is the first time a guy’s turned down a blowjob because you were too far away on your knees. 

“What?” the boy wavers at your silence. Your accompanying smile is somehow more frightening.

“Nothing,” you assure. Your brows pinch together as you smile up at him. “I just… I really don’t think we can be any closer than your dick in my mouth, Eds.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. His cheeks go rosy at your quip. “You know what I mean…”

“Yeah,” you answer softly. “I know what you mean.”

You rise again, this time planting yourself on his thigh. Your knees settle on either side of his leg and dig into the mattress below you, on top of him all over again. The position is a familiar one. The only thing different is a few months’ time and a lack of Fast Times playing in the background.

Eddie tilts his chin to peer up at you. It’s easier this way, he realizes, to be below you and at your mercy rather than above you. Sometimes he thinks you were made to be on top of him like this.

“How about this,” you lilt with a raised brow. “I can just jerk you off—”

“Sounds perfect,” Eddie nods.

A giggle bubbles from your lips. “Let me finish, you weirdo. I can jerk you off, and you can just tell me when you’re about to finish.”

“Okay,” he answers right before his brows furrow. “Uh… why?”

“So you can come in my mouth,” you shrug like it’s obvious.

Your words knock the wind from Eddie’s lungs — it’s like you’ve punched him square in the stomach. Staring up at you through drooping eyelids, he swallows thickly, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s sounds… Yeah…”

You breathe out a laugh and lean closer to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. You couldn’t help yourself — he’s too damn adorable. Your fingers curl back around the hem of his pants and boxers, dragging them both down in one fell swoop to free his half-hard cock. You tuck the tops of them under his balls.

You’ve seen a lot of dicks in your time — long ones, short ones, thick ones, skinny ones — you could make a damn nursery rhyme of the variety you’ve seen. Eddie’s doesn’t particularly stand out.

It’s middling in length and in girth, not big but not too small either, with a width that won’t hurt to take but will stretch you out nonetheless. 

His cock is pale and a faint strawberry red at the tip. It’s the same rosy color his cheeks get when he blushes. There’s a vein that trails up from his balls and splits like a forking river up to his bulbous head. The bush at his pubic bone is fitting for a metalhead, but it looks like he’s taken a trimmer to the chestnut hair there sometime in the past month or so.

His dick isn’t ugly and it isn’t special, but it’s perfect anyway because it’s his.

“You’ve got a really pretty cock, Eds,” you praise in a low whisper.

He thinks you must be trying to talk dirty, but your gaze gets all shy — quirked brow, curled lip, twinkled eye — like you must really mean it. You seal your compliment with a soft, lingering peck.

“Can dicks be pretty?” he asks you, the question muffled against your mouth.

“Not usually,��� you blurt before you realize.

Most guys are gross. They don’t shave because they don’t think they have to. Sometimes they smell bad, too, because they never really learned how to wash themselves. Either that, or they taste overtly of soap because they shoved a whole bar of the stuff down their pants right before.

Boys tend to care less about the situation their cocks are in. Only a handful you’ve been with really knew how to take care of themselves — Eddie for one, Steve for another, and Billy Hargrove on occasion.

“But your’s definitely is,” you promise.

“Um… thanks?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out like a question; he just never thought that exact string of words would ever be spoken to him.

It’s a little bit surreal to receive a compliment on a part of you that most people wouldn’t typically notice — like your shoulders or lips or thighs. Eddie’s almost sure you’ve complimented each of those at some point or another.

You kiss him again, both because he makes it insanely hard not to and because you know that’s the only way to get him out of his head. He’ll never get hard if he’s worried about getting hard. So you keep kissing him, letting him focus on the pattern of your tastebuds and the curves of your cupid’s bow, while you happily do all the work.

Your fingertips trail up and down the underside of his cock. Your caresses are featherlight and meticulous along his warm, stiffening skin, all but coaxing him hard. 

When his cock is totally stiff and standing at attention at his stomach, you part from Eddie to bring your palm to your mouth. You spit a glob of saliva onto the center of it and let the added lubricant help your fist glide along his dick.

A stifled groan rumbles in Eddie’s throat as your fingers wrap fully around him. You’re only touching his cock, but it feels like you’ve embraced every inch of them.

The pleasure feels like static, like he’s just rubbed his socks along the carpet and he’s sizzling with the newfound electricity. He feels it in the tips of his toes and in the strands of his hair.

“Um, just to, uh… save myself the embarrassment,” Eddie cautions shakily. His voice is a few octaves higher than normal and audibly fragile. “I should probably urge you to lower your expectations—” He has to stifle a whine when you squeeze the base of his cock. “—Just a little bit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’m probably gonna come, like, really, really quickly,” he tells you and tries his best to laugh. It’s as shaky as the smile he gives you because you haven’t stopped touching him, even despite his warning. 

Your fist squeezes his cock, then rises again. You pause momentarily to swipe your thumb over his leaking tip before sliding back down again. It’s a slow and methodical cycle that’s going to make him burst far quicker than he’d like.

“That’s okay,” you assure with the shake of your head, brows furrowed because you don’t know why that’s such a band thing. You shrug. “Just means there’s more time for me to make you do it again.”

Eddie huffs out a sigh as his cock twitches in your fist, growing somehow harder at your words.

Your unhurried pace hastens in a way that’s still obviously disciplined. Your hand moves faster until you hear his breath start to race and see his milky white chest splotch with red. Then, when his rapid pants begin to tremble, your pace goes back to normal.

You push him to the very edge of the cliff and then pull him backward before he falls.

It’d be agonizing if it didn’t feel so damn good.

His eyes have long fluttered shut by now. You miss his chocolate syrup irises, but the look of pure serenity on his face is the kind of beautiful most people pay to see. His agape mouth, bared neck, rosy cheeks, and long lashes that tickle the apples of them deserve to be hung in the Louvre. 

It’s a sort of heavenly that everyone needs to admire in their lifetime, but one that belongs to only you. The sheer thought of someone else having him this way makes you angry, sparks raging orange embers just behind your sternum.

Eddie grows quiet. Suspiciously so. He isn’t moaning as much as he was before, and his chest is totally still, as though he were holding his breath. You feel his gentle grip on the outsides of your thighs start to harden. You figure the added tension helps him stay hushed. It’s less so accidental and more like he’s trying not to make noise.

“Let me hear you, Eds,” you urge in a whisper. “It’s okay. Go ahead and whine for me.”

The assurance barely spills from your mouth before he’s moaning for you. It’s a long, drawn-out whine that travels from his chest to his throat and out of his mouth, concluding in a fragile sigh.

The sound makes you double your efforts. You want him to make that noise again — you never want him to stop making that noise for you. So you squeeze harder, rise faster, and pay more attention to his rapidly reddening tip. 

You’re not entirely sure what Eddie likes the most. Most guys moan louder when you do something they like, but he seems to like all of it, so you don’t pay extra attention to one place. You keep jerking his cock, faster still, even when the muscles of your forearm start to burn.

“Fuck—” the boy sighs in a heavy moan, then cuts himself off with a pitiful whine.

He tries to lift his head and open his eyes to look at you, but he doesn’t have the strength to anymore. His head lolls back again when the pleasure begins to crescendo.

Sufficiently stupid, he can’t even find the words to warn you. “I’m— I’m close, sweetheart,” he slurs lowly. “I’m… Fuck… Fuck, I’m gonna…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. His face screws up, nose scrunching and brows furrowing, as the feeling becomes almost unbearable. It’s all the warning you need.

Your fist holds onto the base of his cock as you dismantle his thigh and settle on the rug again. You don’t think twice before darting forward to lick the dribbles of pearly-white pre-come spilling from his reddened tip.

You wrap your lips around him totally, cheeks hollowing as you suck him there like he’s a piece of candy.

And Eddie dies. He passes away on the spot.

It’s the only way he can describe the feeling.

The crescendo of pleasure — that’s the life flashing before his eyes. The brief moment of numbness is the infinite void of death. The burst of ecstasy that spits from his cock in one, two, three loads is heaven.

It just has to be.

There can’t be a higher pleasure than the feeling of your mouth on his cock and the way you moan around him when his come spills on your tongue.

Eddie whines something pitiful. He loses all the previous inhibition that kept him so quiet he was too scared to breathe. One hand twists in the sheets while the other settles on the back of your hand, not pulling or tugging, just resting there as his hips buck off the mattress. He can’t tell if he’s running away from the intensity of his pleasure or if he never wants it to stop.

You don’t seem to mind that he doesn’t know.

You let his hips jerk wildly even when the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat and makes you gag. It does take everything in you not to laugh, however, when Eddie murmurs a fragile “sorry” through his cries.

And when his fingers knot in your hair, you don’t mind that either. You let him halfway fuck your mouth, even though you’re pretty sure he’s too far gone to notice that he’s fucking your mouth.

You don’t stop until he’s shuddering. Only when you’re sure he has nothing left to give you do you finally pull away from him. You leave a delicate kiss to the tip of his softening cock, no longer the angry red color it was moments ago. Eddie’s stomach clenches at the feeling of blatant sensitivity. His face scrunches as another feeble cry gets trapped in his throat.

You snap his boxers and pants back into place on his waist and rise.

“How was that for your first blowjob?” you ask him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Eddie just shakes his head in response. He flops back against the mattress, the springs bouncing under his weight, and tries to find the words to answer you.

He doesn’t know how to tell you that he just saw Heaven and Hell at the same time and that you were both God and the Devil. There isn’t any string of words in any language that could explain the otherworldly pleasure you gave him with nothing more than your hand and mouth, so he decides to stay quiet.

With his eyes still closed, he can hear you laughing quietly at him while you slither in at his side. You lie beside him on your stomach. When you’re finally in reach again, he peeks his eyes open and reaches for you, pulling you toward him for a searing kiss.

You think it might be the first time he’s ever done so without asking awkwardly first — as though there was a world where you would ever turn him down. He seems to understand that now, the way he kisses you without thinking twice about it.

His tongue swipes into your mouth. The both of you moan when he tastes the salty tang lingering there. Eddie doesn’t even realize that it’s him he’s tasting at first — that the heady bitter-sweetness on your tongue is his come.

It’s less so that he’s tasting himself, and more so that his taste is in your mouth at all, that makes him exhale a moan against you. The heavy breath of it fans against your cupid’s bow.

“Oh,” you hum through labored pants when you part again. “It was that good, huh?”

“Better,” he answers with a crooked smirk on his swollen pink mouth. He’s finally able to open his eyes and see more than a blur when his high starts to subside. “That was fucking… I mean, that was… fuck…”

His speechlessness makes you giggle. Your gaze stays locked on his profile when he turns to look up at the ceiling.

“That was exactly what I wanted. And, like, I didn’t even know I wanted it, you know?” he rambles. “How did you— How did you know? How do you always know?”

You’re not entirely sure what he means by that, and honestly, neither is he.

You just always know what he needs. You buy him a toothbrush because you know he’ll forget his, and when you touch him, you know exactly what he likes — even though he doesn’t even know what he likes.

It’s like you’re another half of him, and not in the stupid soulmate way everyone always thinks they’ve found. You’re an identical part of him that no one else can fit. He’s only whole with you — like a sandwich cut into triangles or halves of an orange. 

“Well, to be fair, I did ask Steve what a guy would want in this sort of situation,” you admit with a scrunched nose. “I just sort of went with what he said.”

Eddie’s brows pinch together as he turns his head to peer at you again. He blinks at you for a moment, dumbfounded, then sputters. “Wait— You’re telling me I have Steve to thank for that blowjob? Like Steve-Steve? As in Steve The Hair Harrington?”

His dramatics makes you giggle. You hide your grin behind your palm.

“Hope that doesn’t change anything, Eddie Spaghetti.”

You meant it as a joke, as in, please don’t think of Steve every time I give you a blowjob from now on, but your words settle something heavy on the both of you. 

Because you’ve had Steve The Hair Harrington, in more ways than most friends tend to have one another. You’ve had a lot of people like that. There are people in the world with parts of you that most only give away when they’ve found someone really, really special. 

You learned about that too late. And now you feel a lot less special.

Eddie hears all your dreadful, no-good thoughts because they’re also his own. 

He’s a virgin with the town slut, so he often feels like he’s drowning. It isn’t because of you, though. It’s never because of you. The number of people you’ve slept with doesn’t mean a damn thing to him; he just wants to measure up to them.

He wants to be the kind of man that sticks in your head after you’ve been with a thousand of them — the kind you can’t help but remember fondly because there hasn’t been another one like him.

He’s got no idea he’s already better than every person you’ve ever been with combined.

“No, sweetheart,” he assures with the shake of his head. The apple of his cheek rubs against the fabric of your comforter as he looks at you with eyes deeper than an infinite galaxy. His gaze holds all of its own stars, and each of them is named after you. “It doesn’t change a goddamn thing.”

[tudorgirl]

Leather Jacket

a/n: Okay this is my first fanfic on here like this. This is my first JJ/reader fic. I tried really hard on this, so please be kind

warning: Some curse words, mentions of Luke Maybank, JJ being JJ, angst fluff ending. Loosely inspired by the song “Leather Jacket” by The Arkells

word count: 1 k

pairing: JJ/ girlfriend/ex reader

The rain was blurring your vision, you could barely make out bright reflecting halos that were speeding past you on the road.

Your short dress wasn’t your brightest idea, and your boots were soaked with the puddles you could not avoid to get here.

Teeth chattering from the cold breeze along with what felt like a tsunami to you.

Where was your ride? And where was your phone for that matter?

Just then a car pulled up beside you, next to the pay phone you used to call.

You opened the door to the old car, and you hurried into it shivering.

“Here” JJ Maybank said handing you the leather jacket with a smile

He had been asleep when his phone rang that early morning. He had been crashing at the Chateau since the breakup. JJ was surprisingly sober, but he wasn’t in a peaceful dream either. He was replaying your last conversation.

“I can’t do this anymore JJ”

“Do what Y/N?

“We have been dating for three years. Do you even love me?

“The hell kind of question is that. Of course I love you Y/N.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like it. John B and Sarah are married. Pope is thinking of proposing to Cleo… we are still here crashing in my apartment pretending to live together like we did three years ago” you had said tears forming in your blue eyes JJ loved so much.

“Y/N come on… don’t cry. I hate seeing my angel cry” he said trying to wrap his arms around you.

“I need stability JJ. I want a life with you as your wife “you said hiccupping from sobbing.

“You want to get married?” JJ asked dumbfounded scratching his head.

         That had been in, the last straw for you. Of course, JJ loved you. He had never loved anything more in his existence. He dreamed of a life with you, but he was a pogue. You were a kook. It shouldn’t matter to him. You had proven status didn’t matter to you.  You moved out of your parents figure eight mansion and into a one-bedroom apartment near the cut to be closer to him.  The money wasn’t gone though. Your parents still gave you everything. They even accepted your relationship with a Maybank.

         JJ was still Luke Maybank’s son though. He thought you deserved better. He knew it. You still stayed and that’s why he couldn’t propose.

        You had left the Chateau a week ago. He had broken your heart and it killed him. He was doing the right thing. You would move on to some kook prince and get the life you were worthy of, not the shit hole of a life he could provide for you.

         He was relieving all this when his phone rang and when he looked at the glowing screen it was no caller I.D. He answered anyway, still hopful

“Y/n? he asked sitting up in bed.

“JJ…I lost my phone at the bar, and I need a ride. Can you pick me up?”

“Are you at “the Gater”?” he asked putting his shoes on.

“Yes.. j its raining and I’m cold” you said sounding miserable.

“Be right there sweetheart “He got his keys and got his jacket and was off to the bar you two had made so many memories together.

You took the leather jacket that still smelled like tobacco and bergamot, the aroma engulfed your senses. It might have been his father’s jacket but it reminded you of the man that you still adored.

You remembered everything from three years of dating. The fast-food dates where you would share milkshakes with the cute blonde boy. The dance at your school that he thought he didn’t belong, but you proudly held his hand and guided him to the dance floor. To wrapping your new puppy in the garment as you brought it to your apartment.

A leather jacket that was home just like the man in the drivers seat was.

 He put the car in gear and started driving in silence. Neither of you knew what to say at first. The heat was making your tired bones comfortable and soon you had fallen asleep.

JJ looked over at you and chuckled to himself. He only woke you when he stopped at your apartment building.

“Y/N… hey were home—er I mean were at your place” he corrected himself but felt his cheeks go crimson.

You opened your eyes and looked around and nodded understanding JJ. You unbuckled your seatbelt and were about to get out when JJ reached to gently take your hand.

“Why’d you call me?” JJ asked softly.

“You were the first person I thought of.” You said honestly meeting his gaze.

        You were walking to the entrance of the complex when you heard the familiar voice behind you.

“Y/N I cant give you what you grew up with” he screamed over the pouring rain.

“I grew up with loving parents that accepted me for everything I was. You cant give me that Maybank?” you asked walking toward him getting soaked again.

“I will love you with everything I got” he said as you reached him cupping his drenched face in your hands.

“What are you saying then?” you asked softly.

“You have my heart, my jacket, why not my last name?

You jumped in his arms and kissed him deeply.

He returned the kiss then took your hands in his and with the fear of becoming his father subsiding in his gut he asked the girl he loved to marry him.

“Yes JJ Maybank I will marry you” you said giggling then took his hand as you both ran inside from the storm.

As the door closed you noticed the tears in his eyes mixed with rain-stained cheeks. “I love you J”

“Y/N I love you too. Before we plan our wedding though. I have one more very important question for you”

“What would my fiancée like to know?” you asked giggling at the word “fiancée”

“Who the fuck uses a pay phone?”

The sounds of your laughter replaced the rain outside, and you both knew the sun would pierce through the sky again.

tagging @mvybanks(for help and inspiration) @moremaybank(for inspiration) and @maybankslover( inspiration)

[slasher-male-wife]

I've got a taste for men who are older: Phillip Graves x male reader

I have COD brain rot and also dilf brain rot so I'm writing this. Disclaimer I've never played cod before in my entire life and I've only read the fan fictions/ wiki pages of these characters so please don't yell at me if this is ooc for him. This is inspired by a post I saw before. I don't remember the persons @ but I do know it was kind of similar to this. I made the reader male because I want there to be more male reader fics for my blorblos. I might make this into a series if it gets popular enough.

Warnings: Younger reader (When I say younger I mean like 25 at the youngest), flirting, he/him pronouns and masculine terms used for reader

"You didn't have to drive me home Mr. Graves." You say buckling your seat belt. Phillip Graves is a friend of your boss. You first met him about six months ago and he's been over at the office often with your boss, always taking an interest in you while he's there. You can't deny that he's an attractive looking man, but dating him would make things awkward with your boss.

"I don't mind it at all Y/n. And please just call me Phillip, or Graves if you really want to."

"I just didn't want to bother you by having you drive me home is all. I could have called a cab or something else." He looks over at you and smiles a little as he starts the car.

"Well I don't want you waiting outside all alone. I just hope your boyfriend doesn't mind I'm doing this for you." Now you're smiling and looking at his rough and calloused hands.

"Well I don't have a partner. Men my age don't really interest me," He raises a brow at this and you laugh a little, "I mean men my age don't want to have a meaningful relationship. They just want friends with benefits or a one night stand. Older men are the ones who really treat you well. Older men wait until you're ready and will be romantic. Older men put in effort." He chuckles and pulls out of the parking lot.

"Well any man would be lucky to have you as a boyfriend if you ask me. And what do you mean by an older man?" You shrug and Graves puts his arm over the back of your seat to look behind him.

“I mean I’d date a man as old as 50. But that’s just me. How old are you again Graves?” His smile grows and the passing lights cast beautiful shadows against his face. 

“I’m 45. Thankfully not too old for you,” He moves his hand from behind your seat down to your knee, giving it a little squeeze. Your face at his blunt flirting and you have to look away from his blue eyes when he throws a glance your way. 

“I’m just not so sure how my boss would feel about us being together.” You start to pick at the skin around your nails. 

“Well I wouldn’t worry about Ms. Rey learning about us being interested in each other. But if she did fire you over it I wouldn’t mind taking care of you while you get back on your feet. That’s what an older man is supposed to do isn’t it?” You have to look back over at him when you feel his hand leave your knee. He’s turned his attention to you at this red light and you’re fighting the urge to kiss him right then and there. You simply nod while your face heats up, “Well if we’re on the same page I’d like to take you out for dinner next week.” The light turns green and he turns back to the road. 

“I get off work early on Friday.” You say looking back at his hands. 

“Well then I’ll pick you up at 7:30. That works for you right?” 

“It does. It’s very nice of you to take me out for dinner Phillip. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a gentleman like you.” He chuckles and puts a hand on your thigh. 

“Can’t a man just treat someone as handsome as you to a nice dinner?” Your smile only grows as you put a hand over his. 

“Of course you can. It’s just no man has ever really treated me to a nice dinner before. Like I said, most men my age just want sex, nothing romantic.” You move your hand and Graves rubs his thumb across your skin. 

“Well I’d say that what I’m going to treat you to will put those other men to shame. Because an older man really knows how to treat their date well.” He pulls up onto your driveway and parks the car. You unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to him fully. 

“Thank you again Phillip. I can’t wait to see you again on Friday.” 

“Of course Y/n. I look forward to that too.” You give him a kiss on the cheek before getting out of the car. When you step inside your house you have to let out a pent up laugh of excitement. You’re finally getting the man you deserve. 

[2uuno]

DEIFORMS CHAPTER ONE

The night that Elvis Haddison mysteriously disappeared on Lake Cusp, Sean McCarthy crashed his car into a mailbox, although he didn’t stop until he reached town.

This was for two reasons- first, he knew who owned the mailbox he’d just bowled over, and knew that his consequences would not be particularly merciful. Secondly, and more predominantly, because he was drunk, and a little sleep deprived, and really shouldn’t have been driving at all. He neither thought to pull over or think to check on the mailbox until he was long out of sight.

But once he was stopped, he stopped for real, stumbling out of the car and sitting on the sidewalk, staring up at the neon light for the local diner. After a few deep, shaky breaths, he fished his phone out of his pocket, squinting at the screen for a few good minutes, before finding what he needed.

The phone rang for only a few moments, before, with a click, it stopped.

Neither spoke for a moment, before Sean remembered who he was talking to, before he remembered that he would have to be the first to talk, and sighed. “Hey bro. How much to convince you to pick me up?”

“Twenty. You at the party still?” The voice, a dry, hoarse, smoker’s voice came through, the faint sound of keys being grabbed in the background.

“Nah, I left, I’m at Frost’s.”

“How the hell’d you get from Jean-Paul’s to Frost’s?”

“Drove.”

“You drove?!” There was a long, fruitful pause, before a huff. “Did you wreck your car?”

“No,” Sean said, before pausing, thinking, and shaking his head hard. “I ran over the Robyn family.”

“What?”

“Not the family. Their mailbox. I don’t know why I said the family,” He thought. “I’m kind of drunk.”

“Man, you’re a lightweight. I’ll be there in ten. You gonna need to pick up your car tomorrow?”

“We have school, don’t we?”

“You're 19 years old.”

“So…?”

A sort of huffed laugh, and the sound of an engine starting. “No, Sean, you don’t have school tomorrow.”

“Okay, then, no.”

“Yes, you do, or it’ll get towed.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Bitch.”

The line went dead.

Sean stood up, stretching his arms over his head. The air was finally starting to cool off, and the hem of his t-shirt wasn’t quite enough to cover his stomach. He shuddered and lowered his arms.

Sean was, to put it simply, an odd looking young man. He was tall, easily six foot, and lanky, with pale pale skin and a buzzed head of bleach fried hair. His eyes were mismatched, one pupil perpetually dilated and surrounded by pale blue, the other surrounded by dark brown. His skin was covered in freckles, his face full of piercings. His clothes were all the wrong size, his shoes held together with duct tape. He looked like a Frankenstein’s monster of a man, all the wrong bits in the wrong places. The result was very nearly a positive one, but not quite.

A minivan pulled up.

Unlike Sean’s rattly old pickup truck, this one was a good deal newer, and in a much better condition. Some would even call it a nice car.

The passenger side window shuddered down, and Sean stumbled over, leaning his head in.

“Hey cutie. Need a ride?”

“I’m not supposed to get in strangers' cars,” Sean fired back, but reached through the window to unlock the door, climbing into the familiar car that he’d been climbing into for the past two years without a hesitation. “Sorry for waking you up.”

“You didn’t wake me up,” Diego Costello lied. “You feel alright?”

Sean shrugged, letting his head roll to the side while he gazed at his best friend.

He was short, and stout, with a mohawk of curls that were ever so slightly longer in the back than the top. His face was permanently scrunched in a scowl, almost a look of disgust. He had the saddest little goatee in an attempt to make his baby face any less of a baby face, and it didn’t quite work. The braces didn’t help.

“You smell like shit,” He said, finally, glancing at the rearview mirror. “Did someone throw up on you?”

“No,” Sean grumbled. “But Jesus Freak tried.”

“Kyrie?” Diego sounded nearly surprised. “Kyrie went to a party?”

“Yeah, and got drunk off his tits,” Sean picked at his cargo pants. “Think Lori drove him home.”

“Hm.”

Sean stared out the windshield. “Are you mad?”

“Mad at Kyrie? Why would I be, he’s 18, he’s a big boy-”

“Mad at me.”

The car was silent.

Sean groaned, letting his head hit the window with a hollow thunk.

This was a song and dance they’d done nearly every weekend for two years, up until about a month ago, when Sean had finally gotten his own truck. They both thought that would be it- the end of Sean’s pathetic dependence, the end of Diego having to haul his friend home.

“Why didn’t you call my sister?” Diego finally asked.

“What?” Sean scowled. “Why would I-?”

“She’s your girlfriend.”

“And you’re my best friend-”

“You don’t get it, do you,” Diego snapped, suddenly, stopping at a stop sign and twisting to look at Sean, look him in the eye. “She’s your girlfriend. You’re supposed to be her problem.”

Sean blinked at him, stupidly, before the words registered, and he clenched his jaw. “Yeah, well. Well… well-!”

Diego exhaled, hard, turning back to the road. “I didn’t mean… I don’t know, you’ve been avoiding me for this whole time-”

“-Have not-”

“You ditched me at lunch, Sean,” He cut him off. “You sit with her, and Dean, and that Robyn girl-”

“-Lillian, she’s actually really nice-”

“Sean.”

“Di,” Sean whined. “I didn’t mean to ditch you, I just… you and Miki and Lori… you’re cool, but you guys are… you’re just…”

“Not cool?”

“No, you’re-”

“-No, no, I get it,” Diego said, firmly, pulling up in front of Sean’s house- not going up the driveway, just stopping at the mailbox. “Don’t worry about it.”

“...Would you rather I had called Madi?”

Diego stared out the windshield for a moment, before sighing, looking around, eyes finally landing on Sean. “No. Maybe, I don’t know.”

Sean hissed out a breath through crooked teeth. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Monday.”

“Whenever.”

And he got out.

Neither said goodbye. Neither said I love you. Neither said anything they’d always said. Diego drove away and Sean walked up his driveway, and neither of them slept well that night.

Across town, the fog rolled across the Lake, and swallowed Elvis whole.

…

Sean didn’t dream very often.

When he did, they were vague, unclear, sort of blurry. Just the kind of thing where you get a sort of feeling when you wake up that something happened.

This started off like that- vague and blurry, but then, all of a sudden, like an image loading in all of a sudden, it all clicked. And he was standing in the road across from Frost’s Diner, staring down at a charred and blackened corpse. It wasn’t familiar- the lack of any distinguishing features kind of did that- but he recognized the hoodie.

It was him.

He looked up, and the town was on fire- but not regular fire: red flames that licked the sky. He could have sworn at some point he’d heard that red fire wasn’t supposed to be very hot, but here, it seemed almost to be suffocating, even hundreds of feet from him, nowhere near the place he stood.

He woke up the next morning to the familiar sound of his mother in the kitchen, arguing with someone. And, considering his father was out of town and his sister was hardly an arguer, there was really only one person it could be.

He managed to fight his way out of his covers without falling on his face, fighting his way down the hallway to the kitchen-slash-diningroom where his mother stood with her back to him, busy furiously scrubbing out a bowl while she bitched away to the only other person in the room.

“Hey Mama,” Sean said, his voice rough. “Hey Madi.”

Madison Costello, much like her twin brother, was far from tall or lanky. In fact, she was probably a good head shorter than Diego, and twice his weight. Her hair was trimmed short, her wiry glasses held to her face by a broad nose. She wore a sweater vest over a dress shirt, clean gray slacks and a cross necklace that Sean knew better than anyone was just for appearances.

“Sean, baby,” His mother turned around, a flash in her steely gray eyes. “It’s past noon. What were you doing up so late that you slept in so much?”

“And why isn’t your truck in the driveway?” Madi added, an almost playful smirk on her face.

“What?!”

“Uh, I went to a party. No drinking or anything, but it went a lot later than it was supposed to. I got a ride from Diego.”

Madi’s smile flickered, a questioning look replacing it. Sean’s mother didn’t notice, just clicking her tongue and turning back to the dishes. Sean raised an eyebrow at her, and she just shook her head.

‘We’ll talk later.’ She mouthed.

Feeling a little out of the loop, he nodded along. He often felt out of the loop around Madi, almost all the time. It wasn’t her fault, he thought, she simply was… quicker than him.

That was the thing about Madi. She thought of things before anyone else did, and then didn’t elaborate. She just assumed everyone else was having the same revelations she was having, and didn’t stop to consider that maybe they weren’t. Sean had known her about as long as he’d known Diego- which was nearly his whole life- but he wasn’t sure he’d ever had the same thought as she did at the same time she had.

He was just… behind.

When he’d first started hanging out with her and her friends, back when they got together a few months prior, he’d been sure that he’d be left out and confused and alone, but, inexplicably, he found her usual crowd was hardly any more put together than him.

Dean, for example, was a lanky kid who looked faintly like if some supermodel had gotten their face slammed into concrete a couple dozen times. He was attractive, in a very tragic, missing a front tooth, broken nose, sort of way. To boot, he had been a benchwarmer on the high school basketball team, where he spent a good amount of his time daydreaming about space ships.

His main claim to fame, however, was his girlfriend.

Lillian Robyn, like all Robyns, was absolutely drop dead gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous where you’re not sure if plastic surgery was involved. She’d been a pageant star in DC as a child, until her parents divorced and her dad remarried to the only lawyer in Rome, and they settled down in the only house in the neighborhood with a third story.

Neither of them were very cool. They hung out with Madi because she made them seem smarter, she hung out with them because they kept away any assholes. And they all hung out with Sean because he made them all look very smart and very hot in comparison, as far as he knew.

He did kind of miss his old friends sometimes- Diego and Miki and Lori and Kyrie- but this was better for him, he reminded himself. This was less likely to get him labeled a bad kid.

The second Madi managed to shoo him out of the kitchen, he knew he was in trouble, and yet he remained firmly excluded from anything resembling a loop as she hauled him down the hallway, to his bedroom, where she shut the door and turned on him.

“So, Diego gave you a ride home?”

“Yeah?” Sean sat on the bed. “He always does, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is,” Madi said, slowly, condescendingly. “I don’t want my boyfriend running around with a guy who’s known for stealing boyfriends.”

“'Steal boyfriends,'” He huffed. “He kissed Lars Milyama once. And that was before him and Elvis started going out-”

“That’s not the point,” Madi pouted. “You said when we started going out that you’d stop hanging out with them.”

“I though you didn’t have beef with him-”

“Besides, why wouldn’t you call me to drive you? You know I would have-”

“Because- because-” She stared at him, raising one eyebrow, and his voice gave out. “I don’t know.”

The butterflies that came with being in love sure felt an awful lot like a panic attack sometimes, he thought.

Luckily, Madi seemed to get the memo, and just sat beside him on the bed. "Sorry for grilling you, it's just…. I'm worried, you know? You've been going to a lot of parties, and driving home drunk-"

"I didn't drive drunk last night."

"I almost wish you had." She muttered, under her breath.

Secretly, he agreed, but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t supposed to have heard that, anyways.

“Whatever,” She said, waving a hand. “You need to get dressed, we’re all going to hang out at the park, and you need to at least be wearing something clean.”

By the time he was dressed, he was already wishing he’d pretended his headache was worse to get out of this, but it was far too late at this point. He was going to go to the park and he was going to have a good time whether he liked it or not.

Madi was sitting in her car by the time he got out there, scrolling through Insta on her phone. She glanced up absently when he got in, and for a second he thought she was going to say something about him taking too long and he braced himself, but instead she just snorted. “Your shirt’s on backwards.”

Embarrassed, he managed to twist it around until it sat correctly, buckling up as she pulled out of the driveway.

The park wasn’t really a park, just a field of grass between the highway and the local church, but that was pretty much the only place for people to hang out, and the church didn’t mind, so that was that. The only alternative, after all, was Walmart.

Pulling into the church parking lot, Madi’s phone rang. Before she could dismiss it, Sean glanced over and saw the caller ID.

“What’s Diego calling you for?”

“Hell if I know.”

“You should probably answer.”

She gave him a look and he shrunk back a bit. She declined the call and climbed out of the car, brushing her short curls from her face.

For a second he watched her walk away, trying to hype himself up enough to follow her.

He knew he was in love with her, but the near constant nausea of being around her was a bit much, he thought.

He got out of the car.

It’s not that Sean didn’t like his friends- or, god forbid- his girlfriend. He liked them just fine.

It’s just that they hadn’t known him nearly as long as his old friends had. They didn’t understand him.

Diego knew when he was getting quiet, that meant he was getting overwhelmed. Lori knew when he started fidgeting that that meant he wanted to say something. Miki knew when he huffed out air through his nose it meant he was ready to move on and do something else. Kyrie knew to put the volume in the car on even numbers because odd numbers made Sean uncomfortable.

These guys didn’t know that and, at the end of the day, he wasn’t really sure how to explain it either, so he just kind of went along with whatever they wanted.

He didn’t dislike them, is the point. He didn’t. He just wished sometimes that they knew him a little better.

Lillian looked up when he walked over, and lit up, perfect, pearly teeth shining at him from dark brown lined lips. “Hey big guy! How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been alright. Work’s been ass, but what’s new there?”

“Amen to that, buddy,” Dean said, where he was laying on his back, arm covering his face. “I didn’t realize how much I’d miss school until we graduated.”

Sean sighed, nodding.

The thing you need to understand is that Madi’s gang wasn’t popular. Definitely no more popular than Diego's gang. What they gained with Lillian, they lost with Madi herself, and Dean came in with his perfectly average reputation and demolished what minute bias of social standing they had.

And Sean… well, Sean wasn’t particularly popular, nor was he unpopular. People saw him, and recognized him from the hallways and the cafeteria of school, and said hi to him, carefully avoiding names lest they misremember.

He brought nothing to the group, beyond dating Madi, and having known Dean in elementary school when their teacher kept making jokes about their names rhyming (they didn’t if you pronounced them right) and being third or fourth cousins with Lillian.

He didn’t really belong.

But he sat down in the grass, and grabbed a soda from the cooler and cracked it open, taking a swig that was perfectly normal sized, and watching Madi pull out her phone to squint at the screen.

“Diego again?” He asked.

Dean lifted his head, squinting around.

Dean wasn’t very good at being a jock. He wasn’t very handsome after repeatedly getting his face smashed in by a ball and the floor, and he wasn’t mean enough. He also knew too much- just random facts no one knew or wanted to know, and he would happily chime in to any conversation to contribute. He wasn’t much help to the team in basketball games, but he was too good to kick, so he sat in a comfortable limbo of being too well liked by his teammates to be bullied but not well enough liked by his peers not to be. He had been adopted as a child- not from China like so many people seemed to think, but from Pennsylvania. He was half Korean and half Indonesian, but he always told people he was from Pittsburg when asked.

“Is he still calling you?” He asked, squinting in the bright light. “Maybe you should pick up-”

“No, I told you, he’s probably just calling to ask if he can have my leftovers.”

“You said he’s been calling since 6 in the morning, and he was out of the house when you woke up, that’s a little weird.”

“Wait, when did you say this?” Sean asked, blinking.

“The Snapchat groupchat?” Lillian said, before her jaw dropped. “Oh my god, we never added you-”

“-He doesn’t have Snapchat,” Madi said, irritably. “Because he doesn’t know how it works.”

“I don’t,” Sean shrugged weakly. “I don’t understand social media.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said. “I only got it so I can keep track of my teammates.”

“Creep.” Lillian nudged him with her shoe.

The two of them had been dating for a little over a year at this point, but they’d been going out on and off since seventh grade. It’s not like they’d ever broken up- not properly- they just… stopped dating every now and then. And then they got back together. And then they stopped. It was weird.

No one in Sean’s old group was dating. Kyrie and Lori had gone out on one date, back in freshman year, and kissed once, but that was it, and they all vowed not to bring it up. Now, it felt like everyone was a couple.

He kind of missed sitting around in Lori’s basement, bitching about teachers and eating cold pizza and sipping lukewarm soda because the Capsums didn’t believe in putting soda in the fridge.

But that was the past now.

Things were different.

During their last hangout, before he’d gone to the dark side, he’d warned them he wasn’t going to be eating lunch with them anymore, because Madi wanted to hang out with him more, and the way they all looked at him, disbelieving and incredulous, the way Kyrie laughed a little bit… it hurt.

It’d been a while- long enough that Sean thought that he was getting used to it. But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he never would.

“Do you guys think,” Lillian started, taking a long sip of her drink. “That there’s such a thing as God?”

“What?” Dean asked, rolling over.

“I had a weird dream last night, and I think I believe in God, now. What do you guys think, though?”

Sean huffed, laying back on the grass.

That was one thing about this group- the conversations were weird.

Dean had only just started to get rolling with the more complicated details of his theology lecture when Sean’s phone rang.

“If it’s Diego, ignore it.” Madi said, calmly, from her perch atop the cooler.

It wasn’t. It was his little sister Genny, so he picked up.

“Hey Gen,” He said, taking another carefully measured sip. “What's up?”

“Elvis is gone,” She said, hollowly. “He went out on the lake, and now he's gone.”

Sean paused, glancing at the other three, who were still chatting away, as if something was supposed to have changed.

“What do you mean, gone?” He asked.

“He isn't here anymore. I don't know if he fell out of the boat or something, but he's not… we've been looking all morning, we can't find anything.”

“Did you call the cops?” He suggested, a sinking feeling in his chest. Lillian nudged Dean, finally taking notice of what was happening.

“Yeah, they're here, but they're not doing anything.” She said, a bitter scoff on her voice. “Can you come?”

“... I'm hanging out with my friends-”

“Fuck that,” She said, shakily. “My best friend is missing, you can come help me.”

Sean glanced at his friends, who were all watching curiously. “... We're on our way.”

[hermitcraft-8]

Deiforms, Chapter One: The End of All Things (Part One)

masterpost

“All roads lead to Rome” is a stupid phrase. All roads don’t lead to Rome. In fact, very few roads do lead to Rome these days, only five major ones, which is about the same amount that leads to your average shopping mall.

To be honest, there’s more roads leading to Rome, West Virginia, and that’s not saying much.

There’s the main road, of course, a highway that rolled through the middle of the town, which carried most of the passerby through, on their way to Charleston, or DC, or further. There's Church Road, which is more of a street than a road, and Penelope Street, which is more of a road than a street. There’s also a good few other roads, smaller, coming through Altus or Snyder, that carry locals and people who know the area.

In total, there's seven roads that go through Rome, West Virginia, which is two more than the amount of roads that go through Rome, Italy.

It was on one of these roads that Sean O'Lainey crashed his car into a mailbox, late one September night, although he didn’t stop until he reached town.

This was for two reasons- first, he knew who owned the mailbox he’d just bowled over, and knew that his consequences would not be particularly merciful. Secondly, and more predominantly, because he was drunk, and a little sleep deprived, and really shouldn’t have been driving at all. He neither thought to pull over or think to check on the mailbox until he was long out of sight.

But once he was stopped, he stopped for real, stumbling out of the car and sitting on the sidewalk, staring up at the neon light for the local diner- the only one in town. After a few deep, shaky breaths, he fished his phone out of his pocket, squinting at the screen for a few good minutes, before finding what he needed.

The phone rang for only a few moments, before, with a click, it stopped.

Neither spoke for a moment, before Sean remembered who he was talking to, before he remembered that he would have to be the first to talk, and sighed. “Hey bro. How much to convince you to pick me up?”

“Twenty. You at the party still?” The voice, a dry, hoarse, smoker’s voice came through, the faint sound of keys being grabbed in the background.

“Nah, I left, I’m at Frost’s.”

“How the hell’d you get from Jean-Paul’s to Frost’s?”

“Drove.”

“You drove?!” There was a long, fruitful pause, before a huff. “Did you wreck your car?”

“No,” Sean said, before pausing, thinking, and shaking his head hard. “I ran over the Robyn family.”

“What?”

“Not the family. Their mailbox. I don’t know why I said the family,” He thought. “I’m kind of drunk.”

“Man, you’re a lightweight. I’ll be there in ten. You gonna need to pick up your car tomorrow?”

“We have school, don’t we?”

“It’s a Sunday.”

“So…?”

A sort of huffed laugh, and the sound of an engine starting. “No, Sean, we don’t have school tomorrow.”

“Okay, then, no.”

“Yes, you do, or it’ll get towed.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Bitch.”

The line went dead.

Sean stood up, stretching his arms over his head. The air was finally starting to cool off, and the hem of his t-shirt wasn’t quite enough to cover his stomach. He shuddered and lowered his arms.

Sean was, to put it simply, an odd looking young man. He was tall, easily six foot, and lanky, with pale pale skin and a buzzed head of bleach fried hair. His eyes were mismatched, one pupil perpetually dilated and surrounded by pale blue, the other surrounded by dark brown. His skin was covered in freckles, his face full of piercings. His clothes were all the wrong size, his shoes held together with duct tape. He looked like a Frankenstein’s monster of a man, all the wrong bits in the wrong places, but the result was very nearly a positive one.

A car pulled up.

Unlike Sean’s rattly old pickup truck, this one was a good deal newer, and in a much better condition. Some would even call it a nice car.

The passenger side window shuddered down, and Sean stumbled over, leaning his head in.

“Hey cutie. Need a ride?”

“I’m not supposed to get in strangers' cars,” Sean fired back, but reached through the window to unlock the door, climbing into the familiar car that he’d been climbing into for the past two years without a hesitation. “Sorry for waking you up.”

“You didn’t wake me up,” Ash Costello lied. “You feel alright?”

Sean shrugged, letting his head roll to the side while he gazed at his best friend.

He was short, and stout, with a mohawk of curls that were ever so slightly longer in the back than the top. His face was permanently scrunched in a scowl, almost a look of disgust. He had the saddest little goatee in an attempt to make his baby face any less of a baby face, and it didn’t quite work. The braces didn’t help.

“You smell like shit,” He said, finally, glancing at the rearview mirror. “Did someone throw up on you?”

“No,” Sean grumbled. “But your cousin tried.”

“Kyrie?” Ash sounded nearly surprised. “Kyrie went to a party?”

“Yeah, and got drunk off his tits,” Sean picked at his cargo pants. “Think Lori drove him home.”

“Hm.”

Sean stared out the windshield. “Are you mad?”

“Mad at Kyrie? Why would I be, he’s 18, he’s a big boy-”

“Mad at me.”

The car was silent.

Sean groaned, letting his head hit the window with a hollow thunk.

This was a song and dance they’d done nearly every weekend for two years, up until about a month ago, when Sean had finally gotten his own truck. They both thought that would be it- the end of Sean’s pathetic dependence, the end of Ash having to haul his friend home.

“Why didn’t you call my sister?” Ash finally asked.

“What?” Sean scowled. “Why would I-?”

“She’s your girlfriend.”

“And you’re my best friend-”

“You don’t get it, do you,” Ash snapped, suddenly, stopping at a stop sign and twisting to look at Sean, look him in the eye. “She’s your girlfriend. You’re supposed to be her problem.”

Sean blinked at him, stupidly, before the words registered, and he clenched his jaw. “Yeah, well. Well… well-!”

Ash exhaled, hard, turning back to the road. “I didn’t mean… I don’t know, you’ve been avoiding me for this whole time-”

“-Have not-”

“You ditched me at lunch, Sean,” Ash cut him off. “You sit with her, and Dean, and that Robyn girl-”

“-Lillian, she’s actually really nice-”

“Sean.”

“Ash,” Sean whined. “I didn’t mean to ditch you, I just… you and Miki and Lori… you’re cool, but you guys are… you’re just…”

“Not cool?”

“No, you’re-”

“-No, no, I get it,” Ash said, firmly, pulling up in front of Sean’s house- not going up the driveway, just stopping at the mailbox. “Don’t worry about it.”

“...Would you rather I had called Madi?”

Ash stared out the windshield for a moment, before sighing, looking around, eyes finally landing on Sean. “No. Maybe, I don’t know.”

Sean hissed out a breath through crooked teeth. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Monday.”

“Whenever.”

And he got out.

Neither said goodbye. Neither said I love you. Neither said anything they’d always said. Ash drove away and Sean walked up his driveway, and neither of them slept well that night.

And somewhere in the world, an abacus clicked.

[eriquin]

The Trolley Problem, part 35

Steve and Robin go back to the party, just in time to have to talk to the cops.

(master post)

There were flashing blue and red lights up ahead when Steve pulled onto the Holloway’s block. He stopped and almost turned around to go home, but there was an ambulance there and he had to find out. The drive over had been quick, just like Carol said. He’d told Robin the general idea: the lab was evil, they experimented on children, El was psychic, the lab let out that monster, there was another dimension to deal with. He had just gotten to the part where he’d intervened and stopped Will from getting taken when they saw the lights. 

“That is a lot to take in,” Robin said. 

“Yeah, no shit,” said Steve. “I’ll tell you more about it later.”

“Wait, wait. Before we get out... Were you really trying to lure the monster to your backyard?”

“Yeah. It was a dumb idea, but we wanted to kill it.”

“Why, though? Why not just stay safe? Will is safe, right?”

Steve gulped. “It took someone instead of him. Eddie Munson came with me to fight it, and it took him. He’s trapped there now, if he’s still alive.”

“Oh, shit,” Robin said. “I didn’t even know you guys were friends.”

“Yeah, that’s also new this time around,” Steve said. He looked up and saw someone walking towards the car. “Well, shit. That’s Calahan. I hate that guy. Okay, just follow my lead.”

“I’ll try.”

Phil Calahan looked younger than Steve ever remembered him being, and he was sure that he was one of the cops that he’d talked to after Barb disappeared from his backyard the first time. But here, he looked like he was barely out of high school. Maybe it was the lack of mustache. Steve climbed out of the car and rested his arm on the top of it. “Hey. Officer Calahan. How can I help you?”

The cop stopped short, thrown off by Steve knowing his name, probably. He put his hands on his belt and looked up and down the street. “If you’re here for the party, kids, it’s been called off. Better pack it up and go home.”

Steve thought about doing just that, for a second, but then Robin climbed out of the car. “I need to make sure my friend is okay,” she said. “I mean, I was here earlier, and—”

“It’s okay, Robin,” Steve said. “We’re just checking on her friend, Barb Holland. Is she okay?” 

Calahan did a double-take. “Wait, Holland? Oh, shit. Are you the other girl that was in the woods?” He turned and yelled back at the house, “Hey, somebody get Powell or the chief!”

“What happened?” Steve asked. 

“That’s what we’d like to know,” Calahan said. “Miss, why don’t you come with me?”

Robin came around the car and took Steve’s arm. “Can he come with me? Please?” she asked. “It’s just... I’m still kind of freaked out, and...” She took a deep breath, like she was close to hyperventilating.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Steve wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “It’ll be okay.” 

Calahan nodded and gestured for them both to come with him. After a minute, he seemed to remember something, and turned back to look at Steve. “And, uh, what was your name again?” 

Steve raised his eyebrows. “I’m Steve Harrington,” he said. “I live a couple of blocks away.” 

“Right, right,” he said. “Okay, let’s get you inside to talk to the chief.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” Steve asked. But Calahan shook his head and ushered towards a group of people waiting in the front yard of the house.

All the people who’d been at the party were milling about, broken into groups of three or four. Steve didn’t see Nancy or Barb. While Calahan went to talk to another cop, he found the closest group and asked about them. They said that Barb and Nancy were both inside, and that the ambulance was there because Barb had gotten hurt in the woods.

“Someone totally slipped her some acid or something,” said Nicole. “She was, like, ranting about a monster killing Heather.” 

“Where is Heather?” Steve asked. “Isn’t this her house?” Nicole just shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

Officer Powell came over to get Robin. When Steve tried to go with her, he said they had to talk to her separately first. Robin let him go and patted his arm, reassuring him that she’d be okay. He hung around outside, close to Nicole’s group, until the paramedics came out. They were rolling Barb on a stretcher. She had bandages around her head and her arm was in a sling. Nancy followed right behind her.

“I’m trying to tell you,” Barb said, loudly. “It was a frigging monster. It had all these teeth, and no eyes.”

“Please try to stay calm, miss,” said one of the paramedics. They wheeled her over to the ambulance. 

Nancy looked pretty shaken up as she followed behind them. Steve came over to her, and she flinched as he approached. “Hey, it’s me!” he said, holding his hands up. 

“Oh my God, Steve,” she said. “You’re here? When did you... Nevermind. Barb’s hurt.”

“Yeah, I saw,” he said. “Look, you should go with her.”

“I know that,” Nancy snapped. “Of course I’m going to go with her.” 

“Yeah, but Nancy.” He put his hands on her arms and lowered his voice. “Look. See if you can get her to stop yelling about monsters.”

Nancy’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “What the fuck?” she whispered back. 

“They’re going to think she’s crazy,” Steve said. He pulled his hands back and shoved them in his pockets. “She’ll end up in Pennhurst if she keeps that up.” 

Nancy just glared at him. She looked like she wanted to say something more, but Barb was loaded into the ambulance and calling for her, so she just spun on her heel and climbed in after her. 

“Yeah, that could’ve gone better,” Steve muttered to himself. 

From across the yard, someone else was yelling. Tammy Thompson came charging towards him, and she looked pissed. “Steve Harrington! Now you come here? Now? What the hell?” 

Steve took a step back and glared at her. “Excuse me?” he said in his bitchiest tone. The one that had hints of how-dare-you-talk-to-me in it. “What are you going on about?” 

She huffed and crossed her arms. “I told Carol to invite you. Didn’t she tell you? She’s, like, such a flake.”

“Wow,” Steve said dryly. “No, Carol told me. I just didn’t see why I should come.” He checked his nails real quick to see if there was any dirt under them. “I mean, I’m pretty busy with my own stuff.”

The look on Tammy’s face was one of pure shock. She sputtered and looked like she was about to start screaming in rage. But everyone around them started whispering, and she controlled herself. “Then, why are you even here?” 

“Uh, duh? Because Robin needed a ride back? Something chased her through the woods to my house?” He gave her a look like she was crazy for asking. “Have you not been paying attention? Heather is missing. There’s cops and everything.”

Tammy rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, is that what she told you? It was all part of a stupid prank. The cops are here because Barb’s a stupid klutz and got herself hurt.” She smirked and whined, “I’m surprised Buckley didn’t trip over her own feet running to you to save her.” 

Officer Powell had brought Robin out, and they were coming over to talk to Steve now. He saw them behind Tammy, but she hadn’t noticed them yet. “What do you mean, a prank?” 

“It was, like, Heather’s idea,” Tammy said, shaking her head a little. Her curly hair bounced from side to side. “She and Kurt went out into the woods to scream and freak people out. Buckley was dumb enough to fall for it, and she dragged Barb with her. Heather and Kurt probably had some freaky, like, costume or something to scare them and then they ran.”

“Then where is Miss Holloway now?” Powell said. 

Tammy spun around in surprise. Then she saw Robin standing there, wearing Steve’s clothes and looking furious. Steve wasn’t sure if she was going to start swinging or start crying. He went to her side and put his arm around her. “You okay, Robbie?” he asked softly.

She nodded, still glaring at Tammy. “I’m fine, Steve,” she said. 

“Miss Thompson, I’ll ask again. If Miss Holloway was just pulling a prank, where is she now?”

Tammy’s chin quivered a little as she looked up at Powell. She’d gone from heinous bitch to scared little girl in the space of a second. Steve knew it was an act. He hoped Powell did, too. “It was just a joke,” she said. “She’s probably hiding in the woods, because she’s afraid she’s going to get in trouble.” 

Powell frowned at her. “Someone certainly is.” He didn’t seem to be buying Tammy’s ‘poor-me’ act. “Miss Holland probably has a broken arm and a concussion from this ‘joke’ of yours.” He turned to Steve. “Mr. Harrington, is it? Can you come inside so the chief and I can get your statement?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Steve said. He dug his keys out of his pocket and handed them to Robin. “They took Barb to the hospital. You can wait in the car if you want, and I can take you to see her after, or take you home, or whatever. Okay?” 

Robin nodded and grabbed the keys from him. She took a deep breath and wiped her face. “Okay. I’ll see you in a bit.” Then she marched past Tammy without looking at her.

[shuxiii]

Everyday pt. 5

Hanni Pham x reader pt1, pt2, pt3, pt4, pt5, pt6, pt7, pt8, pt9, pt10, pt11, pt12, pt13

a/n meow meow meow credits all to ''every day'' by david levithan

Day 6001

The next morning, I am even farther from Hanni.

I’m four hours away, and in the body of Kim Weiss. Luckily, Kim has a laptop that I can check before we go to school.

There’s an email waiting from Hanni.

Haruto!

I’m so glad you emailed, because I lost the slip of paper that I wrote your email on. It was wonderful talking and dancing with you, too. How dare the police break us up! You’re my type, personwise, too. Even if you don’t believe in relationships that last longer than a year. (I’m not saying you’re wrong, btw. Jury’s still out.)

I never thought I’d say this, but I hope Yunjin has another party soon. If only so you can bear witness to its evil.

Love,

Hanni

I can imagine her smiling when she wrote this, and this makes me smile, too.

Then I open my other account, and there’s another email from Haruto.

I have given the police this email address. Don’t think you can get away with this.

The police?

Quickly I type Haruto’s name into a search engine. A news item comes up, dated this morning.

THE DEVIL MADE HIM DO IT

Local boy, pulled over by police, claims demonic possession

When police officers found Haruto Watanabe, 19, of 22 Arden Lane, sleeping in his vehicle along the side of Route 23 early Sunday morning, they had no idea the story he would tell. Most teenagers would blame their condition on alcohol use, but not Watanabe. He claimed no knowledge of how he had gotten where he was. The answer, he said, was that he must have been possessed by a demon.

“It was like I was sleepwalking,” Watanabe tells the Crier. “The whole day, this thing was in charge of my body. It made me lie to my parents and drive to a party in a town I’ve never been to. I don’t really remember the details. I only know it wasn’t me.”

To make matters more mysterious, Watanabe says that when he returned home, someone else’s email was on his computer.

“I wasn’t myself,” he says.

Officer Lance Houston of the state police says that because there was no sign of alcohol use and because the car wasn’t reported stolen, Watanabe was not being charged with any offense.

“Look, I’m sure he has reasons for saying what he’s saying. All I can tell you is that he didn’t do anything illegal,” says Houston.

But that’s not enough for Watanabe.

“If anyone else has experienced this, I want them to come forward,” he says. “I can’t be the only one.”

It’s a local paper’s website, nothing to worry too much about. And the police don’t seem to feel it’s a particularly pressing case. But still, I’m worried. In all my years, I’ve never had someone do this to me before.

It’s not that I can’t imagine how it happened: Haruto is woken up on the side of the road by a police officer tapping on his window. Maybe there are even flashing lights bathing the darkness in red and blue. Within seconds, Haruto realizes what kind of trouble he’s in—it’s well past midnight, and his parents are going to kill him. His clothes smell like cigarettes and alcohol, and he has no way of remembering whether or not he was drunk or high. He is a blank—a sleepwalker waking up. Only … he has a sense of me. Some lone memory of not being himself. When the officer asks him what’s going on, he says he doesn’t know. When the officer asks him where he’s been, he says he doesn’t know. The officer gets him out of the car, makes him take a Breathalyzer test. Haruto proves to be stone-cold sober. But the officer still wants answers, so Haruto tells him the truth—that his body was taken over. Only, he can’t imagine anyone who takes over bodies except for the devil. This is going to be his story. He is a good kid—he knows that everybody will back him up on that. They’re going to believe him.

The officer just wants him to get home safely. Maybe he even escorts Haruto home, calling ahead to his parents. They’re awake when Haruto gets there. They’re angry and concerned. He repeats his story to them. They don’t know what to believe. Meanwhile, some reporter hears the officer talking about it on the shortwave, or maybe it gets around the station. The teenager who snuck off to a party and then tried to blame it on the devil. The reporter calls the Watanabe home on Sunday, and Haruto decides to talk. Because that will make it more real, won’t it?

I feel both guilty and defensive. Guilty because I did this to Haruto, whatever my intentions. Defensive because I certainly didn’t force him to react in this way, which will only make it worse for him, if not me.

In the one-in-a-million chance that Haruto can persuade someone to trace my emails, I realize I can’t check this account from people’s homes anymore. Because if he can do that, he’ll be able to chart most of the houses I’ve been in over the past two or three years … which will lead to a lot of confusing conversations.

Part of me wants to write back to him, to explain. But I’m not sure any explanation will be enough. Especially because I don’t have most of the answers. I gave up on figuring out why a long time ago. I am guessing Haruto won’t give up as easily.

Kim Weiss’s boyfriend, Sam, likes to kiss her. A lot. Public, private—it doesn’t matter. If he gets a chance to make a move, he does.

I am not in the mood.

Kim quickly comes down with a cold. The kissing stops, and the doting begins. Sam is rather smitten, and he surrounds Kim with the sweet quicksand of his love. From recent memories, I can tell that Kim is usually just as willing to do the same. Everything comes second to being with Sam. It’s a miracle that she still has friends.

There’s a quiz in science. Judging from my accessing, it appears that I know more about the subject than Kim does. It’s her lucky day.

I am dying to get on one of the school computers, but I have to get rid of Sam first. Even though I’ve separated them at the lips, I can’t seem to get Sam and Kim separated at the hips. At lunch, he puts one of his hands in her back pocket while he eats, and then pouts when Kim doesn’t do the same thing. They then have study hall together, and he spends all of it stroking her and talking to her about the movie they saw last night.

Eighth period is the only class they don’t have together, so I decide to run with it. As soon as Sam drops her off at the classroom door, I have her go to the teacher, say she’s going to the nurse, and head straight to the library.

First, I finish forwarding all my emails from my old account. All that remains are the two emails from Haruto; I can’t bring myself to delete them, just as I can’t bring myself to delete the account. For some reason, I want him to be able to contact me. I feel that much responsibility.

I load up the new email account, with the intention of writing Hanni back. Much to my surprise, there’s already another email from her. Giddy, I open it.

Haruto,

Apparently, Yunjin doesn’t have a cousin Haruto, and none of his cousins were at his party. Care to explain?

-Hanni

I don’t deliberate. I don’t weigh my options. I just type and hit send.

Hanni,

I can, indeed, explain. Can we meet up? It’s the kind of explanation that needs to be done in person.

Love,

-Haruto

It’s not that I’m planning to tell the truth. I just want to give myself time to think of the best lie.

The last bell rings, and I know Sam will be looking for Kim soon. When I find him at his locker, he acts as if we haven’t seen each other in weeks. When I kiss him, I pretend I am practicing for Hanni. When I kiss him, it feels almost disloyal to Hanni. When I kiss him, my mind is hours away, with her.

Day 6002

The universe, it seems, is on my side the next morning, because when I wake up in the body of Oh Hae-won, I also wake up a mere hour away from Hanni.

Then, when I check my email, there’s a message from her.

Haruto,

This better be a good explanation. I’ll meet you in the coffee shop at the Clover Bookstore at 5.

Hanni

To which I reply:

Hanni,

I’ll be there. Although not in a way you might expect.

Bear with me and hear me out.

Yn

Oh Hae-won is going to have to leave cheerleading practice a little early today. I go through her closet and pick the outfit that most looks like something Hanni would wear; I’ve found that people tend to trust other people who dress like them. And whatever I do, I am going to need all the trust I can get.

The whole day, I think about what I’m going to say to her, and what she’s going to say. It feels entirely dangerous to tell her the truth. I have never told anyone the truth. I have never come close.

But none of the lies fit well. And the more I stumble through possible lies, I realize I am heading in the direction of telling her everything. I am learning that a life isn’t real unless someone else knows its reality. And I want my life to be real.

If I’ve gotten used to my life, could somebody else?

If she believes in me, if she feels the enormity like I do, she will believe in this.

And if she doesn’t believe in me, if she doesn’t feel the enormity, then I will simply seem like one more crazy person let loose on the world.

There’s not much to lose in that.

But, of course, it will feel like losing everything.

I manufacture a doctor’s appointment for Haewon, and at four o’clock, I’m on the road to Hanni’s town.

There’s some traffic, and I get a little lost, so I’m ten minutes late to the bookstore. I look in the café window and see her sitting there, flipping through a magazine, looking up at the door every now and then. I want to keep her like this, hold her in this moment. I know everything is about to change, and I fear that one day I will long for this minute before anything is said, that I will want to travel back in time and undo what’s coming next.

Haewon is not, of course, who Hanni’s looking for. So she’s a little startled when I come over to her table and sit down.

“I’m sorry—that seat’s taken,” she says.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Haruto sent me.”

“He sent you? Where is he?” Hanni is looking around the room, as if he’s hiding somewhere behind a bookshelf.

I look around, too. There are other people near us, but none of them seem to be within earshot. I know I should ask Hanni to take a walk with me, that there shouldn’t be any people around when I tell her. But I don’t know why she’d go with me, and it would probably scare her if I asked. I will have to tell her here.

“Hanni,” I say. I look in her eyes, and I feel it again. That connection. That feeling of so much beyond us. That recognition.

I don’t know if she feels it, too, not for sure, but she stays where she is. She returns my gaze. She holds the connection.

“Yes?” she whispers.

“I need to tell you something. It’s going to sound very, very strange. What I need is for you to listen to the whole story. You will probably want to leave. You might want to laugh. But I need you to take this seriously. I know it will sound unbelievable, but it’s the truth. Do you understand?”

There is fear in her eyes now. I want to reach out my hand and hold hers, but I know I can’t. Not yet.

I keep my voice calm. True.

“Every morning, I wake up in a different body. It’s been happening since I was born. This morning, I woke up as Oh Hae-won, who you see right in front of you. Three days ago, last Saturday, it was Haruto Watanabe. Two days before that, it was Ahn Yujin, who visited your school and spent the day with you. And last Monday, it was Minji, your girlfriend. You thought you went to the ocean with her, but it was really me. That was the first time we ever met, and I haven’t been able to forget you since.”

I pause.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Hanni says. “You have to be kidding.”

I press on. “When we were on the beach, you told me about the mother-daughter fashion show that you and your mother were in, and how it was probably the last time you ever saw her in makeup. When Yujin asked you to tell her about something you’d never told anyone else, you told her about trying to pierce your own ear when you were ten, and she told you about reading Judy Blume’s Forever. Haruto came over to you as you were sorting through CDs, and he sang a song that you and Minji sang during the car ride to the ocean. He told you he was Yunjin’s cousin, but he was really there to see you. He talked to you about being in a relationship for over a year, and you told him that deep down Minji cares a lot about you, and he said that deep down isn’t good enough. What I’m saying is that … all of these people were me. For a day. And now I’m Oh Hae-won, and I want to tell you the truth before I switch again. Because I think you’re remarkable. Because I don’t want to keep meeting you as different people. I want to meet you as myself.”

I look at the disbelief on her face, searching for one small possibility of belief. I can’t find it.

“Did Minji put you up to this?” she says, disgust in her voice. “Do you really think this is funny?”

“No, it’s not funny,” I say. “It’s true. I don’t expect you to understand right away. I know how crazy it sounds. But it’s true. I swear, it’s true.”

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this. I don’t even know you!”

“Listen to me. Please. You know it wasn’t Minji with you that day. In your heart, you know. She didn’t act like Minji. She didn’t do things Minji does. That’s because it was me. I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to fall in love with you. But it happened. And I can’t erase it. I can’t ignore it. I have lived my whole life like this, and you’re the thing that has made me wish it could stop.”

The fear is still there in her face, in her body. “But why me? That makes no sense.”

“Because you’re amazing. Because you’re kind to a random girl who just shows up at your school. Because you also want to be on the other side of the window, living life instead of just thinking about it. Because you’re beautiful. Because when I was dancing with you in Yunjin’s basement on Saturday night, it felt like fireworks. And when I was lying on the beach next to you, it felt like perfect calm. I know you think that Minji loves you deep down, but I love you through and through.”

“Enough!” Hanni’s voice breaks a little as she raises it. “It’s just—enough, okay? I think I understand what you’re saying to me, even though it makes no sense whatsoever.”

“You know it wasn’t her that day, don’t you?”

“I don’t know anything!” This is loud enough that a few people look our way. Hanni notices, and lowers her voice again. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

She’s near tears. I reach out and take her hand. She doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t pull away.

“I know it’s a lot,” I tell her. “Believe me, I know.”

“It’s not possible,” she whispers.

“It is. I’m the proof.”

When I pictured this conversation in my head, I could imagine it going in two ways: revelation or revulsion. But now we’re stuck somewhere in between. She doesn’t think I’m telling the truth—not to the point that she can believe it. And at the same time, she hasn’t stormed out, she hasn’t maintained that it’s just a sick joke someone is playing on her.

I realize: I am not going to convince her. Not like this. Not here.

“Look,” I say, “what if we met here again tomorrow at the same time? I won’t be in the same body, but I’ll be the same person. Would that make it easier to understand?”

She’s skeptical. “But couldn’t you just tell someone else to come here?”

“Yes, but why would I? This isn’t a prank. This isn’t a joke. It’s my life.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re just saying that. You know I’m not. You can sense that much.”

Now it’s her turn to look me in the eye. Judge me. See what connection she can find.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Today I’m Oh Hae-won.”

“No. I mean your real name.”

My breath catches. Nobody has ever asked me this before. And I’ve certainly never offered it.

“Yn,” I say.

“Just Yn?”

“Just Yn. I came up with it when I was a little kid. It was a way of keeping myself whole, even as I went from body to body, life to life. I needed something pure. So I went with Yn.”

“What do you think about my name?”

“I told you the other night. I think it’s beautiful, even if you once found it hard to spell.”

She stands up from her chair. I stand up, too.

She holds there. I can tell there are lots of thoughts she’s considering, but I have no idea what they are. Falling in love with someone doesn’t mean you know any better how they feel. It only means you know how you feel.

“Hanni,” I say.

She holds up her hand for me to stop.

“No more,” she tells me. “Not now. Tomorrow. I’ll give you tomorrow. Because that’s one way to know, isn’t it? If what you say is happening is really happening—I mean, I need more than a day.”

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“Don’t thank me until I show up,” she says. “This is all really confusing.”

“I know.”

She puts on her jacket and starts heading for the door. Then she turns around to me one last time.

“The thing is,” she says, “I didn’t really feel it was her that day. Not completely. And ever since then, it’s like she wasn’t there. She has no memory of it. There are a million possible explanations for that, but there it is.”

“There it is,” I agree.

She shakes her head.

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“Tomorrow,” she says, a little less than a promise, and a little more than a chance.

[ineffable-vendetta]

A click, the subtle whirring of a tape recorder.

THE ARCHIVIST: [A heavy sigh, a shuffling of papers] Right. Statement of  Loretta Winters, regarding an encounter with the entity known as “The Distortion” on a tube platform. Original statement given January 9th, 2010. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

THE ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT): I tried to ignore him. Really, I did. But something about him was… off. He was too tall. I think. His eyes were… blue? Or maybe they were green. I can’t quite recall. I knew something was wrong. Like he didn’t seem to be all there. And I don’t mean like he was touched in the head or dazed. I mean he literally wasn’t all there. Like every time I looked back at him some part of him had shifted or changed, almost like a mirage? Sorry. I’m a bit out of sorts. Let me start at the beginning. 

I live in London, just around Notting Hill. My mother had a stroke two weeks ago, so I’ve been rushing back and forth between work and the hospital. Usually, I just drive, but that day my sister needed my car for… a reason I can’t remember. So I took the tube. I’ve always kind of liked taking the tube. Something about the rushing around, always rubbing elbows or bumping into people who have somewhere to be. Watching people go about their lives. It’s all very human.

The platform was busy when I got there. Not packed, the morning rush had just ended; but it definitely wasn’t empty. There was a woman with a pram, a group of teenagers shouting and laughing, an elderly man leaning against a wall, and a tall, skinny blond man standing as close to the tracks as he could get without falling off the platform. I wasn’t alone. I need you to understand that I wasn’t the only person on that platform. 

Anyway, I sat down on a bench and pulled out my phone. The train wouldn’t be there for another 10 minutes, so I tried to relax a bit. I couldn’t relax. I kept fidgeting, something was bothering me. And it took me a moment to realize what it was, but when I did, I had to look up from my phone. The platform was dead silent. They had all disappeared. No fussing baby, no rambunctious teens. The blond man was the only one left, and he wasn’t making any noise either. I tried to rationalize it in my head but I would have heard them leave. I would have noticed if the train had arrived. I ignored the sick feeling of my skin crawling, ignored that every instinct was screaming at me to run, to get out. I thought I was just being paranoid. Stupid of me, really. But as soon as I looked down at my phone again, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. He was watching me. I could feel him staring. So I looked back. God, I wish I hadn’t looked back. The man wasn’t standing by the tracks anymore, at a safe distance. He was standing right in front of me and how did I not hear him walk over here? His eyes, boring into my soul, were mismatched, I think. One brown and one blue. His blonde hair hung in ringlets but I can’t remember if it went to just above his shoulders or well past his elbows. It’s like… it’s like the harder I try to remember what he looks like the fuzzier the image gets. But his smile… I’ll never forget his smile. It was too big for his face. Like it didn’t belong there. Like it wasn’t his smile. His teeth were in perfect white rows but he had too many of them, and I had to make a concentrated effort not to physically recoil when he opened his mouth to speak. His voice was like nails on a chalkboard or a record scratch. Like someone put a pair of scissors in a blender. 

He said, “All those people disappeared quite suddenly, didn’t they? I wonder where they’ve gone.” with the casual air of someone asking for the time. 

My breathing became quick and shallow, my leg started jumping with anxiety. I flinched when he laid his hand on my head, petting my hair and shushing me like I was a scared child. His hand was heavier than it should’ve been, and I tensed when I felt his nails graze my scalp. They were sharp, the way a razor blade is sharp, but not nearly as flimsy. I was struck with a sudden terror that he was going to kill me with those hands. 

Instead, he backed away. “What’s all this then?” He jerked his head towards a yellow door.

The door… didn’t make any sense. It shouldn’t have been there. It couldn’t have been there. But there it was. It was wooden, and it almost looked like a panel door you’d find in most houses. The wood was a little warped and the panels were a bit mismatched, but otherwise, it looked perfectly normal. It set me on edge. 

I don’t remember standing up. I don’t remember walking towards the door, I don’t remember deciding to open it. But before I knew it my hand was on the doorknob, and I had just begun to twist it when- my phone rang. I pulled my hand away from the door like I’d been burned. I felt dizzy, and prying my eyes off of the warped yellow wood to look down at my phone gave me a headache. My hands shook as I answered my sister’s call. She wanted me to stop at the store. When I looked up again, the man and the door were gone. I got a taxi.

THE ARCHIVIST: Statement ends. Well. There’s not much investigation we can really do here, but I don’t think it’s necessary. Ms. Winters is currently living in Brighton and was unwilling to comment any further, and besides, (Sardonically) The Distortion and I are old friends by now. 

End recording.

[babygirldabi]

Runaway Part 3

CW: This part is NOT smut, sorry to all my lovely horndogs, but I needed to throw some plot in there at some point, murder, guns, weapons in general, some sexual harrassment, a little teeny tiny bit of fluff, I think that's it. Fair warning I didn't do a ton of editing bc this took a lot of brain space THAT I DO NOT HAVE THIS WEEK, Definitely working on a Part 4 and probably 5 because I know where I wanna go with this now. As always, thanks for reading.

Remember that I will tag you if you want to be notified about new chapters!

Tags: @kierewrites (because you left SUCH A NICE COMMENT LAST TIME), @blahblahblahhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Likes and reblogs are always appreciated <3

Part 3

As you wake up, Dabi sits on the edge of the bed and goes over the plan with you.

It’s a simple transport; the Doctor needs the League to pick up some mysterious package and deliver it to his own personal Headquarters; something about strengthening the League’s Nomus. Dabi doesn’t share the details, and you don’t ask. The less you know the better. 

 “We have two vehicles, Spinner is gonna drive us, Toga, Twice and Compress will serve as the distraction in the other car, and you and I are going to handle the actual delivery.” He smiles as your eyes widen at this bit of information. 

“That’s- uh, kind of a really big test for a first mission, isn’t it?” You stutter, feeling overwhelmed. Dabi watches you squirm and smiles wider. 

“You and I have strong Quirks. If it comes down to fighting, Shig wants the strongest ones around the actual package to protect it." He doesn't mention that he specifically asked Shig to let him work with you directly. "You’ll be fine.”

"Why are we doing this during the day?" You inquire. "Isn't nighttime easier?"

"During the day there's more traffic. It's easier to blend in, follow the daily commute," Dabi explains. "We're less likely to get noticed if we're just part of the crowd." You nod. It makes sense.

“Is Shigaraki coming?” You turn and rifle through the clothes that Toga has lent you, trying to find something nondescript, forgettable. 

“No. We don’t want him near this one in case something goes wrong.” He doesn’t sound concerned. “Wear the black jeans and the black tank top,” Dabi orders, rising from the bed to glance down at the stack with you. “Nothing flashy.”

“Of course,” you murmur, picking up the specific items and turning towards the bed to dress. 

“You’ll have a hat and a mask, too, to hide your face. We don’t want anyone recognizing the latest ex-Hero hanging out with the League.” Dabi turns towards the door. “meet me at the bar when you’re ready. I’m gonna go check in with the others.” He doesn’t bother to wait for an answer, just leaves.

You scowl as you dress. For all his attentions last night, Dabi is back to being cold. He’s also being helpful, you muse, but it’s not the same. Last night you were the remedy for his nightmares, the distraction that grounded him. Today, you’re just the new hire. You finish pulling on the clothes and check your reflection in the mirror. You look like any regular civilian; forgettable, vague. Exactly what I want to be. You scowl at your reflection, then turn on your heel and head towards the main room. 

 Dabi is leaning against the bar, head leaned close to Spinner’s as they trace the route on a large map and mutter together. Toga skips over to take your hand, beaming. “Happy first mission!” She crows, practically dancing with excitement. “How do you feel?”

You can’t help but smile at her as she swings your hands gently together. “I'm fine. A little nervous,” you admit, and in your peripheral you see Dabi’s blue eyes flash up to your face before settling down to the map again. 

 “Don’t be nervous, this is routine,” Twice advises, before his left eye starts promptly twitching. “We’re so screwed!”

“Ignore him. He’s jumpy before missions," Toga giggles, then releases your hand to go stand by Dabi’s shoulder. “Compress is getting the car. We should be ready in a couple minutes.”

“Alright. Rookie’s with me and Spinner. Toga, you, Twice and Compress will be driving the distraction vehicle. Stay close to us and don’t fall behind until it's time to split off. Everybody look fuckin’ sharp.” 

 Thirty seconds later, the sound of an engine running approaches headquarters. A faint beeping prompts you and the rest of the group out the door, single file. 

 Just outside, in the late morning sun, a shiny red sports car twinkles, idling by the sidewalk. Compress waves from the driver's seat. Twice nods to you and Dabi and climbs into the car. Toga hangs back for a quick second to squeeze your hand. “You’re gonna be fine,” she whispers, then skips towards the car. As her door swings shut, you swallow hard and turn to look up at Dabi, who’s scanning the streets coolly. 

“Where did Spinner go-?” You start to ask, just as a big, gray, nondescript van pulls up, goes around the sports car, and parallel parks just in front of it. 

“There’s our ride,” Dabi responds vaguely, then jerks his head in the direction of the van. “C’mon.” He walks briskly, not waiting for you to keep up. You scurry after him. Suddenly, he stops and turns, causing you to almost bump into his back. “Oh-here.” He digs into the large pocket of his coat and withdraws a plain black facemask and a blue baseball cap. “Put these on.”

You obey swiftly, tucking your long hair behind your ears and arranging the rest of your disguise carefully. When you’re done, you look back up at him. 

“Good?” You ask. 

“Good.” There’s something strange in Dabi’s voice, some feeling you can’t quite decipher, before he breaks away and turns back to the van. “Hurry up. We ain’t got all day, doll.”

You roll your eyes but follow him, letting him open up the back door to the van and climbing in, settling down in the spacious second row. Dabi slams the door behind you and goes around, jumping into the passenger seat. 

Spinner is waiting, eyes focused, his claws clenched on the steering wheel. 

“Good to go, Lizard,” Dabi drawls, throwing his feet up on the dash. “Let’s get this over with.”

 You watch the route carefully as Spinner drives, several blocks up, two rights, one left, and across a bridge to the other side of the city. The drive doesn’t talk long, maybe twenty minutes, half an hour, before you pull up to the gates of an industrial park. The guard at the gate waits for Spinner to roll down his window, looking bored. 

“What’s your business here?” He demands, but even his voice is listless, flat. 

“We’re here to make a delivery to the Doctor,” Spinner responds sharply. “You gonna let us in, or what?”

The guard’s eyes widen and he seems to jump to life. “Oh yes-yes, sir!” His hand slaps a button, causing the gates to creak open. “Apologies. You know where to go-?”

“Yeah, we got it,” Spinner bites, and the van drives through the gates seamlessly. 

Dabi has been staring out the windshield the whole time, lost in thought, but as Spinner navigates the van through the industrial park, he turns to look at you. “How ya feelin’, Rookie?” His smirk is wide. 

Your chin jerks up in defiance. “I’m fine,” you snap back, causing his smile to spread wider. “Good girl,” he mouths at you, and your cheeks heat up as he turns to face forward again.

Cocky bastard. 

The van stops in front of a huge, gray warehouse. Spinner throws the van in park and jumps out, Dabi following suit without a word. You scramble across the seat to jump out the side door and catch up with them. You glance over your shoulder, surprised to see that the sports car carrying the others is nowhere to be seen. “Where’s everyone else?” You wonder out loud. 

Dabi strolls on, not bothering to turn around as he answers you. “They’re doing what they’re supposed to do; being a distraction.”

Spinner coughs a laugh and you decide you’d rather not know what the other half of the team is doing right now. 

 A man is waiting on the side of the warehouse, a baggy black hoodie covering most of his features. He shuffles forward, hands in pockets as your small trio approaches him. 

“You with the League?” he mutters, keeping his face down except to chance an occasional glance up. 

“Yeah. Sorry, we didn’t bring our business cards,” Dabi bites out, causing the man to shuffle his feet. “Is the package ready or not? We don’t exactly have time to chit chat.”

“Yes sir. Here.” The man pulls a flat package out of his pocket- no bigger than a large jewelry box, and hands it off to Dabi. “Does the Doctor need anything else from us?”

“We’ll be in touch.” Dabi flashes a vaguely threatening smile before turning on his heel and leading you back to the van. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the man glance curiously up at you before returning his gaze to the pavement. 

 You do your best to walk coolly back to the van after Spinner and Dabi, fully aware that your heart is thumping so loudly in your chest that you’re concerned the others might hear it. For a second, you have to take a step back and take a look at your current life; you are committing crime with the League of Villains. This is not where you thought you’d end up. Oddly enough, you’re more comfortable with this crowd than you ever were as a Hero, even on patrols. The thought sticks with you as your climb back into the van and settle into the same seat as before. Dabi shuts his door and glances back at you. 

“See, not bad. Halfway done.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, buckling and leaning back in your seat. 

“You did good keeping your cool,” Spinner remarks, as the van chugs back to life and he shifts into drive. “Not bad for an ex-Hero.”

You blink in surprise; this might be the first time Spinner’s actually spoken to you. “Oh. Thanks.”

 Spinner chooses to ignore this and go back to silence, which is fine. Dabi gives you one last look before turning forward himself. In the silence, you gaze out the window and watch as you depart the industrial back and get back on the road. 

The Doctor’s headquarters are a bit of a longer drive; about an hour outside of the city. You watch as the urban settings change into suburban ones; sidewalks and payphones changing to trees and small family homes, before the van moves further into the outskirts of suburbia and heads up a small mountain road. After a couple bumpy miles, you pull up to a plain, nondescript house; a very heavily guarded one. Villains of all shapes and sizes stand at every inch of the perimeter; some smoking, some talking amongst themselves, some playing cards. All stand to attention as the van pulls up, shuffling their weapons or flexing their muscles intimidatingly. One of them, heavily muscled and holding a weapon- is that a fucking machine gun?- approaches the van first, right at the top of the drive. He holds his hand out, motioning for Spinner to pull to a stop, and then approaches the window. 

“Name and business,” he says brusquely, the minute the window is down. Dabi leans across Spinner to answer just as brusquely. “We’re with the League, here to make a delivery to the doctor, on Shigaraki’s orders.”

The villain steps back to mutter something into the earpiece he’s wearing. He waits a second, listening, then nods. “Proceed. Park to the left.” 

Spinner drives the van the remainder of the way up the drive, parking in the designated spot to the left of the house. You follow Dabi and Spinner out of the vehicle silently, ignoring the chills that go through you as you glance around and see that every Villain in the yard is watching your group with narrowed eyes and scowls. One of them steps forward, indicating that he’s an escort. “You can follow me.”

Dabi leads the group behind the escort, glancing back at you. You fall into step behind Spinner, keeping your eyes straight forward as you walk. 

As it turns out, the house is set up like a business; you walk through the front door to the waiting room, where a receptionist sits behind a glass cubicle- probably bullet proof, you muse, as the door swings shut behind you. The escort stands off to the side as Dabi approaches the glass. The receptionist looks up, smiling brightly after her eyes travel up and down Dabi’s body. “Can I help you?” She chirps, annoyingly perky. 

Dabi doesn’t smile back. “Here to see the Doctor. I’ve got a delivery.”

The receptionist nods, tapping rapidly on her keyboard and skimming the computer screen. “Ah, there you are- you’re with the League?”

“Yep.”

“Alright. Just one minute.” The receptionist picks up the phone, punching a few buttons, then waits as the other end presumably rings. You watch her eyes light up as whoever’s on the other end answers. “Doctor, the League is here with something for you. Shall I bring it back?”

She listens again, then nods. “Understood, sir.” Hanging up, she looks back up at Dabi. “The Doctor would like to see you directly. If you’ll just follow me-” She stands up to scurry around and open a locked door beside the window. 

You follow Dabi and Spinner through the door, but at the last second, the receptionist grabs your wrist, holding you back. Instinctively, you go to jerk away, but her hold only tightens. Confused, you glance at her. 

Her smile is candy-sweet, the opposite of the vice-like grip she has on your wrist. “Sorry, dear. The Doctor asked for Dabi and Spinner specifically. You’ll have to wait out here.”

Panicking, you look at Dabi, who has stopped beside Spinner and is watching this all go down. You watch as he considers all of this, then looks at you. “Stay here. We’ll be right back.”

 You swallow hard, dread creeping up your throat at the thought of sitting in this waiting room, alone with strangers- Villains you don’t know- without the people you’re comfortable with. You nod anyway, wanting to show Dabi that you can follow orders, and allow the receptionist to tug you back into the waiting room. 

She smiles again, a fake sweet smile. “You can sit down, dear. I’m sure it won’t be long.” With that, she slams the door in your face.

Rejected, you turn and head back into the corner of the office with the chairs, sinking into one and turning your gaze to your lap. Your legs are pressed tightly together, betraying your attempt to hide your anxiety, and your fists are balled against your knees, the knuckles turning white. You flex your hands, forcing them to smooth out, and cross your legs, glancing around furtively. The escort is still standing by the door, hands wrapped around his weapon, observing you watchfully. The receptionist has returned to her work, typing rapidly away at her keyboard, a self-satisfied smirk resting at corners of her mouth. In front of you is a low table with stacks of magazines on it. 

What is this, a Doctor’s office? You think, before realizing that, technically, it is. With a sigh you reach forward, grabbing the first magazine you reach and opening it in your lap, just to have something to do. You pay no attention to the articles or pictures as you flip through, your eyes glazed over as your anxiety gets worse with each passing second your accomplices aren’t back.

What the hell could they possibly be doing back there? What is taking so long? 

Oh, god. What if something went wrong?

You get stuck on this horrifying thought, trying your best to keep a casual look on your face as your mind goes a million miles an hour, trying to figure out how to escape if you get stuck here. A loud voice makes you jump.

“And who do we have here?” Another large man, one that you didn’t notice coming inside because your brain was having an anxiety spiral, plops down in the chair next to you, eyeing you like a meal. 

“I-I’m with the League,” you say shortly, avoiding eye contact as you rifle busily through the magazine in your lap. 

“Never seen a League Member who wasn’t welcome back to see the Doctor.” The man lets out a loud, booming laugh. You barely manage to keep from jumping out of your skin. “You new or somethin’?”

“Yeah. A new recruit.” 

“Interesting. A new recruit that we haven’t heard of yet. Usually Shigaraki tells the Doctor everything, as soon as it happens.” He scratches his scruff lazily. “Why are you wearin’ all that? Everybody out there thinks you’re real cute, only we can’t see your face.” Unbelievably, his hand reaches out as if to pull your mask down. You recoil sharply, slapping his hand away. 

“Don’t touch me!” Your voice comes out strong, biting. The man looks surprised, and then perturbed. Desperately, you glance around the room for backup; the secretary is ignoring the situation, probably used to this Villain harassing guests, while the escort stands by the door, watching in amusement. You're not gonna find any help here, you realize.

“Apparently you don’t know the rules around here, sweetheart. When you’re on our property, we’re in charge.” His voice is loud, threatening. “Take this shit off.”

A small struggle ensues; you go to slap the man's hand again and he seizes your wrist in a bruising hold, lifting you out of your chair. You struggle to get free, spitting curses and insults at him, while he attempts to hold you with one hand and pull your mask down with the other, crooning, "c'mon, sweetheart, don't be like that- just a peek- Ouch! You little fuckin' bitch-" as you punch him in the ear as hard as you could with your free hand. He drops you almost immediately and you fall to the floor with an oof, glaring up at him as he rubs his ear in annoyance and leans down to seize you again. "You little fucking cunt-"

“If you touch our rookie one more time, I’m gonna burn you to fucking bits.” The relief that runs through you at the sound of Dabi’s voice is embarrassing. You whip around from your place on the floor to see him and Spinner standing in front of you. Dabi’s eyes gleam wickedly. 

The Villian scoffs, standing up to flex his muscles at Dabi. He’s at least six inches taller and smirks down at him threateningly. 

“You wanna take me on, you fuckin’ punk? You tryin’ to threaten me?”

“Oh, it’s not a threat,” Dabi smiles. “It’s a promise. You don’t fucking touch her.” He turns to you. “We’re done here. Let’s go.” 

Scrambling up from the floor in relief, you try not to make your fear too obvious as you hurry around the edge of the wooden table and go right to Dabi’s side. He takes your arm, leading you outside in front of the escort, Spinner following silently behind you. 

Dabi all but pulls you to the van, throwing the door open. “Get in and stay in. Lock the door,” he says hurriedly, under his breath, and you don’t understand until after he slams the door shut and turns to face the Villain who has followed you outside, his weapon cocked and pointing at Dabi as he storms towards him. Horrified, you slam your hand down on the lock button. You can’t hear what he’s yelling at Dabi, but whatever it is gets cut short as Dabi lifts a palm and blasts him with a nonstop wave of blue fire. You jump in your seat and shriek as you watch the Villain try to run, screaming all the while, before collapsing to the ground, blue flames still licking at his skin. The other Villains around the yard watch in fury and horror before trying to rush forward. Spinner reaches Dabi’s side, both of them tensed to fight. 

“Hold on, hold on,” you hear from around the building, before an old, short man comes around the corner, hands in the air. He takes in the scene; his charred and smoking former employee, his enraged guards, and Dabi and Spinner, tensed by the van. 

“Everything alright?” the old man asks cheerfully, as if everything is normal. “Sorry, Doc. It couldn’t be avoided,” Dabi answers him, still tensed. 

Oh, so this is the Doctor. 

The Doctor considers this before shrugging. “That one was giving me some trouble, anyway. Apologies for the hubbub, Dabi. On your way. Give Shigaraki my best.” 

“Will do,” Dabi answers casually now, dropping his arms and strolling around the side of the van as Spinner quickly gets into the driver’s seat. As the door opens, you hear the Doctor addressing the other guards in the yard. “Stand down. Back to work, unless you want to join your friend here.”

Neither Dabi or Spinner even look at you until the van is safely down the driveway and speeding back along the main road. You’re too scared to speak, still shaking and trying to pretend that you’re not. You think you might be in shock- even as a Hero, witnessing murders was a rare and unfortunate thing. It makes you all too aware of the situation you’re in, how badly it can turn, what could happen to you if you disobey the League. 

It’s fucking terrifying. 

About a mile down the road, Dabi finally turns to look at you. “Are you okay?” He asks, in the same gentle voice he usually saves for Toga. Spinner picks up on this, glancing at him, wide-eyed, before turning back to the road. Dabi’s eyes don’t leave yours as you scramble for an answer. 

“Not really,” You finally croak, squeezing your hands together. Dabi reaches back and tucks a loose hair behind your ear. 

“I’m sorry it happened like that.” That’s all he says, giving you one last sober look before turning back to the front seat. 

“Thank you,” You finally say. Dabi nods, still facing forward. Spinner’s eyes dart from Dabi to you in the rearview mirror, but he stays silent, focusing on the drive. Following their lead, you turn back to the window, staring blankly at the scenery for the next hour before the streets become familiar again. 

When the van pulls up the headquarters, you’re surprised to see that the sports car is also already back. As you open the front door, Toga rushes out and hugs you. “Welcome back! How did it go?” 

“Uh-” you glance at Dabi behind you, Spinner just over his shoulder. “It was-”

“It was fine. Y/n did good.” Dabi doesn’t bother taking his coat or boots off, heading directly up the stairs. “I need to go check in with Shig. Then we’ll figure dinner out.” He glances at you. “Drink some water,” he instructs, before clomping up the stairs to Shig’s room. 

You stare after him, then notice that Toga is staring at you. 

“He killed someone in front of you. Right?” 

You gape at her, allowing her to take your hand and lead you to the couch. “How did you know?” 

“Because the first time he did it in front of me, I went into shock and he made me drink water for like, twenty minutes after I came out of it.” She smiles, a little sadly. “It’s scary.”

“Yeah,” is all you can think to say. Toga thinks for a minute and then jumps up, shaking her head. “Anyway, I’ll get you some water and then you can tell me everything about your first mission!”

 You spend the next forty minutes recounting everything to Toga, who’s curled up next to you on the couch, as you slowly sip your water. Eventually you feel more grounded, more present, between the water and the warmth of the room, the comfort of the couch. Toga listens, wide-eyed, beaming and nodding as you finish explaining the day's events. “Except for the murder part, it sounds like a really good first mission,” she says bluntly, and to your surprise, a giggle escapes your mouth. She looks at you in surprise as you begin to laugh harder. 

“What?” 

“‘Except for the murder part.’” You’re wheezing now, tilting off the couch at the surreality of the day. Toga can’t help but join in, the two of you collapsing on each other in a fit of hysterical giggles. 

That’s how Dabi finds you as he descends the stairs; you and Toga clinging to each other and laughing so hard that you both have tears rolling down your faces. Something in his chest swells. He’s never heard you laugh before, he realizes. Your laugh is sweet and bubbly, and he wants to hear more of it, but there’s business to be done. 

“Y/n.” You glance up, brushing the tears from your cheeks as you look at him. “Shig wants to see you upstairs.”

Oh, Jesus. You glance at Toga, who looks equally nervous and excited, and nudges you off the couch. You stand and join Dabi at the stairs, following him up. He leads you down a short hallway, knocking on one of the bedroom doors. “Shig. I’ve got y/n.”

“Come in,” Shig calls from behind the door. You tense, not knowing what to expect, but when the door swings open, Shig is seated in a beanbag chair, focusing on a video game. 

You internally breathe a sigh of relief. Okay, so maybe you’re not about to get whacked. 

“Shig. Focus.” Dabi sounds exasperated. Shigaraki hits the pause button before standing and turning to face you. 

“Dabi says you did well on the mission.”

You swallow hard. “I tried.”

“It was your first one. It didn’t need to be perfect. I’m interested in your story, y/n. From Hero to Villain in three days.” His eyes narrow at you, his head tilting slightly. “You really want to do this?”

You take a deep breath, gazing at the floor as you try to gather your thoughts neatly. “Being a Hero didn’t do anything for me. It’s only now that I’ve started working with you all that i realize how fucked up the Hero Commision is. I was a child. I was being trained to be a soldier. THey don’t care about your well-being. They don’t care about your health. They just want your Quirk power. That’s not a society I want for anyone, anymore. So, if working with the League can help shake the system a little bit, I’m here to help.” You chance a look up at him. “Let me help.” It comes out as a plea, soft and sincere. Shigaraki stares at you for a few long seconds, and then nods. 

“Welcome to the League, y/n.”

[wrenreid]

Off Limits

content warnings: mentions of violence

Part Ten

Spencer’s eyes are little widened as well. I glance over at him for just a second before being too embarrassed by my rambles to keep facing his direction.

“I-I’m so sorry, I just talked your ear off,” I say with a slight laugh, feeling awkward as hell. Not having passed second base is not something that I’ve ever been particularly ashamed of, but it also isn’t something I would just tell someone out of the blue. Especially not him. I don’t know why, but that was kind of something I didn’t want him to know.

“No, you’re okay,” Spencer says, his voice a little awkward as well. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

The question shocks me because a part of me was expecting him to say something about the confession I’d given. Most guys his age would think it’s weird that I’m 21 years old and haven’t had sex yet. But then again Spencer Reid is not most guys. Perhaps he doesn’t care. It’s not like it affects him anyway.

“I’m okay. Really,” I tell him with yet another hesitant nod. I am fine. I just feel a little icky with what happened.

“How would ice cream make you feel?” He asks with a little grin.

“Let’s see,” I think, tapping my chin. “45% better.”

“Not a bad percentage,” Spencer says as he starts the drive to Baskin Robins. “What if I bought you two scoops?”

“60% better,” I chuckle softly, my cheeks pink.

“Over half. I’ll take it.”

We reach our destination, and once my feet hit the gravel of the parking lot, I regret wearing these heels. I groan. “Never wearing these again.”

Spencer opens the back door, grabbing something. I stand beside the car, my arms wrapped around myself from the chilled air.

“Here,” he says, handing me high tops and his jacket.

“You brought my converse?” I ask, my eyebrows raising along with the corners of my lips.

“Your shoes looked uncomfortable when you left.”

Puddle. I am once again a puddle on the ground.

I put his jacket on and zip it halfway. It covers most of my dress since he’s a good 7 or 8 inches taller than me. I toss my heels on the floor of his car then slip into my black high tops.

“You’re an angel, Spencer Reid,” I smile and walk with him into the ice cream shop.

After we order, we sit at a booth in the corner of the restaurant and eat our ice cream. His is mint chocolate chip. I smile to myself as he eats it because I remember Dad buying mint chip just for Spencer whenever he’d have the team over.

I eat my cookie dough with that smile staying on my face.

“What?” My eyebrows pinch together as I meet her brown eyed gaze.

“What?”

“You’re smiling,” I say.

“Wasn’t that the whole goal with the ice cream?” She ask with a soft chuckle.

“It was,” I nod. “But you’re staring at me with a smile and not saying anything. It’s making me think there’s something wrong with my face.”

Jace laughs a little and shakes her head. “No, no. There’s definitely not something wrong with your face. Like at all.”

“Then…?” I question, head tilting.

“I’m just happy you picked me up,” she says softly.

A smile creeps up onto my face just seeing her grin. “I’m happy I picked you up too. I have been craving mint chocolate chip.”

Jade gasps dramatically. “Is that all this is to you?” She can’t help but smile instead of pretending to be mad.

“Absolutely not,” I grin.

Something is coming over me, and it’s making me feel more and more guilty. This is not a good idea, us hanging out. But right now, she needs someone, and I’m glad to be the one here.

I wish I could talk to the guy who made her feel like shit. Perhaps I’d arrest him just to scare the shit out of him. Make him regret ever even kissing her, especially touching her. I feel a sort of resentment for this random nobody that I haven’t felt for anyone in a long time.

All I want in this moment is to keep making her smile. I have this unruly need to keep that adorable grin on her face until her cheeks are tired and she physically can’t smile anymore. I need to make her happy.

Thinking back, I think I’ve always had that urge when I’m around her. To keep her smile on her face. I used to tell her random facts and jokes that either made her smile nervously because I said something stupidly silly or smile because I purposely sought out a sentence that would have that affect on her.

Even before I hardly recognized her as anything other than Hotch’s daughter, I wanted to make her smile, hear her laugh.

And now that’s she’s no longer this nervous 17 year old, it’s more satisfying to hear it. Before, it was just me wanting someone to like me outside of the team. Someone to be my friend and not just because it could benefit them. Now, I want to make her laugh because the sight is beautiful.

Oh shit.

We finish our ice cream, or all that we can of it, then head back to my car. On the drive back to her place, I let her pick whatever music she wants.

As she sings along, I can’t help but glance over at her once in a while, a smile on my face.

“What is this even saying?” I laugh softly, trying to keep my eyes off the road.

“I’m not entirely sure,” she laughs as well. “Something about sex I presume.”

She’s probably not wrong. Most of today’s music is about sex, but hearing her say the word seems so strange, so wrong now that I know… that she hasn’t… had it.

I don’t know why I care. I don’t, really. But I’m thinking about it.

That sounds wrong, I’m not thinking about it. I’m thinking about how she hasn’t had it. I’m more than sure she’s had plenty of guys lined up at her door. She’s gorgeous. And smart. And funny. And a sort of kind that you don’t see too often.

“Hey,” she waves her hand over my line of vision. “You still in there, Spence?” Jade chuckles softly then leans back into her seat.

“Yeah, sorry. Just trying to listen intently to this song. It’s definitely about sex,” I force a gentle laugh.

I don’t even want to say the word in front of her. As if the mere thought of the act will taint her innocence. Like a flower being plucked from the garden. She deserves to stay in the garden where she belongs, where she couldn’t get hurt, where her beauty would continue flourish.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue. You’re definitely a better version of a knight,” Jade grins.

“I don’t know. Horses and swords are pretty damn cool,” I say, my lips matching hers.

“True. Step up your game next time.”

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time,” I say, my smile fading.

“Right. No more douchebags. Hopefully.”

She starts to take off my jacket but I shake my head. “Keep it. It’s cold.”

Jade nods, hugging her arms around themselves. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” I say back.

I make sure she’s inside the building before I drive off.

Hotch got home and I was leaving their place just before she called me. Luckily, he was too busy getting Jack back to sleep to notice my worried face and rush to grab her sneakers before heading out the door.

A soft sigh releases from my lips as I drive back to my place.

eleven

tags: @pauline5525mgg @theintimatewriter @lilibet261 @greysviolets @jazzymariexoxoc @one-sweet-gubler @thatsonezesty13 @necromaniackat @awhoreforspencerreid @sebs-oxygen @scarredelirium @bts-sugaplum @awesomeness1679 @preciousbabypeter @yazzyu @cynbx @r3idsp3ncer @1010lizz @tiredbut-here @skulzombiw @lena-1895 <3