#i think her life would probably floor him or make his old heart give out

[ollierachnid]

*Raymond voice* I cannot tell you everything because you won't be able to handle it. This is my way of protecting you.. I know it seems-

Rebecca, who was staying in traphouses since 15 years old:

[luveline]

i know you said hotch and reader baby requests… but what about hotch’s daughter that he met as an adult meeting Jack for the first time? two babies in one! love you 💕

—You meet your little brother, with your dad’s support. fem, 1.6k

To grow up wondering if your father might love you is odd. You spend years wondering if you’d ever know him. Would he be proud of you? Would he like you? If you could find him, would he want you to? 

And then you do find him, and you’re floored by how desperately he wants to take care of you. 

Honey, his message starts, sent at 5AM that morning. Just to remind you, dinner is at 5PM, but you don’t have to worry about being late. You can come whatever time you like, please let me know beforehand. Jack was so excited last night he couldn’t sleep.

Another sent at 5:16AM. I can’t wait for you to meet him. How are you feeling about it? If this is too much, you don’t have to. 

At 5:25AM. Please call me to talk when you’re awake, if you can. 

You think perhaps your father might be as nervous as you are to introduce you to his family. Because Aaron, your dad, has a wife and child. Haley, his high school sweetheart (though there had been that brief separation in college that allowed your existence), and Jack, his four year old son. 

This might be hard for everyone, but at least you aren’t destroying a family by existing. Aaron didn’t do anything wrong in getting your mother pregnant. He had no idea about it until you showed up at his office. 

You rub your tired eyes and decide against calling him right away. You have work soon, and he’s probably at his own place of work already. Instead, you make yourself a cup of tea and breakfast you can’t eat. Turns out you’re more nervous than you thought. 

You call him on your lunch break. 

He said you can call him whenever you want, just he’s busy, and can’t always answer. He also said you can call him whatever you want. It had been a strangely touching moment at one of your ‘catching up on a whole life’ dinners. Mr. Hotchner was extremely formal, and made him laugh every time you said it. Aaron was better, but you could call him dad, if you liked. The paternity test agreed. 

“Will that be weird for you?” you’d asked. 

“Honey, I’ve had someone calling me dad for the last four years. You can call me what you want.” 

Some part of you wished he insisted, but maybe it’s best the choice be down to you. 

“Hello?” he asks as he picks up. “Y/N?” 

The will to call him dad dies. It’s too awkward, what if he hates it? “Hello,” you say instead, stammering trying to sound natural. 

“Hi, honey. Are you still coming to dinner tonight?” 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t miss it.” 

After an investigation and a mother’s confession, you found Aaron Hotchner online. Watched him behind podiums and sat at conference tables, even found his guest lecture at your university. It was a few years before you’d attended, but you can’t help thinking: what if you’d watched him talk? Would you have known he was your father? Of course, you couldn’t know. But maybe he would have. 

Aaron took one good look at you in his office and believed you. Well, you had a photo of him and your mom, and you offered to take a paternity test then and there, but he told you he knew pretty quickly.

“You okay?” 

“Just terrified,” you say. 

“Haley… Haley isn’t mad at anyone. She has,” —he clears his throat— “a very tight picture of her life in her head, and her husband having a child without her wasn’t in that picture, but she also has a really big heart. I promise you have nothing to worry about.” 

“It’s not Haley I’m scared of.” 

“Honey, Jack can’t stop telling people he has a new sister. People keep giving Haley congratulations.” 

You rub your eyes. You’ll be surprised if your makeup survives the day. “Are you sure you even want me to come?” 

“I want you more than anything.” 

Which doesn’t answer the question you’d voiced, but reassures the one you’d been thinking. “I just wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want me to. I can’t imagine how terrible this has been for you. I’ve disrupted your whole life.” 

“Is that what you think?” he asks gently. 

You can imagine him sitting at his desk. His office was roomy, with heavy furniture, big windows, and a gaggle of photo frames on the desk. He is intimidating, but he doesn’t talk to you with any meanness, or sternness. He’s been careful with you this whole time, so no, you’ve no reason to think he doesn’t want you around, but maybe he’s too good a man to admit it. 

“If it’s too much for now, we can wait,” he says. “We have all the time in the world. But I promise it won’t be what you’re thinking. You certainly aren’t disrupting my life.” 

You decide to be brave about it and go to dinner. Only when you’re standing on the Hotchner porch do you remember he’d wanted to talk to you about something. He opens the door quietly, ushering you in with a smile, and before you know it he’s offering a hug in the small foyer. 

“Hi,” he says, patting your back. Your hands rest tentatively on his sides. 

“Hi.” 

He holds you at arm’s length before dropping his touch. “You look pretty,” he says. 

Which is a whole other category of thing. “Thank you. Is this the sort of thing you wear to dinner?” 

“You can wear pyjamas, if you like. Jack usually does.”

“That would make a good first impression.” 

Haley appears from a doorway. “Oh, you’re here,” she says, smiling. “Hello, hello!” 

You get another hug. Haley smells like expensive perfume and softness. Her hair is perfect. She’s one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen, and it’s emphasised by her glowing smile. “Jack is bouncing off the walls, but he might get a little shy when he really gets to meet you.” Her smile softens. “Wow. You don’t look much like him, but you have his frown. How’s that possible?” She nudges Aaron. “You’re so moody it’s in your DNA.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m just nervous,” you explain. 

“Me too,” Haley says. 

“It’ll be okay.” Aaron gives Haley a squeeze around the shoulders. “He’s in the living room. Are you ready?” 

“Maybe she should go in by herself.” 

You and Aaron both stare at Haley. 

“I should?” you ask. 

She shrugs. “It’s not like we’re going anywhere. But maybe Aaron can introduce you and then bow out. It’s less pressure on both of you.” 

You honestly couldn’t agree less with her, and Aaron’s giving her a dubious frown, but she’s Jack’s mom and your dad’s wife and you’re too scared of upsetting her to disagree. 

Aaron, however, isn’t worried. “You don’t have to,” he says, giving Haley a rub on her shoulder, “it’s just a suggestion.” 

“It’s okay. Um, whatever you guys think is best.” 

So Aaron opens the living room door and walks you in. 

Jack is drawing a bright picture on the floor, surrounded by a spread of crayons and washable markers. He has a huge sketch pad, where light from the TV stains the white with cartoon colours.

“Jack.” Aaron touches the back of your arm. “Bud, Y/N’s here for dinner.” 

Jack whirls. As predicted, he sees you and his smile turns to shyness. You’re feeling shy, too, tempted to hide behind Aaron’s arm, but stepping forward when he prompts you to. 

“Hi, Jack,” you say. 

“Hi,” he says, lookin at Aaron. 

“This is your big sister,” Aaron says. 

Because Jack is your little brother. Half brother, but brother. You weren’t expecting to feel so awed. 

You step out of your heels, you should’ve at the door, and use the armrest of the couch to lower yourself onto your knees. You just wanna see him. 

He’s quite big, for his age. He’s tall. He has brown hair with slightly blond ends, and his eyes are big, flush with dark lashes. You have some of the same DNA, but you’re not sure you could tell with the two of you side by side. 

“You look like your mommy,” you say. 

“You don’t,” Jack says. 

“I look more like my mommy.” You smile at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Jack.” 

“You don’t look like a sister,” Jack says. “You’re old.” 

“I’m not that old.” 

Aaron laughs and touches your shoulder again. It’s nice to think he’s standing by. 

“I… I can still do big sister stuff, even if I’m old,” you hedge gently. “I can still do fun stuff, I swear. I’m super fun.” 

Jack pulls himself on knees to sit very close to you. He takes the skirt of your dress into his hand and pets it. “What if we ruin your dress?” he says worriedly. 

“I have so many like this, it’s okay.” 

His smile warms. “Okay. You want to colour with me?” 

“Yes, yeah, I do. I really want to, what can we colour?” 

“I’ll draw you a picture.” 

You look up at Aaron with a smile that threatens to set with the wind. You’d be stuck like that, grinning with a mixture of relief, pride, and affection. 

“I’m gonna go help Haley set the table,” he tells you. You’re probably wanting more than he’s giving, but you swear, he talks with love. “Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay, dad,” Jack says, taking your hand to pull you to the crayons. “We’re gonna colour now.” 

“Okay, buddy. Draw me something nice.” 

[guardarecheluna]

I'd do anything for smiles, i'd move heaven and earth.

Authors note: Hiiii! Uhh, so this turned-out way more angsty and emotional than I planned, which is probably what happened when I just go with the flow and write instead of trying to plan it all out beforehand. But I really enjoyed writing this piece, so let me know your thoughts! Love, Elle x.

Word count: ca 4k words

Warnings: Angst, fluff, talk about babies and pregnancy

Summary: Harry wants a family with Y/N, actually, he wants nothing else. Y/N isn’t so sure about the whole baby thing, until everything changes.

Y/N never wanted to be a mother. She was mother enough to her siblings growing up, and she knew; if there was ever a want to have a child, it would be an already existing child who needed a home.

Harry on the other hand always knew that it was his calling to be a father. He had this constant baby fever, always agreeing to babysit his friend’s children and tending to their little ones. No wonder he had an abundance of godsons and goddaughters at the ripe age of 26.

He also knew he wanted children with Y/N, almost the minute he caught her eyes at that birthdayparty, but 3 months into their relationship, they still hadn’t talked about if there was a possibility of children in the future.

Y/N had grown up being told that having children was the ultimate goal in life. She’d been told stories about how rewarding it was, how much love you got to give and receive, and how all the newborn sleepless nights was going to be worth it. She always smiled at the comments, knowing she’d never feel that way.

Her mother always told her that she had been the same when she was younger, but then when she had met Y/N and her siblings father, she just wanted to give him a baby. Almost like her biology and nature was playing a bigger part than her conscious. Her mother had told her that Y/N was going to know when she’d met the right man, that she would know that she loved him, because she would want to give him a child that was half her and half him, but Y/N doesn’t think she’s ever heard anything more ridiculous in her life.

Don’t get Y/N wrong, she loved children, and they loved her just as much, it was just that she couldn’t picture her life surrounded by another tiny human being. Taking care of them constantly, them always needing her in one way or another, hovering ang clinging on to her. Y/N was out of breath just listening to people talk about children.

3 months into Harry and Y/N’s relationship

Harry had agreed to babysit Scout; Sarah and Mitch’s baby. Just for a few hours while they got some things done that would be at least 10 times more difficult with a needy baby around. Scout isn’t a baby really, at 13 months old, but Harry would never admit that fact to anyone.

Harry was on the carpet of his own apartment, laying on his stomach, looking at Scout who was currently stacking cubes to make a tall tower. Harry had absolute hearts in his eyes for this baby. Looking at the small blonde boy, Harry released a sigh he had been holding when Scouts tower of blocks finally held up and was steady enough not to fall over. “Look at you, Scout! Your tower is so tall!” Harry exclaimed, impressed at his godson’s work, and expecting Scout to push the tower over, and starting his project once again. Instead, Scout looked up with his bright blue eyes and walked over to Harry, who was now sitting up. Scout threw himself right in Harry’s arms, giggling and babbling something to him with his teethy grin.

Harry felt like he could cry. Melt into a little puddle on the living room floor, just a wet spot in the carpet for Y/N to mop up when she got home. “You’re too good to me” Harry said once again when Scout regained his balance and started over with his blocks again.

Harry placed his large hand over the baby’s back, strong him gently to let him know that he was still behind him. Scout had blonde little locks ending just at the nape of his neck, and a stylish little outfit on, he looked almost like a little old man. Harry curiously continued watching Scout playing, reacting to his towers and stacking, now and then running his hand trough Scout’s blond locks. Yeah, he could get used to this.

Y/N’s footsteps were heavy, coming through up the stairs to Harry’s house, and in over the doorstep. Her shoulder was aching with her massive tote bag carrying around everything she could possibly need for a workday – she just wanted to cuddle up at home, with Harry.

She heard giggles from the lounge as she took of her shoes. Simultaneously smiling and being slightly annoyed at the unwelcome guest, she was just so tired.

She walked through the hall until she arrived at the lounge. Two messy looking boys looked up at her in surprise, seeming very invested In building some kind of tower with building blocks.

“Hi my darlings!” Y/N put a smile on. She really couldn’t stay annoyed with Scout in the room, he just had this incredible vibe to him, it was impossible not to get in a good mood around him. “What a lovely surprise to come home to.” Y/N continues, settling down next to Scout and Harry. Although, just by looking at Harry, Y/N knew he was in baby-mode. A constant smile on his pink lips, eyes barely leaving Scout for a second.

Scout was happy to see Y/N, leaving his blocks for a minute to get some cuddles in from one of his favourites. Harry also leaned in for a kiss, smile still on his lips, putting his arms around them both and nuzzling baby Scout’s forehead with his own. Yeah, he was going to get used to this.

Later that evening, full of homemade pasta and wine, Harry and Y/N cuddled up on their sofa, Scout having left with his parents hours ago. Harry had waved him off and was throwing kisses to him as Mitch walked out with Scout in his arms.

“What’s with you, today?” Y/N whispered softly to Harry, lips ghosting over his jaw, leaving wet kisses along the stubble. Harry’s cheeks instantly flushed, feeling a word vomit consisting of love, babies and the future coming up his throat. He thought about babies way too often, and of course, he was still young and had many years to plan his family, however, when he looked at Scout and Y/N cuddling earlier in the afternoon, he knew he had to let it spill out how much he wanted a baby at some point.

“I just…” Harry trailed off, looking at the ceiling to try and calm his beating heart, knowing that with Y/N’s soft kisses on his jaw, it was going to be impossible. He continued, “Seeing you and Scout cuddling and playing today was just…you’re it for me. And I can’t fucking wait until we have one of our own. A little mix of you and me, I can’t imagine a more perfect thing even If I tried.” Y/N felt her blood run cold at his comment. He had taken for granted that they were going to have children one day, and she was going to have to break his heart with what she was going to say next. She felt cruel, also aware of how many women on this earth who would kill to have Harry say that to them.

She had been quiet for far too long now, frozen up in Harry’s tight embrace. She realized that it was no use for her to say anything else but the truth.

“Harry, we haven’t even spoken about having children. I…I’m not sure I want that for our future.” She spoke gently, knowing that this may break his heart into microscopic pieces, his feelings for her turning to absolute dust and flying off to an unknown destination.

It was Harry’s turn to freeze up. He could feel tears burn in his eyes, jaw aching at those simple words. She didn’t want to have a baby. She didn’t want to have a baby with him. Harry truly couldn’t imagine a worse scenario for himself. He had found the love of his life, but she didn’t want children. Harry knew better at this point in his life than to just keep it to himself. Bottle up his needs and feelings and bury then deep, deep underground. But right know, in this situation, he didn’t know what to do besides breathing deep and calming his becoming tears. “Dove, I, what do you mean you don’t want it? Not right now or not ever? C-cause I didn’t mean right now, I just-“. He babbled out, eyes still focused on the ceiling, knowing that if he looked at her, he’d break into pieces.

He awaited her answer with a sweat forming on his brow, hands clammy as they tried to hold on to her as well as he could, but metaphorically, he could feel her slip away from him already. “Not right now. And probably not at all.”

The tears he had held onto fell.

1 year later

Harry really hadn’t expected to become so emotional about their conversation from a year ago, he blamed it on his emotions running high from when he babysat Scout earlier that day.

Harry didn’t let Y/N see his tears that night, everything was still new between them, and after that night, they had both agreed that they would talk about it another day.

But the thing is, the thought of Y/N never wanting a baby with Harry, absolutely killed him. It was like ever since that day, he had a grey little cloud above his head, having her words wash over him like the high tide at any point of the day.

Harry knew he couldn’t hate her if she didn’t want children. He knew that some people just didn’t want children, and he would have to accept it, even though the thought of not having his own family was aching in his bones.

He knew that if this continued on, he would have to choose between staying with her, the love of his life, but probably never having children, and leaving her, knowing that he could have a family of his own, but never with the only person that he wanted that with. At this point, all the thoughts were swirling in his head, causing a migraine. It always turned out this way, and none of the options he considered was making him happy. He loved her so much. So much that he could barely breathe when he looked at her. He hadn’t been in love before he met her, and he was in love the moment she met eyes with him. She was everything, but this couldn’t continue any longer.

Harry felt all his emotions from that day resurface when he entered his bedroom, Y/N laying cuddled up on his bed, freshly showered, with her nose in one of his books he had recommended to her. As he stepped inside, his breathing was shaky, and from that point on, he couldn’t hold it together for even a minute longer.

Y/N looked up at him, confused with the sudden rush of emotions in the room. She opened up the duvet for him, and he crashed into her body like a limp doll, grabbing on to her for his life, knowing that it may very well be the last time that he got to do so.

Y/N had been on her own journey in the past year. A year of self-discovery, of pain, pleasure, and allowing things to come as they are without trying to put to much thought into it.

After their conversation about family and children that night, just three months into their relationship, Y/N was still sour about the way she grew up, caring for her siblings, taking on way to much responsibility at such a young age. But she wasn’t angry anymore. She had realized that it didn’t do her any good to think about her past and let it swallow her whole. She wanted to focus on the future, her work, her relationship with Harry and their future together.

She was so in love with him, like the moon loved the stars, like the river liked the rocks they were flowing with. He was everything.

The memory of their conversation from a year ago hurt her heart. She knew it had broke him. But they were also just three months into their relationship, she was angry at her family and fresh into being alone and self-sufficient as an adult. She couldn’t think about having kids, she wasn’t in the headspace.

But as their relationship evolved and bloomed, she couldn’t help but to think about their future together, maybe as a family. The glimpses of him with his godchildren, the way he was acting around them made her body run hot.

How much she denied she wanted children, she couldn’t anymore. It would be a lie. The thought she almost didn’t dare to think, their own baby was creeping into her head more and more since that conversation. Since she had truly fell in love with him. And there was no longer any reason do hide it or deny it.

Harry’s body was shaking under the duvet, gripping onto Y/N’s body for some type of comfort. Y/N was confused, but gentle, letting him trap her with his tall body, and running soothing circles over this bare back and shoulders. “Shhh, darling, what’s on that beautiful mind of yours, huh?” She said gently against his unruly hair, sticking out everywhere.

And he told her. He told her everything on his mind and placed all of his card on the table. He had given up any hope of being truly happy, weather it was with or without her. It was her time to cry, her breathing harsh and guilty. She didn’t know he was still thinking about that, and so constantly as well. She had been thinking about casually talking about it with him, revisit the conversation and drop some hints about her current state of mind. She had no idea he felt like this, like the only options were to be with her and have no children, or to leave her to be with another that could never make him truly happy, but he would have a family with.

Y/N let him spill out every single one of his thoughts, gently carding through his hair, trying to calm him down, and unconsciously letting him know that is was all going to be alright.

When he finished, he felt like jelly, his body weak and dehydrated. “Alright my love.” She told him as she switched their positions in the bed, their bodies flush against each other, facing each other with only so much as a few centimetres between their wet faces.

“Let me tell you about this past year…” She started, as he listened to her voice telling him everything he had wanted to hear all those months ago. His breathing was slowly evening out, but tears still fell steady as she went on. He placed pecks on her puffy lips now and then, listening, awarding her with more kisses when he realised; it really wasn’t as bad as he had thought, she did want a family. As long as it was with him, and as long as it was never going to be as it was with her own family.

2 years later

She was going to tell him tonight, and she wanted to make It special.

Y/N’s now fiancé was at the studio, and while on facetime with her best friend, Maya, she told her about something she had been keeping a secret for the better part of the 2 hour call. Y/N was pregnant. And she did want to tell Harry first, of course, but her head was spinning with thoughts and she wanted to make the announcement at least a little special, so she needed advice. Maya was screaming bloody murder over the call. She was jumping up and down, tearing up and couldn’t seem to get the information into her head. Her best friend was going to have a baby.

Y/N had barely even been able to work through the information herself, but she also had tears streaming down her face.

Her and Harry had another babytalk when they had gotten engaged, just 4 months ago. It had been hours into the night, the moon shining bright onto their bed and lighting up the room. They wanted it. They wanted it now. Names had been thrown around, ideas for a nursery, and Harry was absolutely dying to get started making a baby.

Y/N had a Nexplanon implant for the entirety of their relationship, and a part of her wanted to call the doctor immediately to have it taken out.

She did have it taken out, just weeks after their conversation. Harry was away on business for three weeks, the perfect opportunity as the little incision would leave a few bruises and scars on her arm. She decided on not telling him that she got it removed, and if she was able to become pregnant quick enough, it would be an ultimate surprise. She knew where he stood anyways, it wasn’t like he didn’t want to put a baby in her as soon as he could, he wanted nothing else.

“I honestly don’t even know how to tell him. “I want to make it at least a little special.” Y/N sighed to Maya over facetime, head empty of any and every idea she had ever had. “I don’t think it has to be that special, it’s still an intimate moment, and Harry will surely love it either way. I think with him it’s just best If you catch him when he’s in that disgustingly loving mood you always have him in.” Maya said and rolled her eyes. Y/N smiled at her comment. She did get him in that mood often. He was almost always loving up on her when he had the opportunity. “Yeah,” Y/N said, lost in thought about how to tell him. “I think you’re right, maybe I’ll get him something cute though, I don’t know. I just feel like I could absolutely burst, I just want to tell him right when he gets home.” Y/N continued, gauging Mayas reaction over the phone. Maya offered her a big smile. “I think you should just tell him tonight.”

Harry had burst through the door a little past 6 that night. Voice strained after a whole day of writing and vocals on his new record. He looked visibly tired, but he lit up as soon as Y/N met him in the hallway of now their house. Without a single word falling from his lips he reached his arms out for her, like a child needy for a good cuddle. And of course, she welcomed his embrace with her heart in her throat, like always when he was around her.

“Hi, Dove.” He murmured into her neck, as he breathed in her scent, making a home for himself in the crook of her neck. “Hi” She shyly got out as he embraced her, placing a few gentle kisses on her lips. “I have a surprise for you.” Y/N said cryptically as she looked him in his eyes, wanting to play It off as serious. “You do, yeah? My lovely fiancé at home, giving me a surprise, huh? You know I’d rather have you on a silver plate than-“ he said in his tired tone, eyes gleaming and playful as he straight up admitted his horniness right as he stepped through the door.

“Jesus Christ, you have the mouth of a sailor, I swear.” Y/N chuckled and pushed herself away from his grip, but not without giving him another kiss. “I’m pretty sure you’ll want this surprise.” She continued as she walked away from him, sitting down on their sofa.

Y/N had cozied up the room before Harry got home, fluffed the pillows, lit some candles and got out something to drink for them as well as placing the wrapped up pregnancy test on the coffee table.

Harry eventually arrived into the lounge, raising his eyebrow at the wrapped up gift laying on the table. “S’that for me?” He said playfully. Her heart was beating out of her chest. She felt guilty not telling him about her implant but was sure that the guilt would be washed away with pure joy and excitement at any given moment. Harry sat down right next to her, looking at her face carefully and studying it for any kind of clue of what could be hiding inside the wrapper. “You know you don’t ever have to get me anything, Dove, but it is a nice surprise.” He said, reaching for the gift on the table.

She could barely get any more words out of her mouth, they got stuck in her throat: Her eyes glazed over, knowing what was coming, which had Harry immediately dropping the gift, tending to her instead. “Hey, hey I’m sorry, was it something I said? Are you okay my love?” He carefully said as he took her in his arms, holding her and kissing her head gently.

At this point it was getting ridiculous, so she just laughed it off. She knew he would understand her behaviour when he got to see what was inside of that gift.

“Just open your gift already.” She lightly chuckled and made eyes at the gift, still sitting on the floor from where he dropped it.

And for a moment, something flashed in his eyes. Like he could sense what was coming, he eyed her for a moment, holding the gift in his hands. Harry said nothing more, but just ripped up the paper and was met with not one, but three very positive pregnancy tests, all yelling the word PREGNANT at him. “You’re going to be a dad, H.” Y/N almost whispered, and the tears had started falling for real this time. It was like the best confirmation in herfself that she could ever feel. THIS was what she wanted, the relief flowing from her, making her finally breathe again. Harry studied the tests quietly, Y/N could see his hand shaking from where he sat next to her. “This is a prank, you can’t- are you serious my love?” He looked at her for answers, and she could just kiss him with how he looked right now, lips puffy from biting on them, eyes wide and watery. “I’m fully serious, I got the implant taken out when you were away.” Y/N laughed and stroked his cheek for a moment. She couldn’t believe this was real, that he was real, and that he was hers.

And then he cried, he couldn’t get the words out, fumbling and falling right into her arms, making her fall back on the sofa. “You’re pregnant, Dove, we’re having a baby, I-“. Y/N could feel his wet tears on the side of her neck as he took in the moment, trying to regulate his tears and his breathing, but to no avail. He placed a large palm on Y/N’s lower belly, not yet showing any signs that she was expecting. He laughed, cried, and consistently stroked over her stomach as he kissed her with all the passion he had in his body. No matter how tired he was, he would never be too tired for a moment like this, it was like his whole body was on fire, never to be put out.

“I can’t even believe-, I love you so much, I love you, I love you and our baby so much, you’re everything, absolutely everything.”

And in that moment, Harry and Y/N realised that even if their ways had parted all those years ago, without having this baby, without having each other, everything would be pointless. This is what they were meant to be doing, this is where they were meant to be - in this exact moment.

[twola]

idk if this is too vague, but arthur/f!reader in the classic trope of, oh my god I can't believe we both almost just died sex? did they both almost drown? Was there a fire? did he save her life? who knows! i feel like arthur would sees the woman he loves almost die and immediately fuck about it

Okay this has been in my asks for WAY too long and it’s such a good one and I wanted to do it justice.

Left Unsaid

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

When he think's he's almost lost you in a run-in with a rival gang, Arthur quickly gets over his nervousness in approaching you.

The bloodcurdling scream jolts him from sleep, making him stumble up from where he was sitting on a rickety chair in the main room of the old cabin. At first, he thinks it's a dream, but when the sound of breaking glass pierces the night, Arthur shoots up; the chair falling to the ground in a clatter as he quickly shakes the vestiges of sleep from his mind.

This abandoned cabin off of Eris Field seemed the perfect place to spend the night instead of making the trek all the way back to Shady Belle tonight - your yawning from behind him on his horse had him chuckling as he made the decision to stay - doing the gentlemanly thing and giving you the bedroom with the old single bed. As much as he’d like to be sharing it with you - he remained externally aloof - proclaiming that he’d sleep on the chair in the main room. He certainly did not dare to ask to share your bed - not now, probably not ever. 

But the rustling and thumping behind the door where you sleep has his heart racing - his hand flies to his revolver as he readies himself to throw his shoulder into the door and shoot whatever it is that is making that noise, but the door bursts open before he gets the chance.

A man stands on the threshold - dirty, and grimy, with a faded gray woolen military uniform and a yellow bandana around his neck.

Of course, goddamn Lemoyne Raiders.

The raider holds up his knife in front of him, and in the din of movement and chaos around them, Arthur can see the liquid sheen over the steel in the man’s hand.

The knife, dripping with blood. The man, seemingly unharmed. The door, slightly ajar, to the bedroom where you slept.

A cold stone settles in Arthur’s gut as he puts the pieces together. In an instant, he snarls, diving toward the man with little regard for his own person, tackling him to the ground and ready to rip him apart with his bare hands for what he’s done to you. As Arthur mounts himself on the man’s chest and begins to strangle him, the movement knocks the oil lantern off the table, crashing to the wooden floor and immediately bursting into flame.

The man’s neck snaps between Arthur’s hands and he immediately leaps up, moving toward the bedroom where you were sleeping.

Another body crashes into him, a Lemoyne Raider dressed like he is straight out of a Civil War battle tackles Arthur to the ground, the two of them tumbling along the floor and breaking through the rickety door to the porch. Arthur rolls backward, unsheathing his hunting knife as he grits his teeth, ready to slice this damn bastard into shreds.

Of course, the wannabe soldier is no match for the hardened outlaw. They sure as hell don’t make them like they used to. Arthur easily dodges a swing of the man’s fist and throws his weight forward. He sinks his knife into the raider’s gut, and immediately shoves him to the ground. He gurgles blood from his mouth as Arthur rushes over him, back toward the house.

The flames burst out the windows as he barrels back toward the door, grabbing at the handle and cursing aloud as it burns him. 

The constriction in his chest has settled into a churning in his gut as he prepared to kick the door in. At this point would he be finding your charred, lifeless body, having bled out on the floor because he couldn’t protect you?

“Arthur-!”

He steps off the porch, not sure if he is lightheaded or hallucinating, but you move toward him, hitching your skirts, blood covering your blouse, your hair wild.

“Jesus-” He crashes into you, having nearly leaped the final few steps, crushing you into his chest, nearly causing you to stumble.

He yanks you back, large hands on your shoulders, and looks you up and down, eyeing the blood patch on your blouse.

“N-not mine.” You breathe, but he does not move his hand from your ribcage. It presses inward, against the wet cotton, splaying across your side as if he did not believe you, checking for where the knife would have marred your flesh.

“Arthur-” You whisper, your hands tight on his biceps, “I’m alright.”

His eyes dart back up to yours, searching, pupils dilated, breathing heavily.

“Ar-”

You’re cut off completely as he pulls you against him and presses his lips desperately against yours, muffling your surprised yelp as his tongue demands entrance into your mouth. After a moment of shock, you melt into his embrace, fingers tightening on his shirt sleeves as you open your mouth to him.

He kisses you like you are the air he breathes. Like you are some kind of salvation… like he thought he almost lost something.

Arthur pulls back, breathing heavily, a flush having taken over his face, “Christ-” he goes to unwind his arms from you, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

It’s his turn to be cut off as your hands immediately travel to the collar of his shirt and you pull him down to your lips to kiss him again, needy as you moan into his mouth.

His arms immediately recircle you, hands moving down from your ribs, down, down to your waist, your hips, your rear. Hooking his arms around the back of your thighs, you’re lifted up, squealing in surprise into his mouth as you wrap your legs around his waist. 

Continuing to press into each other's mouths, you barely notice him walking the two of you back, further from the flaming cabin, into the woodline, and finally against a tree trunk a safe distance away. He pulls back, panting as you recline against it, his arms tight under your thighs.

He gazes upon your kiss-swollen lips; your heaving chest as you breathe heavily, your pupils blown wide in arousal. Arthur takes the opportunity to roll his hips once, his hardening cock pressing against your cunt, and your eyes flutter closed as a needy, breathy whine escapes your lips.

“Arthur-”

He does it again, maybe for his sake as much as your own, the blood rushing to his groin and filling his cock properly. He grits his teeth as the rolling becomes rutting, your gasps driving him insane.

Before he gets to the point of no return, he slows his hips and leans over to recapture your lips in another kiss. As he pulls his 

“Thinkin’ you was dead back there-” He pushes his lips to yours again, “Christ- I… I never told you-” 

One of his hands leaves your thighs, but you have no fear he’s going to drop you. He buries it in layers of cotton, pulling at your skirts to move them from his way, reaching your bloomers and pressing against your cunt, watching your face intently as you moan, the cotton separating you quickly dampening against his fingers.

He leans in again and groans against your neck. Grabbing the cotton tightly, he yanks until he feels the seams give way, the tearing sound ringing in his ears as he delves within the ruined fabric to your soaking folds. You jolt against him and whine loudly as he slides his fingers along the seam of your body.

Arthur covers your mouth with his own as he sinks his fingers into you, working you open as you clutch desperately at his shoulders.

After you’ve cried out several times in the night, his hand leaves you and you sigh at the loss, he shushes you gently as he works at the buttons of his trousers, finally freeing his cock from his pants after moments of fiddling. His hand returns to your thigh as he adjusts you in his arms. The head of his cock presses gently against the rim of your cunt.

Your hands move from his shoulders to cup his face, your thumb tracing his lower lip gently before he sucks the tip into his mouth, his eyes trained on yours.

He pulses his hips and his cockhead slips inside you. Your brows crinkle with the first vestiges of the ache of penetration, and he leans forward again to press his lips upon your forehead.

“What did you never tell me?” You whisper as he holds you on the cusp of joining, the precipice of sheathing himself into you.

One of his hands leaves your thigh, though you are completely unafraid of falling with your legs wrapped around him and the strength of his other arm. His fingers brush back a strand of your hair from your forehead, tucking it gently behind your ear before his rough and calloused palm rests on your cheek.

“You’d have died and I woulda never told you I’m in love with you.”

Your eyebrows raise in shock as you clutch at him, and while you remain silent, after a moment, you pull him closer with your legs, nudging his back with your ankles, and he slowly slides himself inside you, inch by inch, until your hips touch and you mewl with the stretch. He hums softly before slowly, gently, rocking his hips, starting a slow rhythm as you get used to him.

His powerful arms keep you suspended against the tree trunk with each roll of his hips, each glide of the inches of him in and out of you, well glossed and hot with your slick.

Arthur’s lips press to yours incessantly, muffling your gasps and whines as he presses into you. After one particularly deep thrust, you throw your head back in ecstasy, bumping against the trunk of the tree.

“Careful there, darlin’,” Arthur slows his hips, and tightening his grip on your thighs, he pulls you away from the tree, you yelp and tighten your legs around his hips. He chuckles softly as he walks you, still joined, a few steps from the tree and slowly lowers the both of you to the ground on a patch of grass. Spreading himself out over you, he buries his head against your neck as he lets go of your thighs, his forearms on either side of your shoulders, rocking his hips into yours again.

The staccato whine of the syllables of his name escapes you as you hook your ankles around each other over his back. Carding your hands through his hair, your fingers interweave between his honeyed strands, his hat long gone in your desperation to join yourselves.

He presses himself up above you as his thrusts become more erratic, his breathing loud and heavy as he pounds you into the ground.

“God-” you cry out as your hands grasp his shirt, “Arthur, yes-”

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, looming over you as he careens toward completion.

You arch your back, your thighs wrapping tighter around him as you begin to babble - “Yes- Arthur… I love you too-”, another gasp as he hits that spot within you, “God - I love you so much-”

That’s it. There it is, stripped bare and bleeding out like an open wound, his heart catching in his chest at your confession, and his amazement leaves him speechless as he thrusts into you once more, holding himself as deep as he can possibly get into you, feeling you pulse and clutch around him, wailing your pleasure into the night. It’s only a moment more before he has the wherewithal to yank himself from you, in the nick of time as he spurts his seed over your cunt, dripping white into the dark curls at the joining of your legs.

He’s gasping, you’re gasping, and he groans as he settles himself to the side of you, barely able to hold himself up with the exertion. Your legs hang open as you pant, flushed from your cheeks down your neck.

One of his large hands spreads out over your chest, against your racing heart, and you turn your head toward him, breathing out through your nose as a smile graces your lips.

“Probably should get outta here before any more stragglers find us.” He says, out of breath as he removes his hand to tuck himself back into his trousers. You nod and sit up, pulling your skirts down over your legs.

“D’ya think…” you trail off as you watch him rebutton his pants before he pushes himself to stand. His hair is ridiculously ruffled from the amount of times you've run your fingers through it.

“Mm?” He holds out his hand to you to help you up. 

You take it, and he pulls you up into his embrace, his hand secure on your lower back.

“Was wondering if we could spend the rest of the night in Rhodes or somewhere instead of heading all the way back to camp…” You ask as you lay a hand on his chest.

He squeezes you closer to him. 

“Sounds mighty nice… certainly wouldn't mind a stay in a hotel room tonight.”

[angellesword]

BAGGAGE | JJK (07)

Summary: Drowning in debt and blood, Jeon Jungkook knows he's better off alone, lest he brings people down with him.

But one drunken night changes everything.

In a blink of an eye, Jungkook found himself drowning not only in debt and blood, but also in dirty diapers and judgmental stares from you, a.k.a his long-lost love and the guardian of the son he didn't even know existed.

Genre and warnings: best friends to lovers, co-parenting, idiots in love, mutual pining, angst, fluff, implied smut, kissing, minor character death, slight getting back together, drama, OC cusses excessively so watch out, blood, pregnancy, discussion of abortion, giving birth

Pairing: dad! Jungkook x adoptive mom!Reader

Word Count: 6.1k

← Previous Chapter (06) | Next Chapter (08) →

****

Six Years Ago, 2017:

France was not all that you expected. One would think people pursuing their doctorate degrees would be busier with their academic lives, but it looked like French people cared more about their social lives.

"Come on, just a few more steps!" Elyna, your classmate, chuckled while dragging your warm, sweaty body across the street. She almost tasted victory when she got a glimpse of the façade of your apartment.

Admittedly, Elyna still gets jealous whenever she remembers your apartment being nicer than hers. Talk about favoritism, huh? You were both scholars of Sorbonne University pursuing your doctorate degrees, but Professor Verlaine liked you the most.

"There you go! You can look after yourself, right? Bye, cutie." Elyna kissed your cheek before practically throwing you in your front door.

You were smaller in stature compared to your French classmates, making it easier for them to push and pull you around. You groaned when your back hit the door.

You were too drunk to cuss your classmate, so you could only suck it up and push yourself to enter your apartment. After what felt like forever, you finally stumbled inside, puffing out a breath and debating whether to just sleep on the floor.

Hours of clubbing with your classmates messed you up. You shouldn't have gone with them, but those shitty French didn't really give you a choice. Even Verlaine encouraged you to go out, going as far as postponing the submission of your business paper so you could have a fun Friday night.

Verlaine's exact words were, "Have fun. You've been in France for months already. You're the only international student who hasn't gone clubbing here."

You did not care for clubs. In fact, you hated them. You only attended your graduation parties and some quiet bars with Jungkook.

"Hah! Stupid pompous freak!" You cussed your traitor of a best friend, wanting nothing but to beat yourself for thinking about that bastard. You had done so well suppressing thoughts about Jungkook for the whole day. It's ten minutes before midnight. How could you fail so miserably?

You struggled to fish your phone out of your pocket, vision doubling, but that did not stop you from sending chains of messages to Jungkook.

To: Jungkook-shit I fucking hate you traitor

To: Jungkook-shit yoi betrayed me freak,. i hope you rot in hell

To: Jungkook-shit fucker

To: Jungkook-shit i hate you so mcuch pleas fo me a favor snd die

To: Jungkook-shit i will ndcevef dorgive you digshfit 

To: Jungkook-shit dick 

To: Jungkook-shit duck you

To: Jungkook-shit ny heart hirts

To: Jungkook-shitcan we go back?

The last message remained unsent as your intoxication finally caught up to you. You dropped your phone on the floor, face hitting the cold tiles as darkness clouded your vision.

You fell asleep.

***

That night, you had a long dream, which you were pretty sure had happened in real life—back when you were still very small, probably at five years old.

If you thought about it, you'd say the dream slash memory was triggered by going to a club with Elyna and the others. Your dream started off in a club, too.

Your Jisoo-unnie told you to hide in the closet and never make a sound, no matter who tried calling your name. You were an obedient child, only trusting your older sister. But it didn't mean your mother was as kind as Jisoo. Your mom would boss you around as she entertained guests. You basically served as an errand girl at a young age, forced to keep your mouth shut even when you saw your mother and the other girls get violently beaten up by rogue men.

"Where is my sister!?"

You were lighting heavy scented candles for your mother and client when you heard your sister's voice.

Your ears involuntarily perked up. You threw the matchbox aside and immediately ran out of the club's private room.

"Jisoo-unnie?" You blinked innocently.

Your sister was standing there, looking as if she was going to smack your mother. But Jisoo stopped when she heard you call for her.

"Don't take her away!" Your mother screeched and tried to pull Jisoo's hair.

Jisoo dodged, immediately running toward you and hugging your frail body. She covered your ears. "I will take her away! Please. Stop it! She’s just a kid!"

"Bah!" Your mother spat. "She earns me money, unlike a brat like you!"

"I will take her place." Jisoo did not even hesitate. She hugged you tighter. "Let me be your errand girl or whatever you want me to do. I will do it. Just leave her alone."

You couldn't properly hear what the adults were talking about. Jisoo covered your ear tighter to ensure you heard nothing. It took a while before your mother spat on the ground for the second time, but she relented and let Jisoo take you away.

Your memories were pretty vague. All you remembered was that Jisoo had brought you into a tiny apartment; it was cramped and dark and smelled like dead rats. But it was better than those heavy-scented rooms at the club. At least in here, Jisoo cared for you and did not try to beat you up.

It didn't mean all your trauma would go away instantly, though. There were many moments when you would wake up in the middle of the night, silently crying because of a nightmare. You usually dreamt about your mother's client beating up girls and throwing profanities at everyone, including you.

"It's okay, my little one. Your Jisoo-unnie is here, I'll protect you." You weren't sure if you were recalling memories of the past or if it was just part of your drunken dream. All you knew was that Jisoo's warm embrace was palpable. She used to cradle your little body in her arms.

You were a docile kid, wings clipped by those men at the club. They used to threaten to beat you up if you so much as made a small noise or a mistake. For a long time, you carried that pain and refused to talk to your Jisoo-unnie, or anyone else, for that matter. At school, kids made fun of you for acting all meek and weak.

There was a time when Jisoo was called by your teacher, asking if there was something wrong at home for you to act so distantly. You were seven years old around at this time, and you still didn't understand adult words. You just recalled your teacher telling Jisoo that you needed therapy or whatever that was.

Jisoo was barely of legal age. Your mother had a cut whenever Jisoo took in clients at the club. She spent more than half her money to feed you and ensure you could attend class.

Your Jisoo-unnie only had one reminder: "Study well, my dear. That's all I ask. You can get anything you want if you're smart and have lots of money."

You still didn't speak much but diligently followed whatever your sister said. Things took a turn after your teacher talked to Jisoo. The latter took the teacher's advice to heart, but she didn't have enough money to bring you to a professional. She could simply improvise.

"My dear, there's nothing to be scared of anymore, okay? I won't ever hurt you the way they did. Here," Jisoo offered her cheek to you. "You can slap me and tell me all the bad things those men did to you, I won't ever fight back."

You shook your head rapidly, cowering. Memories of those nasty men came like a tidal wave, sweeping you off your feet until you felt nauseated.

"Sshh, my dear. It's okay. Just try, okay...You're okay."

It took a lot of conviction before you relented. Every day, Jisoo would coax you to act like a regular kid who was not frightened of acting difficult and throwing tantrums. She made you feel like it was okay to be mean and that whatever you did or said, you would still be loved—this was the beginning of you having a sharp mouth that couldn't go one statement with profanities leaving your mouth.

You got away with so many things because of Jisoo.

That had been your setup for many years, but your life slowly progressed. You worked hard in school while Jisoo did all the jobs available to her. You got out of that tiny apartment and were able to move to a new house. You were initially reluctant to leave, afraid you would lose connection with the first friend you made in the neighborhood—Jungkook.

You didn't talk to Jungkook before, either. You two would casually sit beside each other and be in your own world.

"You don't have an adult at home? Cool, me too." That was the first thing Jungkook told you. You weren't bothered by his presence before, but Jungkook had become insufferable over time, teasing you here and there until you had to snarl at him.

Despite your banter, you had grown attached to Jungkook and even begged Jisoo not to separate you. Jisoo smiled at you, ruffling your hair and explaining that you would only move to a nicer home, but it was still around the area.

You felt relief flood your veins. Things were going well. You slowly healed from your traumatic childhood as you stayed close to Jungkook and your Jisso-unnie. Your sister kept her promise, never once leaving you.

Every day, Jisoo would go home to you. You gingerly waited for your sister to arrive; you'd set aside your homework and other stuff to open your front door and greet Jisoo with a simple "Welcome home!"

You couldn't maintain your happy façade as Jisoo smiled faintly at you, coughing and smelling like smoke. There were bags under her eyes, too exhausted at her work at the club.

You were getting older. You thought you could apply for a part-time job and help your sibling with the expenses, but Jisoo wanted you to focus on your studies. She brushed your concern off, saying, "It's just secondhand smoke. You know those men at the club, they can't live without cigarettes. Don't worry."

As usual, you blindly followed your sister's request. You hid your verbal concerns and could only welcome her home with hot water with honey. You did your best to care for your Jisoo-unnie until you moved to the university dorm and got busier with school. As time passed, your time with Jisoo lessened until it reached a point where Jisoo would not contact you. She even went as far as betraying you.

She must have known, right? How could she not know that you were hopelessly in love with Jungkook? How could the two most important people in your life betray you like this?

It just didn't make sense.

But then again, nothing made sense—not when feelings were involved. For instance, you flew all the way to Europe so you wouldn't have to deal with the mess back in Incheon. You had cut off connections with Jungkook and Jisoo, but months later, right when you were recovering from your hangover from clubbing too much, was when your doorbell rang.

It's probably Professor Verlaine, you thought. You didn't bother checking the peephole because, for one, you didn't want to see your professor looking prim and proper while you looked like shit. You were still wearing your clothes from last night and you just got up from the floor. Seeing Verlaine at the peephole would make you want to freshen up first; you just didn't have the energy for that.

And for fuck's sake. It's seven in the morning. Seven! Anyone who dared to disturb you at this ungodly hour deserved to see your bed hair, drool on the side of your mouth included.

So you opened the door, fully expecting to grin at your professor, but your smile froze mid-air.

You were still hungover, yet your reflexes were as agile as ever.

You slammed the door shut—no, wait, that's wrong. You swore you were about to slam the door shut. You were not a pushover and didn't intend to talk to your traitor sister.

But you stood there, stiff and unable to shut the door to her face when you heard her cough.

A stupid fucking cough.

Jisoo coughed, and you felt as if you were a child again, excited to open the door and welcome your sister home with hot water mixed with honey from the comb.

***

In hindsight, you should have seen it coming. Jisoo could go a long time without contacting you, though she could never cut you off completely.

Once, she promised to stay with you forever, and until now, that promise still stands.

A promise is a promise.

Jisoo was sitting on your couch. You foolishly let her in, heart still throbbing after hearing your sister's cough. It was just a stupid cough, yet you felt your resolve crumbling.

This can't be. You couldn't possibly still have a soft spot for her.

"Ya having a sidepiece spawn?"—so you attacked her.

Jisoo visibly flinched at the roughness of your tone. You sighed a breath of relief. Her expression would help you sleep at night: Jisoo lowered her eyes, lashes trembling because of your intense look at her stomach. You longed to damage her heart until all she wished to do was run.

Jisoo called your name, choking back a sob. It was hard to say if it was because of the guilt she felt toward you or if it was because of what you called her unborn child.

Yes, Jisoo was heavily pregnant.

It was unfair. Jisoo felt the kick in her belly while you felt like your heart had been stomped.

"It's Jungkook's." There was no room for rebuttal. You said it with finality.

Jisoo didn't deny it, either.

"Of fucking course." You chuckled mercilessly. "How many rounds of 'playing around' did it take before you finally managed to get knocked up?"

"We weren't playing around." Jisoo defended. It was real. The thing they have done, it was real. "But I never dated him."

You scoffed. "But you fucked him." Your jaw slackened. Looking at your sister ignited your anger.

"Once." Jisoo was desperate.

You did not know what to feel anymore. A searing headache hit you. You barked a laugh.

"Tell me, Jisoo-unnie," you said pointedly. You might as well knife her heart. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Crashing defeat settled at the pit of Jisoo's stomach. The baby kicked her tummy aggressively like it was punishing her, too.

Jisoo called your name, trying again. "It was a one-time thing."

"A one-time thing." You repeated. It was probably said to reassure you, but it didn't. If anything, you just found a way to nitpick her excuse. "Not a one-time mistake?"

Jisoo inhaled sharply. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to cup her stomach to calm her baby, but she saw your piercing gaze there, leaving Jisoo no choice but to keep her hands on her side.

"We were both drunk. I admit, it was a moment of weakness."

Cliche. You snarled, feeling acid burn your throat. You wanted to vomit bile. "Still not calling it a mistake?"

"We both wanted it."

"Why!" Millions of questions attacked your head at once. Why did you betray me!? Why did you sleep with him, out of all people!? Was it good!? Was it worth breaking my trust? Why did you want it!?

Jisoo parted her lips, seemingly ready to answer your query, but you raised your hand to shut her up.

Jisoo obediently followed. 

"Don't answer that." You felt your knees buckling. You wanted to crawl and die.

"It is—"

"Please, stop." You were certain your heart had been broken to pieces, and you thought there was no way Jisoo could shatter it more.

But now you weren’t so sure anymore.

You could only storm off to your room, slamming the door and hoping Jisoo would leave you alone.

***

Jisoo did not leave you alone. She was sheepishly sitting on the couch when you emerged from your room.

"You're still here," you observed, no snark in your voice, but exhaustion was there. 

"I will be here," Jisoo responded with a small smile.

You ignored her, but she kept her promise.

She stayed the whole day in your home. The next day, she was still there.

Then the next.

And the next day.

And the next day.

And the next day.

And the next day.

And the next day.

You couldn't keep track anymore.

***

You and Jisoo were certainly not on good terms or talking terms. Fortunately, you learned to cohabitate without tearing each other apart.

Sometimes, you would buy baby clothes for Jisoo's child. You’d leave the shopping bag on the couch where your sister usually sat. However, you wouldn’t wait to see her reaction after checking the clothes.

Once, though, you accidentally saw her hugging the new clothes you had bought.

You caught Jisoo's gaze. Your sister smiled shyly at you.

Unlike before, you didn't immediately look away. In fact, you gazed at her as if asking, "It's white. A pretty neutral color. That should work, right?"

You weren't siblings without a reason. Jisoo picked up the question in your eyes.

She embraced the clothes tighter. "It's a boy. You’re going to have a nephew."

You did not react. You cast your gaze away and wordlessly left your sister alone.

But the next day, you had ten shopping bags in your hand. You left them at the usual spot.

Blue. You brought blue clothes and a bunch of toys.

You also brought pink clothes because assigning colors to gender was stupid.

But also because your nephew would surely look cute in blue, pink, and all other colors.

***

Jisoo was 32 weeks pregnant when you made up your mind to say something to her.

"That's it." You barged into the bathroom, catching your sister on the spot. She was vomiting blood.

Jisoo gave a start; her eyes were glistening with tears when she snapped her head up and met your glare. She hurriedly wiped her mouth.

"Why are you here?" Jisoo felt cornered, so she stepped back like a frightened lamb.

You smacked your lips together, finding this situation ridiculous. Jisoo had already slept with Jungkook; nothing could ever top that betrayal, so why was she acting like you would strangle her for puking blood?

"This is my apartment, in case you forgot."

"That's not what I meant." Jisoo inhaled as she struggled to swallow blood back to her stomach. "You're supposed to be at school."

"Yeah, whatever I skipped." You couldn't bear to see your trembling sister any longer. You helped her sit on the wide edge of the bathtub.

You worried about your Jisoo-unnie. She'd been retching in the bathroom almost daily. She thought she could hide it by turning the faucet on to muffle the sound, but she was wrong.

You planned to put an end to this. Your brow creased. "Enough with your bullshit. You are thirty-two weeks pregnant, and you can't possibly still be experiencing morning sickness. Even if you were, you'd be vomiting vile or that strawberry yogurt you've been eating every day. Not fucking blood."

"It's fine." Jisoo brushed it off, making a move to stand and end this conversation. You two never talked for more than one minute since she arrived, so why were you being loud now?

"You are not getting out of this conversation." You blocked her way out, glaring at her with the storm in your eyes. "I'll ask again. Why are you vomiting blood?"

The silence was deafening.

You wanted to punch the mirror. You cursed your sister; your eyes were turning bloodshot. The betrayal from before was back in full force. The fact that Jisoo wasn't telling you anything made you feel like she was hiding a nasty secret again.

You couldn't handle any more treachery. You might actually die.

"Don't lie to me again—" You cut yourself off, afraid you’d make yourself look pathetic by murmuring a soft please.

Jisoo stubbornly refused to speak. She watched as tears fell into her open palm.

She had done so well hiding this. She didn't want to tell you about her sickness, but every second that passed made Jisoo feel like the distance between you and her was stretching.

In the end, she could only concede. 

"I'm dying." Shallow breath. "I've cancer."

This time, it wasn't the distance that stretched but the silence.

Jisoo dared to peek at your reaction as the silence made her uncomfortable. Only two people knew she was sick: Jungkook and now you.

Jungkook at least hugged her and wiped her hands, telling her it would be all right.

But Jungkook was Jungkook. She hadn't done anything to hurt him.

But you? She shattered and betrayed you, so she should have expected it when she heard your giddy chuckle. However, when Jisoo looked at you, no sign of happiness or sadness could be traced on your face.

It was eerily impassive.

And then she heard you say:

"Good. That's good. I hope you die."

The bathroom door slammed shut, leaving Jisoo with tears in her eyes and kicking unborn child.

****

Jisoo was 33 weeks pregnant when you gave up on radio silence. Your sister was lying on the bed she bought herself. Your apartment only had one bedroom, but Jisoo still squeezed herself in. Seeing her dozing off on the couch was a pain, so one day, you brought brochures where Jisoo could choose a bed of her liking.

Jisoo bought a single bed, putting it close to your bed. You two slept without bothering each other. Tonight, though, you couldn't take it anymore.

You lay on your side, staring directly at Jisoo. Your sister was already looking at you.

She smiled and said hi.

You didn't bother with greetings. You went straight to the point.

"What type of cancer." It was like you were reporting the weather, refusing to ask the question properly. Your monotonous voice made you appear apathetic. No one knew how heavy your heart was.

"Does it matter?" Jisoo cupped her bulging belly. Her baby seemed excited whenever he heard his aunt speaking. He was wildly kicking Jisoo's belly.

"Tsk. Just answer the damn question. Why do you have to make everything difficult?"

This was starting to get on your nerves. Even after everything that happened, you still weren’t used to Jisoo not indulging you.

"It's not difficult. It just doesn't matter. I'm dying, anyway." Just like what you wanted. But Jisoo didn't say the last part. She was not in a position to hold grudges against you.

You hugged your pillow to your chest like you wanted to shield your heart that was about to jump out of your body.

"Just answer."

It was getting harder for you to breathe. Beads of sweat formed on your forehead; you couldn't seem to get the image of Jisoo coughing in your head.

Please don't let it be lung cancer. Please don't let it be lung cancer. Please don't let it be lung cancer. Please don't let it be lung cancer. Please don't let it be lung cancer—

"It's lung cancer."

Your heart missed a beat.

"How much time do you have left?" You dug your nails into the pillow while Jisoo sighed. She was sure you couldn't wait for her to die.

"Not too long. Maybe I'll pass soon after I have my baby."

"But why." Jisoo wasn't sure if she was imagining things, but she thought she heard you whine. "Don't you have a treatment plan? Fucking chemotherapy and stuff?"

"Chemotherapy is harmful for the baby." Jisoo's tone was soft.

"Fuck the baby!"

Even you were surprised by how resentful you were. But it was true, wasn't it? Her baby was the devil's spawn. It was the fruit of betrayal, so why was Jisoo choosing it over herself?

"Why didn't you abort it?" You abruptly sat on the bed, shooting daggers at Jisoo. A whirlpool of abuse danced at the tip of your tongue. You didn't voice it out because Jisoo looked sad.

"Don't be like that to Soobin."

"Who the fuck is Soobin? Why should I care!?"

"It's your nephew's name," Jisoo explained patiently as she caressed her stomach. Soobin had stopped kicking, probably scared of his aunt.

"That's such a basic name. It's so ugly. I hate it. I hate him."

You didn't give your sister a chance to speak. "Forget it." You turned off the lampshade. "I don't want to talk to you anymore. I'm going to sleep."

You laid back down. Darkness enveloped the room. This was better. This way, you couldn't see the sadness in Jisoo’s face.

But you couldn't sleep. You tossed and turned all night, but nothing worked.

It's my fault. You wanted to say. Jisoo got cancer because of you. That club was a rotten place. You should've stopped her from working there.

Lung cancer. What a bullshit thing to have.

"Don't die." A week ago, you were saying the complete opposite. "If you die, I'll chase you to hell. You can't die, Jisoo."

You still have debts to pay. I have not forgiven you yet. You have to suffer my eternal wrath, so do not die before me.

*** In Jisoo's 34th week of pregnancy, you had asked her another question.

"Why did you do it?"

Jisoo didn't need context. She knew exactly what you were talking about, but like before, you cut her off before she could explain.

"Never mind." You covered your face with a blanket and slept.

***

In Jisoo's 35th week of pregnancy, you pestered her again about chemotherapy.

"I told you already. It's harmful for Soobin."

"And I told you already, I don't care about Soobin." You rebutted.

This bedtime routine was tiring Jisoo. She felt like she was arguing with a wall.

"Good night," so she just turned off the lampshade and went to bed.

*** You asked about the betrayal again in Jisoo's 36th week of pregnancy.

"Are you sure you want to know now?" Jisoo's carefulness shot your heart.

You shook your head, your chest heaving.

"No," you admitted. "Never mind it."

***

Jisoo's 37th weeks pregnant when you panicked upon seeing her looking like she was in a lot of pain.

"What's the matter?" Your heart leaped to your throat. You were beside Jisoo at once.

Jisoo bit her lip and wiped the sweat on her forehead. "It's nothing. Your nephew's just being naughty. He keeps kicking my tummy."

Oh.

Your heartbeat returned to normal. And then you snorted and folded your arms across your chest. "Tell that scrub to shut his trap and quit being annoying."

You were about to return to your bed when Jisoo seized your wrist.

You flinched, but you didn't push her away.

It gave Jisoo the courage to push through her suggestion. She cleared her throat, "Why don't you pacify him yourself? He's quite obedient. Here, I'll guide you."

Jisoo slowly led your hand to her tummy. Your hand was stiff at first, almost resisting when you had contact with the skin of Jisoo's belly.

"Sshh, it's okay, dear." Jisoo's voice was like a lullaby. You relaxed at once.

It took you a while before you finally started caressing your sister's stomach without wanting to die.

And then you felt it.

"Oh!" Your eyes grew big. "He kicked me! Your kid kicked me!"

An involuntary chuckle came out of Jisoo. "Yes, he likes his aunt a lot."

"Hmp." You withdrew your hands. "Too bad I don't care about him."

Jisoo didn't react because, deep down, you were fooling no one.

***

You asked about the betrayal again in Jisoo's 38th week of pregnancy. Jisoo had learned her lesson, so she did not speak and pretended to be asleep.

***

You found the courage to be honest in Jisoo's 39th week of pregnancy.

"I take it back." You gripped your blanket. "Soobin isn't so bad. I think his name is cute."

Jisoo gasped, which had you worrying. You thought your sister was in pain again. These days, all she did was vomit blood.

However, Jisoo's gasp was because of plain surprise. She beamed at you, "Soobin just kicked me three times. He means to say he loves you."

"You're an idiot, and you know it." You clicked your tongue in disgust, "Tell your devil spawn I hate him."

Your words were harsh, but Jisoo knew your heart was melting.

Just a few more. Jisoo mused, mentally patting her baby's head. Your aunt’s gonna warm up to you soon, Bin-bin.

***

Jisoo was in her 40th week of pregnancy when she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

It took a while before you got out of the hospital because of Jisoo's worsening condition. Thankfully, you were there to look after Soobin.

"Welcome home, mon bébé," you secretly whispered when you finally got home.

Soobin cooed at you, and you wanted to cry.

You stopped calling Soobin the devil's spawn.

***

Jisoo's 3 weeks postpartum, and she was delirious.

"Jisoo-unnie, it's time for your medicine." You were sitting in your sister's bed with a glass of water in your hand.

"Honey water again...?" She blinked, eyes unfocused. She was hot to touch. "I don't want honey water. You make them too sweet."

"This is not honey water." You tried to make her drink, but Jisoo was stubborn.

She called your name. “My dear, please. You have to listen to me, alright? Hide in the closet. Don't answer even when mom calls for you. I will..." She cupped your cheek. "I will be back for you, okay?"

Postpartum was foreign to you, but you figured your sister was struggling.

"There's no need to hide. I'm not a five-year-old anymore, Jisoo-unnie."

It was the wrong thing to say because Jisoo scowled. She was unhappy, though she kept caressing your face.

"What are you saying? You'll always be my little girl."

***

Jisoo's 9 weeks postpartum when her mind cleared up. Regrettably, her body became weaker.

"You can't even carry your own baby," you taunted, peering down at your bedridden sister as you gently rocked Soobin in your arms.

Your nephew was so well-behaved.

"It's okay." Jisoo coughed. "Soobin has you."

"I'm not a babysitter." You jutted your chin, annoyed. "Hurry up and get better. I'm getting tired of—oh."

You weren't able to finish whatever you were saying. You couldn't even remember what you were trying to prove. All your thoughts vanished when Soobin wrapped his tiny hand around your pinky.

"Jisoo-unnie! Look! Look! He's holding me!" You stepped closer to Jisoo's bed, crouching down so your sister could see.

Jisoo forced out a smile. But that small action was taxing to her body. She coughed up blood again. She wiped it before you could see it.

"That's good. That's really, really good...."

***

Jisoo was 10 weeks postpartum, and she was still rotting in bed.

"You have to force yourself to get better," you demanded, a deep scowl on your lips. "Just look at your son. He clings to me a lot. Do you want him to recognize me as his mom?"

Your statement was meant to be threatening, but it made Jisoo happier.

"He is yours, dear." Her voice was barely above a whisper. She didn't have the energy to speak louder, but she could still smile. "He is meant to stay by your side."

"Shut up." You rolled your eyes. "I'm not cut out to be a parent. This is your mess. I was not there when you made him." I was against you making him. You hurt me.

Jisoo's forehead creased, though. She didn't agree with you. "But I made him for you."

What?

You couldn't believe your ears. If postpartum was this kind of bitch, then you were willing to fight it. It was making your Jisoo-unnie act crazy. She was full of shit.

"Soobin...stay...you..." And she was blabbering random words.

You touched her forehead. She was burning. Her fever was probably making her crazy.

"Next time, I'm bringing you to an asylum." Soobin slept soundly in his crib, so you had time to care for your sister. You put a wet towel on her forehead. "You're crazy, did you know that? Who would have thought a cute baby like Soobin came from a nasty girl like you?"

Jisoo's scowl deepened. She struggled and weakly caught your wrist. "No. Soobin looks like...me."

You glanced at Soobin's sleeping form. Yeah, right.

"Keep dreaming. It's free."

"No." Jisoo cried. It looked like she took your statement to heart. "He looks like me...he should look like me..."

Suddenly, Jisoo was crying. You were stunned. What was this drama queen crying for!?

"He looks like me. Please. He should remind me of you. I'm dying, I'm dying. I'm dying--!!"

Your eyes widened. Jisoo was out of control. She was sobbing and kicking her feet, albeit weakly.

"Jisoo-unnie, calm down." You held her hands, giving up. "I believe you, okay? Soobin looks like you."

She was easy to pacify. She stopped crying at once, and then she cupped your cheeks.

"My dear, my little one...I'm sorry, your Jisoo-unnie can't keep her promise to you. I'm going soon. Stay...stay with Soobin, alright?"

Jisoo slowly trailed off. The terrible realization slapped you in the face.

You were shaking, bile crawling to your throat when you connected the dots:

There was a high possibility that Jisoo, your sister, planned on sleeping with Jungkook so she could get pregnant. She wished to get pregnant because, after all this time, she still saw you as a little girl who needed someone by her side.

And since she was dying, she needed someone to...

You stopped thinking. You looked at Soobin's sleeping form and sobbed; your sister's words echoed in your mind:

Stay with Soobin. I made him for you.

Fuck.

***

In Jisoo's twisted way, what she did was for your sake. Unfortunately, you did not ask any of this.

Jisoo was 15 weeks postpartum. She was like a withered flower. No color was left on her face. Death was around the corner.

"Are you there, my dear?"

You did not answer. The question you didn't have an answer to entered your mind. You hadn't asked in a long time. Should you?

"Why did you betray me?" You asked it aloud before you could think properly. You thought Jisoo's too weak to answer, but she forced herself to speak.

"I was lonely. We were both lonely."

In the grand scheme of things, that explanation should have made sense. Lonely people sought comfort. You should be the first to understand that. But you didn't. It only brought you pain.

"I can't make you happy?" But you were her sister and Jungkook...Jungkook was your best friend. How could you not know that the people you loved were suffering? That they were lonely? Were you that...insensitive?

"It's not about you." Jisoo groaned. She was in a lot of pain. "You will never understand our grief. Your life is...a bliss."

The pain was unbearable. You wanted to cover your ears. You regretted asking that question, but you just couldn't stop.

"So you don't trust me? You don't think I'd understand you?" Did Jungkook think so too?

Jisoo didn't give a clear answer. She couldn't breathe. Her chest was stuffy.

Silence prevailed.

You stared blankly at Jisoo.

Jisoo struggled to maintain her breathing. She called your name.

"Have you forgiven me?"

It took you an eternity to respond, but your tone was biting when you did.

"You and Jungkook bonded over something you thought I was too immature to understand, so tell me, Jisoo-unnie, how can I forgive you?"

It meant to hurt. But Jisoo smiled through the pain.

She seemed...happy.

"Good…Good. Don't forgive me. I don't deserve it."

Blood. There was blood everywhere. Jisoo was barely awake.

"But leave Soobin...out of your...anger. That kid will love you. I swear, he will love you."

You had no plans to give Soobin away.

"I know...I am in no position to ask you anything, but...Jungkook...he must know about his son. He deserves that much, no--" She seemed to shake her head. "Soobin deserves that much....Promise me, in three..."

She paused. She was thinking....calculating...

"No four...four years...three years..." It was getting confusing. "Return him home in three years. Ugh."

Jisoo couldn't hold on.

She called your name. “ You and Soobin...you two are my life...I love you...I'll see..." you.

Jisoo didn't get to finish her last statement. She died, eyes clamped shut and blood splattering everywhere.

She died while her son slept, and you wept.

**** A/N: I wrote this for so many hours...this is not edited, I feel like I'm going to vomit if I read this chapter one more time. Imdeadtired.exe.

We will be back in the present in the next chapter.

← Previous Chapter (06) | Next Chapter (08) →

[chubbydino]

since i probably won't finish it...

Max pulled at the clasp of his TAG Heuer Monaco with a lump in his throat. He felt sick. Everyone in the paddock assume it was the Singapore heat, and Max let them think it as he mopped more sweat from his brow. He certainly wasn’t built for humidity. His eyes burned and itched, but not from the stagnant air or sweat dripping into his eyes.

He’d only seen flashes of Daniel since the checkered flag, and each one made Max feel worse than the last. First, the glimpse of him bent over in the cockpit, taking in the moment like it would be his last in a way that made Max’s heart crush itself. Then the brief look to the screens during interview, where he’d seen Daniel’s tears and the fake smile he knew almost as well as his own.

Racing was as exhilarating as it was cruel. Max’s father taught him early. Doom was always licking at his heels, ready to swallow him when he stumbled. Max feared that Daniel was already lost to the shadowy depths, and he’d been too busy fighting for second fucking place to see it. 

“Max?” his press officer called through the door to his driver room. 

“Yes, you can come in,” Max replied, still fussing with the clasp on his watch. He was two holes past the biggest notch—the one from his eighteen year-old wrist. 

Now, he had a girlfriend. One who knew who he really was and let him be it as long as he didn’t make it public. Max had no intention of ever doing that, because he wasn’t fucking gay. He wasn’t. He was just whatever it meant to be in love with someone who happened to be a man. He didn’t like men—only one. He only loved one.

“Daniel left already,” Max’s press officer said, still out of breath from her jog across hospitality.

Max blinked. “What?”

“He changed and left.”

Max’s stomach dropped through the floor. 

He thought of Niki Lauda, of all people. His dad didn’t like Niki. His dad said Niki bet on the wrong horse, that he was an idiot everyone called a genius because he had a stick so far up his ass it talked for him sometimes. Max only spoke to Niki a few times, but one time stood out. One moment, really.

This is the strange thing, Niki said. You send your life so focused on the seconds, then you say goodbye to a friend and never see them again. It will happen when you don’t expect it—just like everything else in this business.

Max cleared his throat. “Did they say where he was going?”

“The airport. He took his rental to turn it in.”

Max tugged the clasp in place. “Really? Who is he flying with? What charter?”

His press officer frowned. Her hair had curled in the humidity. He’d never say anything, but it didn’t look very good.

“Daniel booked a commercial flight,” she said softly. “He, um. He wanted the first plane out.”

Max’s insides twisted up on themselves. He scrambled for his backpack and slung it on. “Thanks for the info. I’m heading out too. Please have travel prep my jet—now.”

A year ago, Christian wouldn’t have allowed this. He’d force Red Bull to pay for a charter before he ever let Daniel fly with normal people. Even in first class, people loved to bother them. Everyone wanted signatures, pictures—they didn’t give a shit how you were feeling or what kind of day you had. 

He called Daniel as he ran for the car park. The phone rang but Daniel didn’t pick up, which meant he was still on land, at least.

Take my plane, he texted. Fuck first class.

The text thread was a barrage of blue. Max hadn’t realized how unresponsive Daniel had become since Friday, but he saw it now.

[imfinereallyy]

Tattooed Steve, pt. 2

Part 1 here

Soooo I ended up writing more tattooed Steve. I couldn’t resist. I also realized that Eddie would be the first person to find out but like…other than Robin. But I didn’t count her because Steve and Robin are the same person honestly at this point. Anyway I hope you like it! Pt. 1 is linked above.

—-

It’s two weeks after Vecna when he gets his first one. It’s unexpected, impulsive even, but Steve needs to feel something. He has just spent the past week and half waiting for Eddie to wake up, staring at his pale form, wishing away the anxiety with every beep, beep, beep that comes from the heart monitor. Begging for this stupid, stupid man to wake up.

He isn’t really sure why he wanted Eddie to wake up. Sure the ruggrats love him, and there is the general sense of not wanting any innocent person to die on his watch, but Steve knows deep down it’s about something else. Or more like the potential of something else. He tries not to think about it too hard.

So during that first week and half of watching a comatose Eddie, Steve takes his time studying the man. Learning every curve, and every scar. And eventually, every visible tattoo he can see. They are interesting, not all of them good, but all very Eddie. It somehow makes them better. Some of them are messed up from the bat bites (ironically the bat tattoos remain untouched), but they add to his aesthetic if Steve is being honest with himself.

When Eddie wakes up after that week and a half, groggy and confused (especially towards the fact that Harrington is practically holding vigil at his bedside), the first thing Steve says to him is “Oh thank god you’re awake.” The second is “What the hell were you thinking?” Before Eddie proceeds to pass out again.

Later, when all of the doctors and family and friends have had their time with him, the third thing Steve says to Eddie is, “Tell me about your tattoos.”

And despite the fact half of them are mangled, Steve doesn’t think he has ever seen anyone light up that bright in his life. And when Eddie starts waving his hands in excitement, Steve can’t help but think that he’s never been so close to the sun before.

So, two weeks after Vecna, Steve makes a decision. Or again, if he’s being honest, an impulse. He finds old books in the library about tattoos (which aren’t very helpful), and finds zines hidden between the pages (much more helpful) on stick and pokes.

Steve shows up with supplies from Melvad’s (for a probably very dangerous tattoo kit) at Robin’s doorstep. “Robs, I need you to give me a tattoo.” Then she proceeds to spit all of her morning tea on him.

After a lot of shouting “Did you hit your head again dingus? Oh my god did you get into another fight? Are you having a break down? SPEAK STEVE.”

And a lot of convincing, “Robin I’m fine. No I’m not having a breakdown. Robs, Robbie, Birdie, I swear nothing happen. I just want to do it.”

The end up on Robin’s bathroom floor (because of course all important things happen on the bathroom floor), with a look of deep concentration on her face. “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this, with only twenty minutes from a zine you smuggled out of Hawkins Library. I can’t believe they even have zines.”

“I don’t think they were aware of it honestly.” Steve snorts. His shirt was off, a patch hair already shaved off right where is heart is placed.

“Do you know what you want?” Robin asks, head tilted.

“No, not really. I was hoping you would help.”

Robin hums, like she’s resisting the urge to point out how impulsive he’s being. Like she knows he needs to do this. “Tell me what made you decide to want one.”

So Steve does. He tell her about waiting for Eddie to wake up. Wondering why Eddie got them. Wanting to own himself again, to actually like something new on his body. Put something there he had control of. His curiosity of if it were painful. His interest behind the stories of Eddies tattoos. How Eddie lit up so bright when asked. Wanting to feel like that. Wanting to be close to the sun again.

Robin mercifully didn’t look too deeply (or at least didn’t push on it) about the interest in Eddie himself. “Okay, I think I got it. Just…hold still.”

Twenty minutes later, after three passes with pen ink and a needle, Robin disinfects his tattoo. Before she covers up, she asks “Do you want to see it?”

Steve nods his head eagerly. The tattoo had painful, more painful than he expected, but he found it sort of grounding. Something to keep him aware of himself, almost as if he was able to grasp parts of himself he wasn’t conscious of before.

When Steve stands up to look in the mirror, there he sees off center on his chest, a wonky little sun. It was something a preschooler could have drawn, but it was one of the most beautiful things Steve had ever seen, and it was made by one of the most important people in his life.

Robin says shyly at Steve’s speechless state, “You said you wanted to be close to the sun again.”

Steve scoops Robin up in an instant, ignoring the stinging both on the outside and inside of his chest. “Thank you Birdie.” Which translates, you are the only person I ever need etched in me forever.

“Always, Stevie.” Which means, you’re never getting rid of me anyway.

They pull away with tearful smiles, and silent promises. Steve can start to feel maybe not much like his old self, but somewhere on the way to who he truly is.

Then Robin says, “Okay, me next.”

————

okay I wasn’t sure if really anyone wanted more, or if I was going to do it but I actually really enjoyed where this ended up. Also I apologize for any tense changes. I quite literally type this on my phone and say screw it, without looking it over. Let me know if you want more maybe? Send me prompts even. Thanks for reading :)

[livwritesstuff]

uh so i was feeling like writing something angsty and ever since i wrote this a little bit ago i can’t stop thinking about the idea of what the upside down coming back decades later would look like, however it’s a bummer and not the vibe i want for my steddie!dads verse so consider this an au for an au or whatever idk

It’s a normal, average, mundane, regular Wednesday when Dustin calls.

They don’t talk as much as they used to, but that’s adult life, Steve supposes. 

They both have entire lives now, spouses and children and jobs that consume pretty much every waking hour. The near-1000 miles that separates Steve and Eddie in Massachusetts from Dustin in Indiana doesn’t help things either, and seeing as how Dustin had long-since inherited the Hawkins Lab research from Owens when he retired back in the mid-2000s, that won’t be changing any time soon.

Steve is home when Dustin calls, and between counseling clients, so when the phone rings and lights up with his name, Steve picks it up with a grin.

“Hey man, what’s goin’ on!”

Nothing but silence comes through Dustin’s end for a while – such a long time that Steve checks to make sure that the call didn’t drop or his phone didn’t die or something (and neither had happened, so it’s definitely a Dustin thing).

“Dustin?” he asks, “You there?”

Silence, still.

Then –

“Steve.”

Dustin sounds…not normal, and Steve feels the grin slide off his face.

“What?”

“Steve,” he chokes, “It’s…it’s back.”

Steve feels his heart stop for a second, feels it like all the blood in his veins came to an abrupt halt for just a moment.

“The Upside Down,” Dustin continues, “It…all of…it’s back.”

He sounds like he’s underwater, or maybe Steve’s the one sinking beneath the surface, just like he’d done forty years ago when he’d taken Dustin’s place on that boat and got dragged into hell through the depths of Lover’s Lake.

Steve hangs up the phone, his hands shaking.

His knees feel shaky too, like they can’t support his weight anymore despite doing so for nearly sixty years.

They’ve been giving him problems lately – his knees. Nothing too crazy; he can still go on his runs and putter around the yard and all that. It’s just a part of aging, he supposes, and he hadn’t minded aging before – liked it, even. Liked his greying hair and the crow’s feet around his eyes and his achy knees, because there’d been a period of time many years ago when he wasn’t sure he’d make it long enough to experience that inevitability of life.

Right this second though, he hates it, hates the way it makes him realize he’s not as nimble as he used to be, the way his reaction time isn’t the same anymore, because he knows that’s what had gotten him through those horrible years back in the mid-eighties.

He lowers himself down, and as his ass hits the tile floor of the bathroom – his daughters’ bathroom, the one they’ve shared practically their whole lives, the one Moe lost her first tooth in, the one Robbie pierced her own ears in, the one Hazel will be getting ready for prom in soon – Dustin calls him again.Steve doesn’t pick up, too busy kicking himself for not considering sooner the possibility of this sooner, for not having a plan ready to execute to keep their daughters safe the way no adult had done for him.

He can feel an old instinct – the urge to gather his loved ones close – starting to kick in, his mind starting to race as he catalogs the people who make up his small corner of the world. 

Hazel is easy – she’s at the high school just down the road. He can have her back home, back within arm’s reach, in a matter of minutes.

Robin and Nancy are next closest, still living in Boston after all these years. Steve would wager a guess that they’ll be hearing from Dustin soon if they haven’t already, and then they’ll probably head Steve and Eddie’s way, and then they’ll all regroup. 

They’ll figure out what their next moves are.

Moe and Robbie are trickier with both of them living in New York City and likely unwilling to leave their school and their jobs and their friends without any warning whatsoever. Moe is getting more and more reasonable the older she gets, so Steve may have to start with her and hope that Robbie follows.

Moe is twenty-two now. 

Moe is older than both of her dads had been when Eddie had nearly died, when Steve had carried him out of hell and made sure he didn’t. All three of their daughters – even seventeen-year-old Hazel – are older than Steve had been when he got sucked into that horrible mess, and they’re still so damn young. 

With two decades of parenting under his belt, he finds it kind of unbelievable that anybody had looked at his sixteen-year-old face and seen anything but a child, nevermind actually asked him to do the things that he’d done.

Dustin calls him two more times before he gives up. Only a moment later, Steve hears Eddie’s phone ring downstairs, and then he hears Eddie’s jovial tone as he answers the call. 

He goes quiet real quick after that.

Just as Steve is deciding who to call first – Hazel’s school or Moe – his phone vibrates, two quick buzzes that can only indicate a text from Robin.

He opens it.

did dustin call you?

Steve lets out a heavy breath because, fuck, it’s real.

Yeah, he texts back, then adds –

This fucking sucks

40 years

As Steve watches the bubbles of Robin’s incoming response, he can vaguely hear Eddie’s ascent of the stairs, still on the phone with Dustin. 

The bubbles disappear.

“Fuck you, Dustin,” he hears Eddie snarl, “This is on you.” There’s silence for a while, and Eddie seems to pause in the hallway just in front of their bedroom door. Then, “Yeah, I’ll talk to him…I know…later, man. Love you. Be safe.”

Steve looks down at his phone to see that Robin is still typing, only for the bubbles to disappear again a second later.

Finally –

nance is going back

i’m going with her

Steve could throw up.

He almost does, he’s pretty sure, although he’s not positive because he might be having an out of body experience, or maybe he’s dissociating, or maybe it’s a fucking PTSD flashback or something. He doesn’t know.

He should know, or so his handful of psych degrees would suggest, and he probably would know if it was happening to someone else, but then again, he’s always worn blinders when it comes to himself.

That was true about him when all this shit started in 1983, and it’s still true now, almost forty years later.

Forty fucking years.

He doesn’t look up when Eddie comes into the bathroom, joining him on the floor with his back against the bathtub.

“Dustin took offense to you hanging up on him,” he says, and Steve can hear the way he’s forcing humor into his tone.

As if any of this shit is funny.

“Erica and the kids left with Claudia,” Eddie continues, answering a question Steve probably would’ve gotten around to asking Dustin himself if it weren’t for the whole hanging up on him thing, “Erica went kicking and screaming, obviously. I offered up our house, but they’re still deciding where they want to camp out. And everyone has agreed not to say a word to Jim and Joyce.”

Yeah, that makes sense, seeing as they’re both in their eighties and perpetually acting like they’re thirty years younger – at a minimum.

Not that Steve would know anything about that.

Definitely not.

“He said he’s one-hundred percent positive that it’s all still contained to Hawkins, so…” Eddie pauses, “We don’t have to, like, track down the girls or anything. Just make sure they don’t go anywhere near Indiana.”

And that, at least, is an actual relief.

“Robin’s going back,” Steve tells him, because there’s no point waiting to address that particular issue in this whole fucking mess.

The so I’m going too is implied, because that has never needed to be said when it came to Steve and Robin.

The way Eddie’s face changes evades Steve’s ability to describe. It makes him regret saying anything – that’s for fucking sure. Makes him wish he’d just snuck away in the dead of night.

“C’mon man, we’ve picked up a whole fuckin’ litter over the years,” Eddie says, and he’s still forcing humor into his tone, “You can’t leave me to fend off the masses alone – the years have made me weak-willed, I’ll surrender immediately.”

Steve manages a snort, but he still looks down at the floor all the same.

Eddie doesn’t say anything else for a while, but his hand wraps around Steve’s ankle as if there was enough brute strength in the one appendage to keep him rooted to the bathroom floor.

(Strangely enough, it feels like there might be).

“Steve,” Eddie finally says, his voice stiff and hard in a way Steve doesn’t think he’s ever heard before, “We are way too old for this shit – Robin and Nance too.”

Eddie pauses.

“Steve,” he says again, “I know how important Robin is. I know, but our children would be fucking devastated if anything happened to you. Don’t think they wouldn’t – and something would most certainly happen to you.”

“Eddie.” 

He’s still avoiding his husband’s eyes.

“Steve,” he pleads, something desperate in his voice, “We talked about this. Remember? Last spring, when we watched that stupid zombie show with Hazel? And there was the episode with the old gay guys? We talked about this. You told me not to let you go if this shit came back.”

Steve makes no response. Ed lets out a heavy breath, looking to the ceiling.

They have this conversation every now and then – one of those conversations that always teeters on the edge of an argument – in which Eddie insists that Steve could be fine if their relationship ended in a way that Eddie himself would not. It’s a conversation that Steve hates, because he hates the idea that Eddie – his husband of twenty years and the love of his whole entire life – could still be thinking so low of himself, that there’s any part of him that doesn’t think Steve would be fucking wrecked by losing him.

Still, it had always been a hypothetical. It had never been real.

Suddenly, Steve feels claustrophobic sitting on the floor of his daughters’ bathroom. He gets to his feet and, as he heads for the door, Eddie scrambles up after him.

Halfway down the hall, Eddie lunges for him and catches his arm, wheeling him back around to face him.

“Steve,” Eddie says one more time. 

Then, because he apparently has no words ready to follow with, he stops.

“Steve,” Eddie starts again, “Please. You’re everything. I love the girls and I love our life, but Christ, Steve, you’re my entire world. You changed everything for me. You showed me how life could be worth living, and you keep showing me, and I’m not ready to let go of you yet – not even fucking close. Please don’t let this be the way we leave each other.”

Steve finally lets himself look at Eddie’s face, the face he’d fallen in love with decades ago, the face he’s still in love with decades later. He looks at his big eyes and the hint of grey at his hairline and his crows feet and the scarring that creeps up his neck from underneath the collar of his shirt (it’s a shirt he’s had for ages – since before even Moe was born by the looks of it, but so is the rest of his half of their closet).

And he finds himself nodding.

Eddie’s exhale is all desperate relief as he tugs Steve into his arms and wraps them around his shoulders. Steve immediately reciprocates the hug, pulling him in even closer, surprised to feel tears pin-pricking his eyes

“I love you so much, Steve,” Eddie tells him, gripping the back of his t-shirt so tight he feels the collar pulling taut against his throat, “I don’t say that to you enough.”

“You say it all the time,” Steve replies with a wet laugh.

“Not enough,” he shakes his head, and Steve decides there’s no point in arguing.

A minute goes by.

“Fuck,” Steve half-laughs, half-chokes as he lifts his head to meet Eddie’s eyes, “This fucking sucks.”

“I know,” he says. 

Again, he reels Steve in, and again, Steve lets him, holding onto his husband like a lifeline, like they’re standing somewhere far more perilous than the carpeted floor of their upstairs hallway.

“I know,” Eddie repeats, “And we’ll…we’ll talk about it but for now, just – can I just hold you for a bit, okay?”

Steve nods again.

“Okay.”

read the extended version on AO3 (i.e. feat. added “flashbacks” so it fits the formatting of the rest of the series)

[itneverendshere]

should've said it - rafe cameron (part two)

requested: "a Rafe x reader smut where she cheats on her bf with Rafe and at an event where she's with her boyfriend she notices Rafe staring at her and all the flashbacks leave her horny and needy for his touch and his touch only. Maybe some angst with her boyfriend catching them in the act."

part i. warnings: cheating; smut; ex friends with benefits; friends with benefits to lovers; angst!!; heartbreak; happy ending <3

After that night, every day felt like someone took a fire to the inside of your stomach.

It was hot, burning even. You were uncomfortable whenever it came because it was a feeling you couldn’t suppress. You’d felt it ever since that night, and it only ever grew as the days progressed.

You’d think a smart person like yourself would stop. Realize that what you did, what you were doing to Blake was wrong, but alas…It was hard to make any coherent thoughts or decisions when you were full of Rafe Cameron.

As in every day, every time you two crossed paths, even when you woke up, all you could do was think about him. And that stupid mouth. So, it wasn't exactly a surprise to you when it happened again, and again, and again. 

Really, at that point, you should've known better. You should’ve left this forsaken town the moment you fell into his right back into his trap. You didn’t intend to spend another night with Rafe’s cock inside you, pistoling his hips back and forth vigorously. You swore to God you didn't.

You couldn’t remember how you ended up with him. His hand was wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough so you would keep quiet, for your own sake. You were sure he wasn’t the least bit concerned about getting caught. Your lips broke away from his, but you were still an inch apart.

“We, we can’t—" You tried to say, but words turned to mumbles as he closed the gap, hips grinding into yours. His free hand tightened around your waist as your hands found home in his hair. You wanted to tense up, push him off you, to give a speech about how good your life had been since he broke your heart, but you also wanted this.

You wanted more. 

The first-floor bathroom you stumbled in, in the country club, was dangerously close to where everyone, all your friends and boyfriend, were hanging out. You could faintly hear the music blaring from the other room, the chatting, but you knew you would’ve been heard over all of that if he wanted to.

The squelching noises were probably loud enough to be heard just outside the door. This time, the sex was messy, quick, sloppy but so good you could feel your toes curling. Rafe’s mouth was attached to your neck, biting down to try to muffle his own noises.

You almost came on the spot every time he’d accidentally let out a moan. You were too far into your own pleasure to care about anything else at the moment, more specifically the set of knocks at the door.

It wasn’t until Blake’s voice sounded through your ears you snapped your head up, eyes wide.

“Baby, everything good in there? You’ve been gone for ages.”

Fuck.

Rafe lifted his head from your shoulder, merely looking at you. You could read him like an open book, so you mouthed a quick “Don’t.”

Which he ignored. You could see it in his eyes, they had this mischievous tint to them, one you hadn’t seen in years. You would’ve cursed him right out if it wasn’t for the fact your boyfriend was just inches away while your ex-something was inside you.

“Baby?”

Every nickname that came from Blake’s mouth felt like a stab to Rafe’s heart. If he didn’t care about you as much as he did, if he wasn’t in love with you, he’d go back to his old ways and make sure your boyfriend heard you cum around his cock. But he played good for you…as good as Rafe Cameron could play.

He loosened his grip on your throat and nodded his head at your unsure, terrified expression.

“Y-yeah. Everything’s fine!”

“You’re sure? Want me to get you some water?”

He brought his thumb down to your clit and you gasped before you could even process his actions. His smirk was telling enough that he was enjoying this a lot more than he should. You bit into your bruised bottom lip so hard you felt like you drew blood, “I’m fine! I’ll be out in a second.”

“Okay. By the way, did you see Cameron? That Topper dude is looking for him.”

Oh, you’d seen him all right. 

“Better answer, pretty,” Rafe whispered in your ear, amusement lacing his tone. As if he wasn't dragging his cock inside you just the way you liked. Your eyes were so far at the back of your head, you shouldn't be that aroused. Your hands clamped down on his firm biceps, pussy squeezing his cock like a vice.

“H-Haven’t seen him.” You answered with whatever self-control you had left. 

“Alright, well, I’m gonna go back inside. Hurry up, you’re missing all the fun.”

You were not missing all the fun.

Rafe let out a huff of amusement at that because he knew.

One look into your fucked up expression and he knew the damn fun in question was right there, between your two bodies. That should’ve been the last time. You should’ve seen it as a warning, but you didn’t. Because whatever you and Rafe had was too good to let go. You barely spoke to each other, only lingering looks and then you found yourself on top of him, under him, on top of a counter, wherever, whenever. 

You were doing more damage to you and him than you’d like to admit, but at least you had something.

Attempting to convince yourself it was a meaningless fling was stupid. Attempting to convince yourself that you didn’t love him anymore was even more stupid. You made sure he never got the chance to open his mouth again and confess his undying love for you, otherwise you’d walk out the door.

Your mother, save her terrible kook tendencies, always told you: love was comfort and protection, nurture, and acceptance, calm and passionate, stoic, and spontaneous, generous and forgiving.

Somehow, even with no words, only actions, that’s exactly how you felt when you were with him, dreading the moment you had to make your way back to Blake’s arms. Truth to be told, you hadn’t touched your boyfriend in months. It was a miracle he was still around.

Sometimes you wondered if he got his fair share somewhere else, which you didn’t care if he did, but he seemed too nice to do that to someone.

You’d only found love with Rafe, and even then, you weren't sure if you could call it by its name since the outcome was disastrous. In your terrible efforts to cage your heart from his touch, you’d come to describe Rafe as a monster over the years, but now…now that you’re gambling with so many hearts, you’re not sure if you are any different.

You don’t feel an ounce of regret in your heart. That flash of love, anger, lust, with him…how could you ever regret something you’d been longing for? How could someone regret something that felt right? 

No matter how fleeting the moments with him were, you’d never felt so close to your element, in years. Rafe always brought your true colors, the part of you that was hidden from others. The thought of him, all of him, just the whisper of your imagination was enough to leave you in shambles. You had no thoughts, no focus, only desire and the pain of waiting since that night. You’d get your refill, and then you were back to aching. 

But the big question remained: Were you two fucking in love or fucking each other up?

Honestly, you should be mad. Furious. How could you let him stroll back into your life with absolutely no consequences? No fight? So easily? 

After the last time you were together, your phone rang for days.

Missed calls, voicemails left unanswered, texts left unread. You weren’t sure how he got a hold of your new number. You weren’t keen on finding out either. You couldn’t face him. If you pretended he didn't exist, maybe it would ease the pain.

You’d never be embarrassed about being with someone you love, but being caught cheating on the man you were dating, a rich, influential man, wouldn’t look too good to the public eye. 

Sarah’s wolf whistle shattered your daydreaming, heart jumping right into your throat, heart beating even more rapidly than when you two had been running to the party venue. 

Another stupid kook event. Couldn't say you missed them. 

“Are you even listening?”

“No? I can’t believe you dragged me out. You know I hate the country club.” You grumbled as Sarah Cameron dragged you through the doors. 

The flimsy light blue sundress suddenly felt tight around your torso and limbs. Although she guaranteed you that Rafe wasn’t attending, you couldn’t help but scan the room for his face. The last time you were here…A faint blush dotted your face as you walked past the so-called powder room and recounter a much more intimate meeting with the older Cameron sibling just days ago.

No. Stop thinking about him. 

“The country club hates us back, so what? It’s summer, you’re finally back and we’re going to get shit-faced now that I’m legal.”

“Because you’ve never had a drink before,” you sighed, sarcasm lacing your tongue as you loosened your hold of her arm. Your body automatically rested against the bar’s counter, “You forced me to come, you’re paying.”

Sarah gave you a look at that, “You’re older.”

“And?”

“Fine,” She rolled her eyes as she turned her attention to the bartender, “Two pornstar martinis, please.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell her you to needed something stronger. It wasn't like you could tell her you were accidentally fucking her older brother, more times than you could keep track of...in a stranger’s bedroom, in a bathroom, in the out open sea, while your current boyfriend at the time was somewhere close waiting for you.

You really needed something to stop you from thinking, but the martinis would be sufficient for a while.

She sat beside you, leaning into your left shoulder close enough to smell her sickly-sweet perfume. Some things never changed. “So…” Sarah paused, taking a sip from her drink, honey-brown eyes seizing you up.

“So?”

“Can’t believe Rafe had to do the walk of shame because of you.”

A little embarrassment you could take. Not that though. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, something thick and rough curling around your stomach.

“What?” You tried to keep your voice light, steady even. You played nonchalantly with your fingers, trying not to pick your nails. A nervous habit you had yet to grow out. 

“He told me.”

You struggled to keep your face neutral, feeling the sinking realization that this, whatever this was, was no longer your dirty little secret. The Rafe you remembered despised his little sister and would’ve never confessed something so personal to her. 

“Told you what, exactly?”

You could barely focus on the conversation, your mind racing as Sarah moved in her seat to explain.

“I know what happened between you two when you were in college” She was frowning even as you tried to give her a trembling, sad smile, “And trust me when I say you had every right to walk away. He was a train wreck back then, as awful as they come.”

“Sarah..”

“He’s different now. Better, he even stood up to dad you know?” Sarah chuckled, knowing there was no other reason for you to be drinking that fast unless you were upset or mad, “So imagine my surprise when he barged through my bedroom last night, completely shitfaced and crying his heart out.”

Each word felt like a knife sinking into your chest. The realization that you’d hurt him suddenly, thick and sour. He cried? God, what were you thinking. You opened your mouth, but no words came out, you know you have fucked up majorly.

“He didn’t go into details, obviously,” She assured you, taking in your frenzied expression, “But I think you should talk to him.”

You felt bile rise in your throat, “I don’t think I can.”

“I love you, you know that. And I know that he hurt you, but hurting him back isn’t going to do any good to your sanity, or Blake’s.”

You grimaced, closing your eyes at the way her voice seemed to boom in your ears, “I can’t.”

You stood up then, the floor shaking beneath you. Your hand was tight around hers, your knuckles white but with every silent second that passed your fingers loosened, falling limp.  

“I don’t want you and Rafe to hurt each other.” Her voice was sharp, and in your overthinking moment, it almost sounded critical.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Do you love my brother?” She asked, attitude easing up. “If you don’t, it’s not worth it. It’s not worth ruining a relationship for someone you don’t love, trust me.”

Your shoulders sagged. You felt so tired, defeated. You softly smiled at your friend, and she smiled back, but you could see the concern in her eyes “'Course I do.”

You’d been good at pretending with Blake. Pretending you were happy when you were clearly not, pretending you were calm when you were downright furious. You pretended because, sincerely? It didn’t matter. As harsh and cruel it may sound to someone else, Blake didn’t matter, not like that and you could no longer lie convincingly to yourself.

“Have you told him?" 

“Don't need to,” you said, defensiveness creeping into your voice.

"I think he would like to know."

“We’re not really on speaking terms.”

Sarah clasped a hand on your shoulder, she knew better than to argue. She was sure you were going to figure things out for yourself, but she couldn’t help but push you in that direction, “He’s home.”

A spark of hope and fear appeared within you, waiting to ignite into a flame. You expelled a shaky breath. “Sarah,” You said, frustration rising in your belly, breaking your barely composed face, “I don’t know.”

She only hummed in response, compassion clear in her warm brown eyes as she studied you, “Just think about it.”

And think about it you did.

For another entire week. You’d always known what you really wanted, at this point you were just making up excuses to avoid the inevitable.

In the meantime, breaking up with Blake was easy and the smartest idea you’ve had in years. Straight to the point, understanding even. It wasn't like he was head over heels for you either, but you could tell he was still hurt, so you chose to omit the entire truth. You were in love with someone else, that wasmore than enough to end a relationship and should've been more than enough to not start one. 

You were a terrible person. But you were much more worried about Rafe than about your ex. You played him along the entire summer, for sex and he obeyed. Didn’t even question you or the situation once. As if he’d take whatever you gave him. But you’re going to fix it.

It was dizzying, it was terrifying, and entirely disarming. Your frantic eyes sweep back and forth between the keys in your hand, the ones that granted you access to TanneyHill’s front door and the road behind you.

In disbelief or denial, perhaps. 

How many times had you walked in here for a family dinner, betting on who would start a fight that night? How many times had you walked into this house together, bumping his shoulder playfully as you chuckled at a joke he told? How many times had you both drunkenly shushed each other, trying not to laugh too loudly after a party?

Everything in this house reminded you of him. Of you two, together.

The fight was lost the moment you walked in. Your footsteps echoed on the marble floors as you made your way to his bedroom, trying to ignore the thoughts that hounded you. You reached the hallway, intending to have a very long inner dialogue before knocking on his door. But then, you hear your name uttered so softly, from his lips. 

Slowly you turned, afraid that if you did so too fast the vision was going to disappear from your eyes all at once. You saw him standing at the threshold of the room as he had done so many times before.

A shy smile pulled at his mouth as his shocking blue eyes locked with your own. Running a hand through your disheveled hair briefly, you breathed slowly. I’m going crazy. You thought to yourself. I’ve officially lost my mind.

Rafe stepped into the room with you, closing the distance, “You’re here.” he breathed out in disbelief. 

His bedroom used to be familiar and comforting, but now it reminded you of the years you’d spent apart. You remembered how you’d sit by his window when you were fourteen and in your hunger games phase, reading the books whenever you had a free moment. 

You were his girl, and he wanted to hold you, but he fought the urge to relax into you. He didn’t realize it was going to feel like this, like his heart was screaming and wailing until it could no longer, only to start back up again as soon as it could.

You tried not to look at him, staring down at your hand instead. Your chest was heaving, and your expression had morphed from frustrated anger to one of disbelief, as you stared down at your palm.

You tried to ignore the anxious thoughts as if they are some kind of distant radio. “Sorry, I’m—I’m sorry,” You were muttering, voice timid. “I shouldn't h-have— sorry. I-I shouldn’t have—"

Rafe wrapped his arms around you in a moment and you let your head rest upon his chest. All your thoughts stopped, as if your heart took over your head when you were this close to him. Next, he squeezed you like he needed to check you were real, that you were really there with him, and you were, body and soul.

He held you so close that your own chest rose and fell with each breath he took. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, pretty,” he muttered into your hair, “I was the one who fucked up everything. I'm sorry. I hate that I didn’t fight for you. I hate that I wasn’t enough, I hate that you had to see me at my lowest point. I hate that he was with you all nights. I hated that we didn’t speak and that you didn’t look at me and that you were looking at him and—”

He was rambling now, all nonsense and tight breaths. It was heartbreaking how messed up this whole situation felt. He shook his head almost mournfully, like no matter what he’d say to you, you’d never forgive him, almost as if he was preparing himself to say goodbye to you and the possibility of the two of you.

You smoothed your hand down his back, following the curve and dip of his spine, rubbing soothing circles into the base. He seemed to melt into you at the touch, though he was careful not to rest his weight on you. You don't think you’d mind it, really. You tugged him closer, still.

“I broke up with Blake.”

Rafe couldn't help his soft gasp. Because everything he’d ever wanted was now closer than ever. But despite the growing giddiness, he needed to know what it meant, what it means for you, for him.

“What? When?”

“A week ago, after the last time we—” you paused and sighed, involuntarily stroking his back with your thumb, “I realized that this is what I want.”

“I—" he coughed, clearing the heaviness out of his lungs, “I love you. I loved you then, I love you now, and I know I didn’t deserve you, I don’t think I deserve you still, no one does. And I’ll understand if you walk away.”

His voice was so soft, and without looking at him you knew that there were tears forming in his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

“I was— um…I was an addict, pretty, you know that. I was drowning and I couldn’t let you join me,” He trailed off, timid and low as if he was afraid of scaring you off again, “I understand now, that I should’ve let you make your own decision, but I knew you were hurting, I felt it. I hated that you had to see the things I did to myself, the way I treated people.”

“You were hurting,” you grumbled, eyebrows furrowed as you placed your hands on his strong chest, pushing yourself away from him, as if his words inflicted pain in your heart. You watched a frown take over his pretty face at the loss of contact, missing your touch already, “I’m not making excuses for your behavior, you should’ve done better. But you’ve always been good to me, despite everything.”

“Not good enough baby,” He took a step forward, bringing your body flush to his once again, his hand dropping to his side as his pinky brushed delicately just across your hip bone, “I’m sorry.”

“When I got home that night, I cried my eyes out. I sat on that couch for hours, staring at the door, half-expecting you to burst through the door at any moment with an apology and kisses.”

Rafe’s eyes welled up as you spoke, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from crying. He almost did exactly that. You were, you'd always be, the most important person in the world to him and he’d hurt you so much. Your own tears threaten to spill. You felt his heartbeat pound again as your hands rested on his chest, “But I understand now, it’s okay.” 

You whispered, pushing your body onto your tip toes to bring yourself closer to his face. His arms found home around your waist, resting his rough hands on your lower back, now with the physical ability to hold his world in his arms, you. 

“I don’t deserve you,” Rafe admitted as if you were in your own little word. He was staring down at you, reaching down so his fingers ghosted over your cheek, brushing a piece of hair back behind your ear. You felt the flush in your cheeks instantly as if he'd never seen you naked before. “But if you let me, I’d like to spend this lifetime and the next, proving I’m good for you.”

“I’d like that Rafe,” your heart rate was so loud it would be embarrassing at any other given moment, you felt like you were going to run out of excuses and just let him take you, "A lot."

His lips twisted, trying to stop them from trembling. He’d been trying so hard, for years, to be better, to keep himself gathered, to find himself again. At the sound of his name falling from your mouth, sounding so much like love, he was able to pull himself together.

“Yeah?”

His head was swirling with a newfound desire and relief to hear you admit your feelings for him so willingly, that what he felt for you was requited in the same amount.

“Yeah.”

His hand drifted up until it cupped the side of your face, overwhelming you as he cradled you so gently. His thumb traced your jaw as his eyes bore straight into your being.

“Lemme hear you say it.”

You sighed, “I want to be happy, I want to be loved. And you’re the only person I’ve ever seen that happiness with. I love you.” Both of you close your eyes, your lips barely brushing over each other. “It’s always going to be you, Rafe.”

In a strained voice, he asked, “Really?”

You looked into his ridiculously blue eyes and nodded before he loss any sense of reality. Your heart clenched in sync with your thighs and suddenly there was nothing left to say, no other excuse to be had. 

He couldn't stop himself as his hand firmly took a hold of your neck and pulled you forward. His lips found yours and for a second you barely registered the pressure. It was delicate as if you were both sixteen again, trying to savor the first touch. 

His lips moved effortlessly against yours and you felt yourself melting in his arms, legs close to buckling beneath you if it wasn’t for his strong hold. A whimper escaped from your mouth and at the sound, Rafe pressed his lips harder against your own. You couldn't stop yourself from letting your head lull back as you felt his thumb press against your pulse. 

With a flick of his tongue, your hands digged into his back, and it pulled a groan from the back of his throat. Your hips bucked forward into his, desperate to feel anything, everything. 

At the feeling of your movement, his teeth took a firm hold around your lower lip and pulled back, releasing it with a pop. His eyes traced the way some of his saliva pooled along your lower lip and he wished for nothing more than to have this view for the rest of his life.

“I love you, pretty,” he whispered lowly, finger twisting around the string of your mini skirt, as his eyes scanned your face with the utmost softness you’d ever seen, “But I need to fuck you."

As his lips found your collarbone, his hands took hold of your thighs, and before you could process his words and you were up, legs around his hips. A small noise escaped your mouth at the sudden feeling, your feet coming off the ground, his core meeting yours. 

“Is that a threat, Cameron?”

Teasingly, his hands trailed down the outside of your thighs before firmly wrapping around your ass. He glanced up at you and smirked as you arched into him, his breath fanning across your breasts through the thin material of your top.

“It’s a promise."

[cas-kingdom]

I think

“I didn’t know they were weed brownies!” And “I swear, it’s the truth!”

Would be really funny with Chicago Fire if you’d be so kind 🥰🥰🥰

Matt Casey liked to think that every return he made back to Chicago was a breath of fresh air. Not that looking after the boys was difficult and he didn't enjoy it, but a reminder of his old life was often exactly what he needed in his new one. Of course, seeing you was the primary reason he came home, but his 51 family was more than a bonus.

Matt had decided to make for the station before the hotel. There were only a couple hours left of shift and he was ready for the placid atmosphere typical after twenty-two hours already on the job.

“I didn’t know they were weed brownies!"

The bounce in his step waned slightly as he let the door shut behind him. He could tell his sister's voice from a mile away, but the tone of it was one he wasn't used to.

"I swear, it’s the truth. These little kids were selling them, I thought they were sweet kids—they seriously looked like sweet kids."

“I, yeah—" There was a snort of laughter. Sylvie. "We believe you, Y/N.”

"Don’t doubt it, girl!" Stella sounded as enthusiastic as possible, but that same hint of amusement was evident in her voice.

Matt couldn't help his concern, quickening his pace and rounding the engine truck. The ambulance back doors were open, and you were sat at the edge, terror written all over your face. Stella was sat on her haunches in front of you, hands on your knees. Sylvie was on one side, a blood pressure monitor in her hands, and Violet was rummaging through a bag on the other.

Your wide eyes—wide, groggy eyes—met his the moment he made himself visible.

“Matty!” You made to jump up, but the girls stopped you before you could, blurting all kinds about slowing down and blood and heart.

Matt could tell you were on the verge of tears, could see the quivering of your lips and the watering of your already watering eyes. Quickly, he dropped his bag on the floor and rushed across to envelop you in a hug, cupping the back of your head to his chest. "Hey, there," he said. He met Stella's eyes, the captain having stood up, and mouthed a "what happened?" over your head.

Stella mouthed a simple "brownies" back, as though that answered the question perfectly. Luckily, you helped out.

“Matt, I took drugs," you spoke quietly. Matt's frown deepened.

The girls jumped to attention. "Not on purpose!" Sylvie said.

"Not on purpose," Stella confirmed. "Some douche was giving his kids weed brownies to sell outside his garage. Either that or someone got their recipes seriously mixed up. Boden’s sent CPD down there.”

You twirled a lock of your brother's hair around a finger, still clinging to him. “CPD’s gonna beat someone's ass," you said pointedly, "I paid eight dollars for those brownies.”

Violet crossed her arms over her chest. “Hey, Y/N, how many did you eat again?”

“Four.” Your voice was muffled, yiur face buried in Matt's chest, but everyone heard it.

Sylvie. "Rough."

"They were so good," you said.

There was a general silence, something concern probably should have filled, but after a moment the amusement of the situation set in, and smiles broke out.

"Can I assume she's gonna be fine?" Matt asked. He gently pulled away from you and guided you to sit back down on the truck.

Sylvie nodded, crossing her arms. "She's got an elevated heart rate and she'll be loopy for a bit longer but yeah, she'll be okay."

"What if the kids come after me?" You let your head drop against Matt's shoulder.

"What's that, sweetheart?" Matt asked.

"What if the brownie kids come back because I sent the cops on them?"

Sylvie put a fist to her mouth

"That's not gonna happen," Matt assured you, "don't worry."

Stella clapped her hands together after Kylie's voice asking for her echoed throughout the station. "Okay, crazy, I'm gonna take you off duty for the rest of shift, okay?"

You face fell. "Oh, but—can I still stay at the firehouse?"

"Probably best," Stella agreed.

Matt stood up. "Hey, Lieutenant, you need someone to fill in?"

Stella grinned, pointing a finger towards him as she backed out of the room. "Luckily for you, ex-Lieutenant, a spot just opened up. Go get a drink, Y/N, and stay where we can keep an eye on you. Hey, hey, Hermann, can you escort her into the common room? Don't leave her."

Hermann, who'd been passing by with an apple in hand, didn't have much of a choice as Matt passed his sister onto him with a kiss to your hot forehead before running off to change. Hermann took your arm in his when you went to fall.

"The hell's up with you? You sick?"

"I took drugs."

"What?"

Chicago Fire Masterpost

[eydi-andrius]

His Point of View (Gojo Satoru x Reader)

A Sequel to Side Characters End Up Alone

a/n: I'm really sorry that it took a while but I feel much better now to write for angst. I hope this is worth the wait. Thank you lovelies! Again, I appreciate likes but comments and reblogs makes me feel well-loved.

cw/tw: pure angst, unrequited love, pov of the person who was confessed to, from love to despise, probably unexpected pov but I gotta write it, may upset some audience but I have been thinking of this as canon in this story

divider: @/cafekitsune

summary: Gojo knew how precious you are in his life. You are his greatest confidant, his other half and someone to whom he can never live without. However, no one ever told him how to handle a situation wherein his childhood best friend is truly madly deeply in love with him but he only sees her as his friend

The once cute white squared beads of letters that used to spell his name and yours, sewn together as proof of your long lasting friendship, was now across the floor of the dim parking lot.

He could barely see some of it. The place was illuminated by the yellow, almost dying light of the old light post. It buzzes and flickers as it does its best to give light. The dim colour makes his head hurt more. It was already throbbing when you went to pick him up, but after running after you, the feeling intensified, like splitting his head in half.

However, the blur in his eyes from the pain did not mask how worn out those beads were. He can see the first letter of your name, rolled near his shoe. He bent down to pick it up and raised it, to see clearly on the only source of light. It looks old, yes, but it is well-kept, polished even. As if someone had smoothened it for years…..because she cares and truly treasures this childish gift he gave to her once upon a time.

Gojo closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Long ago, when you confessed to him, he didn't know what to do. There were only two of you behind the school, you were fidgeting, scared and a pale mess, as you shared your heart out to him. Confessing the supposed to be beautiful truth, but at that moment, can either create something new or break something perfect, that you both had established together for a long time.

Surprised, unprepared and confused, all he did was stare at you, mouth agape. His world stopped, not expecting that you feel that way towards him. How…No one ever told him what to do at this moment. He felt trapped and his mind was swirling, trying to think of the best words to reply, the best course of action to do when your childhood best friend confesses to you. He was overloading and for a long time was just wide-eyed staring at you.

Probably, when you realised he wasn't going to reply, you felt embarrassed and humiliated so you chose to run away from him. During that time, Gojo found that his voice was working as he called out to your small frame, slowly vanishing from view.

You two did not talk about it until after three days. After he had a conversation with Geto. He helped him realise his feelings, for he thinks Geto was really wise for his age. And he is wise and provided good advice. He made Gojo feel confident enough to share his true feelings to you and that was him loving you as his precious friend, nothing more, nothing less.

Gojo wished that at that time he realises that Geto was just the same age as him, and no amount of good advice will come from a person whose life experience were in equal to him. If he knew right there and then, he would have let the friendship go and freed you of the burden of loving him. In that way, you would have been happy. In that way, you probably would have found someone to whom you deserve. Someone who will love you, more than you loved him.

But he was young, foolish and scared about the what ifs. What if you were the best he could ever have in this lifetime. If he lets you go, what if he will never have you anymore? He was scared to be alone. A selfish brat.

And so like a fool, when you pleadingly asked to keep the friendship, he agreed and continued acting the same.

It worked out for a while, until he started having feelings for other girls. Your eyes. God! Your eyes cannot lie at all, it screams your feelings like an open book being read out loud. Doe-eyes stares at him, openly hurting and in pain. It made him go crazy, insane even, affecting his relationships and becoming a toxic partner to some.

Of course, those weren't your fault. It was his. That was his relationship, not yours. However, there was a slitter in his gut, he used to ignore it, until its ugly head showed its face and he openly hated you for destroying his connections.

He was resentful and he admits, he does things to see you suffer. You did that to him!

Of course he knew he was wrong and stupid but he cannot stop the feeling of pure hatred every time beautiful things were ruined in his life because you existed.

You were his blessing but he made you his curse.

Opening his eyes, he stared at the dark sky. The moon was nowhere to be seen but a lone star twinkles beautifully, claiming the sky for itself. His blue orbs twinkled as he stared at it.

He cannot help but smile. It was a true smile. A smile of someone who was relieved. Of someone with a thorn in his chest for years, finally plucked out, relieved of the pain. Finally, your curse was over. The curse he implanted by his side was over.

If someone hears his thoughts tonight, they will probably hate him. But he doesn't care about them.

He was just so happy that now ... .now it was finally over.

He loves you, he cares about you but he cannot deal with your hurt anymore. None of your hurt was his fault. He was torturing himself for years and now, it was truly done.

Feeling the hot tear running down his face, he laughed. It was full of mirth. He is thankful, grateful even.

He wishes you the best as he clutches the only bead he picked up, close to his chest.

He treasures you but he also treasures the distance you now gave him. He cannot wait to finally start his life over.

[mira-s-bookclub]

Beneath a Veil of Shadows Part 3

Azriel x Reader

Note: Its very short, so i will try to post something the next couple of days :3

Warnings: Mention of trauma, kidnapping and perhaps torture?

Word Count: 1k

. . . . . ╰──╮ ╭──╯ . . . . .

The night had passed when Rhysand summoned the Inner Circle. The wind outside was relentless on The House of Wind, so much so that the house seemed to braze itself for every new gust of wind. Cassian walked hand in hand with his mate, both clad in whatever they first found in their closet. It had been purely luck having them sleep over at the House when Rhys summoned.

The evening before consisted of numerous drinks for the others, and sober dancing for Cassian and Nesta. He understood her need for distance against substances, not only so she wouldn’t relapse into old habits when things got bad again, but because she gagged every time, she smelled a certain drink. He couldn’t do anything other than laugh at her then. Drinking his own water, hoping they would end up in bed at the end of the night without her heaving at his breath.

But right now, the atmosphere was tense between them. Rhys wouldn’t assemble them all by dameati if it wasn’t urgent, and Cassian’s biggest fear was that it was concerning the only missing members of the Inner Circle; Y/n and Azriel.

The meeting room was at the end of the hallway up the stairs from their room. By the time Cassian and Nesta came up the stairs, Cassian could faintly hear Amren coming through the front door, presumably with Mor should the feminine whisper shouting give any indicator. A quick Hush from Amren seemed to shut her up and Cassian let out a soft laugh. Soft enough that only Nesta whipped her head towards him, frowning like she couldn’t believe he dared.

“It is probably not as bad as it seems, Nes. It never is.” He whispered in her ear, making her shiver. Her eyes seemed distant. “You don’t know that.

Coming to a stop by the door, they waited for the rest of the party. Everyone but Feyre and Rhys, and Y/n and Azriel, but that was to be expected, stood outside the door. Seemingly waiting for someone to dare open it, as if everything would change, for better or for worse. Cassian lifted a hand towards the door. “Whatever happened with those two, they will come home,” Amren swore softly. Cassian wished he could agree and opened the door.

At the head of the oval table sat Feyre. Apparently in silent communication with Rhys, considering the soft glances and Rhys stopping his pacing by the fireplace in the corner to kiss her cheek. “Sit,” he ordered. One by one they filed into their assigned seats, they had sat here a million times before, discussing wars and missions, politics, and information, never without knowing what they went too. As they did now.

Feyre sat on Cassian’s right, looking down at her hands in contemplation, he tried to catch her eyes, with no luck. She seemed so sad and… worried perhaps. At the thought, he glanced to Rhys having almost paced a hole in the floor, he, too, looked worried. Neither observation helped his anxiety.

Azriel was his stone when things went south, and now Cassian knew things would go further than south, and Azriel wasn’t here. He wouldn’t overreact to anything, having gone through almost anything one can imagen going through; Azriel was a fighter, not only a warrior, but a fighter through and through. He had fought his whole life, making him a safe option for Cassian to rely on. The chair opposite Cassian seemed so empty, he wouldn’t even begin to think about the chair to the left for Azriel’s. He had felt the emptiness the second she had left for the mission. They might not have known each other for long, considering she was a babe by the time Cassian had fucked his way through half the camps in Illyria, gotten bored and settled in Velaris, and gotten his High Lord locked up under a mountain. She had still taken hold in his heart, forever his little trainee.

Nesta brushed her hand against Cassian’s thigh, catching his attention. He turned his head to Feyre and Rhys, who stood by her side, not yet taking a place by the table. He was restless, Cassian noticed.

“They’re captured.”

Total silence followed the words. No one dared say anything at all, hoping they heard Rhys wrong. Cassian’s heart stopped.

“And how  did  this  happen?” Amren’s words were slow.

Rhys looked to Feyre, who watched their reaction. They had known this, it seemed, for a time. Cassian didn’t feel anything. He knew Nesta had turned her gaze to him, knew she was expecting something from him, as they all did. But he couldn’t think. Couldn’t think beside the roaring in his head. Azriel wasn’t new to this, Cassian knew, fuck he had even been captured a time or two, together with Rhys and some other warriors. It either ended in the enemy dying, or the enemy dying together with someone they knew, those times were the hardest to swallow. But Y/n had never been captured. She wasn’t made to fight like they were, but what she lacked was made up by her fierceness and unwillingness to give up. She had gotten better over the years. But something about Feyre’s tone made Cassian’s body lock up, it would be worse than a simple capture. And Y/n would never break.

Feyre took a breath, readying herself. “We got a note of their capture early this morning. Rhys and I have been negotiating with their Commander for the release of two of their prisoners in exchange for an artifact,” Cassian’s throat constricted. Commander. They had an army, a structured enemy, not just a lone fucker or fuckers thinking they’re good enough to take down a court. “Who, Feyre?” Cassian looked her in the eyes, this meant war again. At her hesitance Cassian growled, not at her, but the situation, the male thinking he was powerful enough to take this chance. “Rhysand,” Mors hard voice caught his attention, meeting her furious stare.

“The letter was signed ‘Commander of Koschei’s army’.”

. . . . . ╰──╮ ╭──╯ . . . . .

To be added to the Taglists, comment:

All ACOTAR - 🌹

All Azriel - 🥀

All TOG - 🌼

[formosusiniquis]

Price of Fame

Written for @steddieangstyaugust Day 31: I'm not going to beg you to love me

T | WC: 1044 | No Archive Warnings Apply; Break up, No Makeup; Hurt No Comfort

AO3

It had been grueling, that's what Eddie thinks he's supposed to say. Blood, sweat, and tears. They got big by being lucky, the humble answer. They had been in the right place at the right time after working their asses off and now they're bigger than the biggest. Corroded Coffin is a household name used in the same sentences as Metallica and Sabbath.

And the honest answers to those interview questions about success, he always knew they fucking would be. It was a foregone conclusion in his mind, everyone else just had to catch up. They worked for it, blood and sweat that part probably is true. But what is it they always say? If you love what you do you never work a day in your life, Eddie thinks there's some truth to that too.

It's hard being on the road. But they got big and they stay big by touring, so Jeff wracks up a nasty bill at every hotel they manage to get calling the wife back home, Gareth keeps a girlfriend in every state, and he doesn't know what Freak's deal is. But the perk of being queer as a three dollar bill, Eddie can spend his nine months a year on the road and come back to Steve like nothing's changed. It's different with guys, with them. Cause Steve gets it, he's always been their biggest supporter. He knows the music comes first, the guys are Eddie's family, and he doesn't complain or ask for anything more than the time Eddie is able to give him.

It'll be a longer stretch at home this time, nearly a month, and Eddie is pushing open the door to the apartment he keeps for Steve already thinking about all the ways they can spend the time.

All to trip over a bag in the floor. Dropping his behind him with a thump, the old army surplus duffle that's been as faithful to him as his boyfriend hitting the ground with a smack that brings the man of the hour out from the bedroom. He's got another bag over his shoulder, something expensive looking and stylish that Eddie wonders if he bought.

“Did I forget to tell you I was coming home?”

“Well it wouldn't be the first time,” Steve's voice is sharp and clipped. Face pinched in a way that conjures memories of his mother, the one time Eddie met her.

“If you've got a trip with Robin planned change it, I'll only-”

“Be in town for a few days?” Steve asks. “So I should keep putting my life on hold for the few minutes that you can pencil me in? Change my plans because you've blown into town and just like always Eddie Munson's plans are more important than anyone else's.”

“I thought you'd be happy to see me?”

The question brings a quiet like the eye of the storm, he can already feel the whipping wind starting to push back in around him, smell the ozone in the air; but those words halt everything for a second.

Then Steve breaks.

“I am happy, Eddie,” there's a wet shine in his eye and he knows better than to think Steve is going to give him the satisfaction of letting a single one fall. “That's the worst part. I'm happy every time you walk through the door but I can't fucking survive only being happy one week out of every nine.”

A DM at heart, he can't stand a problem that no one will bring a solution to. Spits the way he would when Gareth would bitch about combat balance, “Then fu-”

“Call a hotel you haven't left the number to?” Steve is vicious, stealing the satisfaction of the curse from between his still pursed lips. “I spent my whole fucking childhood doing that, and I'm not doing it anymore. I-”

He looks down at his feet, at Eddie's, the sprawl of the pristine leather suitcase he moved in with years ago, his grandfather's Eddie remembers. Rather, he remembers the fond way Steve had talked about it.

“I'm done,” he says more to the kicked over luggage than he does to the man he is leaving. “I'm gonna stay at Robin's, she's waiting.”

Desperation claws at the back of Eddie's throat, but what makes it out is his father. “You can't leave.”

Fury lurks at the bottom of the water in Steve's red rimmed eyes. An anger Eddie can feel as they snap to his. “Why not? There's no prenup, no lawyers to get involved. I can walk right out the door you're standing in the way of and you can keep on being Eddie Munson, mysterious bachelor of Corroded Coffin.”

“There is no me without you,” he tries, but even saying it he can hear how it rings hollow off the barren hallway walls.

Steve likes to yell, likes to get loud, has told Eddie it's the only way he could make sure that there was life in the big empty house he grew up in was to make sure he could hear his bouncing off the walls. So he's ready to be yelled at. Ready for whatever Steve wants to scream in his face before they move back into the kitchen or to the bedroom where they'll find normal again.

So he almost doesn't hear the whispered way his relationship slips away. “I'm not going to beg you to love me. I can't do that again.”

“Steve, no, Stevie I do. I do love you. Of course I love you, all of this is for you. All of everything is for you, we can work this out. Just stay.” He begs, babbles, pleads as Steve moves with a silent assuredness close enough to pick up his bag.

“Goodbye, Eddie, I really am so proud of you.” Sincerity rings through in every word, just like he can feel that bittersweet love in Steve's last kiss to the corner of his mouth.

The door clicks shut between them and Eddie is alone. Alone holding the scraps of a broken heart he won't be able to write a song about and with an answer he can't give to his least favorite interview question. What's been the cost of your meteoric rise to fame?

[aseplant]

White doesn’t feel any particular way about Sayeon, but Boss clearly cares a lot for her. His impression of her is mostly that she’s… sheltered. Which is fine. It’s not like he would want her to get hurt or anything, because Boss wouldn’t want that, and if Boss wouldn’t like it then he won’t ask for it either. But he can see the way Boss gets when she talks about her. And that’s how he realizes, at last, that no matter what Boss says he’s never truly going to be loved.

samin & white.

‧⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

The Crimson Society’s home base is an inconspicuous high-rise deep in the heart of the city, just a brief thirty-minute run from the Corps’ third HQ. White takes the elevator straight to the boss’s office on the highest floor, pulling his hair free from his ponytail and giving it a rough comb with his fingers as he travels up.

Boss is working at her desk when he arrives, door propped open. She glances up when he knocks politely at the entryway. “White! I wasn’t expecting you for another week or two. Come in, come in!”

She gets up from her desk and makes her way over to the couch, gesturing toward the one across from her with a lazy wave of an unlit cigarette. “Sit, sit.”

He does. Across from him, Boss clicks a lighter to life, inhaling deeply as she lights her cigarette. Her exhale comes out in a cloud of smoke, shoulders relaxing as she goes.

“Alright,” Boss says. “Now, tell me. What brings you here, White? You’re still in uniform. I assume the Corps haven’t ferreted you out yet. Did Sayeon catch on to something she shouldn’t have?”

“If she has, she hasn’t said anything,” White replies. “The rest of our team got wasted at an old lady’s house, and she went to go see someone. I thought I’d come chat for a bit. She said she’d be back by morning, so I probably should be, too.”

“Went to go see someone, huh.” The boss blows out another cloud of smoke. “Must be that delinquent kid. That might get ugly. Well… it’s about time she got a taste of what the Suits are really like.”

Min. What do you think? Do the Corps really kill off weaker aberrants?

…yeah, he can see how that could get messy. Boss already knew, then.

“Well, no matter,” Boss says, a wide grin returning to her face. “I’m glad you had the chance to come home for a bit! Tell me all about what Sayeon’s been up to these past two weeks! I feel like I haven’t seen her in forever.”

She leans forward expectantly.

White scratches his cheek. He’s not really used to Boss getting this invested in things. Which parts does she even want to hear? “Just training, mostly. I also practice with her after hours. She gets along fine with the others, but she keeps picking fights with the other girl on our team. I don’t know why. She got knocked out for it the other day.”

“That little bookworm,” Boss sighs fondly. “I don’t think she ever really figured out how to make friends, when she’s spent her whole life with her nose buried in the books. I wonder what’s got her so interested. Who’s the other girl?”

“Ryujin Kang. She’s a prison recruit with red essence.”

“Oh, the one she went to the warehouses with,” Boss says. “They’re close?”

White… wouldn’t describe it like that. Ryujin does seem to be looking out for Sayeon in her own way, but—“No?”

Boss claps her hands together brightly. “Great! And the last member of your team?”

“Iseul Kim. His father was in the Suits. They’re friendly, but that’s all.”

“Good, good.” Another drag of the cigarette. “I’ll have Jungwoo look into him. What else? Has she just been keeping her head down, then? She always was a bit timid.”

“No, she’s very… passionate.”

“‘Passionate?’” Boss laughs. “You can just call her a bootlicker, you know! You don’t have to beat around the bush, White, I know my own sister.”

“…she’s very passionate about the Suits’ mission,” White repeats diplomatically. “And towards climbing the ranks. She asked me to disable another trainee during a cross-team game the other day.”

Boss’s eyes light up. “Did she really? Awwww! I knew she had it in her. That’s so cute! My baby sister, finally growing up…”

Boss makes a strange expression that he’s never seen before, eyes all melty as her smile softens around the corner. White doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s so alien.

Something strange clenches in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m so happy to hear that things have been going well for her!” Boss continues, still sparkling with joy. “Has she figured out her gift yet? You know, she was so in denial about being an aberrant that she never actually used any of her essence before joining the Suits?”

He’s aware. What a waste. “…she says it’s Super Instinct.”

“Oh?” Boss raises an eyebrow. “What’s this? You don’t believe her. White, since when did you learn to distrust people!”

He… gets the distinct feeling he’s being made fun of. But it’s always kind of hard to tell with the boss.

“She says it’s just something like a gut feeling,” he says. “Not precognition, or anything. But I would’ve expected it to be more like yours.”

“Hm.” Boss considers it for a moment. “You never really know with teal essences… but yeah, she’s probably lying. Clever girl. Well! Whatever it is, it probably suits her little brainiac tendencies. How is she doing on the fighting front, anyway?”

…White thinks this would be a good place to keep his mouth shut.

“That bad, huh.” The boss barks out a laugh. “Man! I can’t say I never tried to warn her. She must still think she can get away with pushing papers once she’s high enough up the ranks.”

White wouldn’t put it past her. “Why didn’t you ever teach her to fight?”

Boss glances at him, a wry smile on her lips. “You think she would’ve been receptive to learning that? You must have seen how she is by now. All morals and ethics and philosophical crap.”

Hm. She is kind of self-righteous.

“And, I guess it was a bit sentimental of me,” Red adds, smoke leaking from her lips with every word, “but I was hoping she’d never need it.”

White cocks his head. He—

—can’t even imagine a life that doesn’t need violence. Before he was aware enough to fight back, all that ever awaited him was a sluggish haze of pain. Before he was strong enough to wield a baseball bat, all he’d ever been good for was powering other people’s violence. Before he was powerful enough to use violence in the Crimson Society’s name, he didn’t even have a name of his own.

White wouldn’t even be a person if he couldn’t fight. He wonders what it must be like to have a sister who would protect you from all that, without asking a single thing from you in return, and still having the gall to be ungrateful for it all.

Red watches him closely, a calculating look on her face. “What’re you thinking about, White?”

“…nothing, Boss.”

“Oh, sure.” She grins at him knowingly. “If you say so. Well, in any case! You came at a good time. I actually have a new task for you.”

She pulls out a purple flash drive. Waves it around a bit, just to show it off. Tells him about the Begonia Group, about godlings and storms; says: “You are no longer to simply observe Sayeon. You are now to protect her. Is that understood?”

Something ugly is simmering on low in the back of his throat. White doesn’t know what it is. He’s not going to examine it. “Yes, Boss.”

The boss tilts her head, studying him carefully. She folds her hands over her knees. “Something bothering you?”

“No, Boss.”

“Really, now.” Charcoal eyes glint with the reflection of the city skyline. “And since when did you start lying to me, White?”

He…

…

…stays silent.

Red sighs.

She takes a long drag of her cigarette, exhaling slowly. Smoke drifts in hazy spirals around her. “You’re lucky you’re a terrible liar, you know. Now. Go on. Be honest with me, White. What do you think of Sayeon?”

He stares down at his hands, clenched too tightly to his side. He subtly tries to relax them. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed.

Red takes another puff of her cigarette and waits patiently as White tries to gather his thoughts.

The thing is, for the most part, White doesn’t really think about Sayeon Lee. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t feel any way in particular about her at all, if not for the fact that she’s so important to the boss, but. The boss is asking. So what does he think of Sayeon Lee?

She’s smart, clearly. On her own she’s not much of a threat, but she’s been very successful at directing the rest of them in team exercises. Naïve, though. Unbelievably naïve. She’s clearly led a very different life than White.

He remembers the way illegal aberrants rolled off her tongue. An irrational stab of irritation runs through him. Yeah—very different lives, indeed. The words tumble out before he’s fully thought them through: “I don’t know what you see in her.”

Red raises an eyebrow. She seems bemused by this response, so he adds, a little more quietly: “She doesn’t like you.”

A blank stare.

And then understanding dawns, and a too-wide grin splits across Red’s face. “Ohhhhhh. Is that what’s bothering you? White. Do you know why anyone does anything?”

…survival, right? Or avoiding pain, maybe. Is that too obvious?

Red doesn’t wait for an answer. She wraps her arms around herself cheerily. “For love.”

Love…?

“Everything you do, you do because you love others—or yourself,” Red continues, some weird expression on her face that White doesn’t normally see unless she’s fucking with a rival gang. But Red doesn’t usually play with him like that. “Imagine losing all your love!”

White tries. He finds he can’t imagine losing something he’s unsure he ever had in the first place.

On the upside, Red seems happy to keep rambling even without his input. “That’s what my sister is to me. All my love, manifest—the one thing that’s kept me going.”

It’s—strange. White’s aware that he’s not exactly emotionally intelligent. But he gets friendship pretty easily. Friendship is when you like someone because they make your life better in some way. Sayeon is definitely not Red’s friend, though.

Love… has always been a little harder for him to get. He thought that’s what the bond between the Crimson Society members was supposed to be called, just a special type of fondness that people put an extra name to. But if Red loves them, then Sayeon is special to her in a way even beyond ‘love.’ Because—

“She can hate me all she wants,” Red says. “Doesn’t change a thing.”

Her gaze flicks up to meet his, at last. “This... isn’t making much sense to you, hm?”

Actually—he thinks he might get it, sort of.

See, here’s the thing: White’s well aware that the boss is fond of him in the way that people are fond of a pair of oven mitts that have done their job for a decade. He’s always called that love because the others called it love, and he’s okay with becoming whatever the boss wants him to be. If Boss tells him to die, he will; if Red wants to kick him, that’s fine; if he is of use to her, then at least he will retain a place by her side.

And maybe that’s what the difference is. Sayeon doesn’t like Boss, but Boss still wants to be of use to her, because Boss loves her in the way that people love other people. And as long as White’s of use to her and Sayeon, she’ll keep loving him too—in the way people love their tools.

Which is perfectly fine. It’s fine if Boss never loves him the way she loves family; White will be grateful for any kind of love that she deigns to give him, and anyway, he can’t miss what he’s never had.

(It’s just… wasn’t the Crimson Society supposed to be family?)

‧⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙

notes:

this is actually a 2k excerpt from what is... currently... a 6.5k rewrite of season 1 from min's point of view. (ugly sobbing. it's not even done.) i'm not gonna have computer access for a few days and had wanted to post the initial draft of the fic but uhhh for various reasons that did not end up happening and also knowing me i'll lowkey either scrap 80% of the fic or lose motivation to write for like 5 months, so. ✩ta-daaa✩?

(that was a very long way of saying "i will eventually post a cleaner version to ao3, possibly as part of a longer fic, possibly as is, but that may or may not take another half year so please enjoy this in the meantime")

anyway thanks for reading all the way down here!!! i love you comments regrow my skin but please don't point out any typos it is 2am and i'll admit that i don't actually believe in spellcheck <3

[darkhymns-fic]

This Dark Heart of Yours

“And isn’t that what they say? That your drunk self is your real self?” The hand by Husk’s head finally moved–only to place itself against his cheek. Nails ran through his fur. “You’re just so starved for affection. It makes you forget your place.”

When Husk drinks too much, he makes mistakes. It will never be the last time.

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel Characters: Alastor/Husk Rating: M Word Count: 5416 Mirror: AO3 Notes: Hey! So there's more unhealthy dynamics, implied past abuse, forced alcohol abuse, horror?? and other potentially triggering content in this fic. More tags are at AO3, stay safe thanks.

--

He had drunk too much. Again.

But it wasn’t like anyone was going to complain that the hotel bartender was getting wasted anyway. Not Miss Sunshine Princess who was always greeting Husk every morning, all smiles, pointedly ignoring his half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. Not Niffty, who was so eager to take away said empty bottles to keep like it was her own personal collection, staring too hard at the warped glass and most likely thinking of breaking them into tiny pieces. And definitely not the annoying porn star who frequented his bar too often, venting about some garbage flick of his instead of anything worthwhile.

And not his boss. In fact, Alastor seemed to always push another glass into Husk’s hand when he wasn’t looking. “Enjoy yourself! How grand it must look to everyone, to see the help partaking in their own little vices.”

Teasing. Condescending. Husk didn’t care. Another shot gulped down, and the buzz made the day just a bit more bearable.

But maybe. Just maybe, he had overdone it this time.

Husk couldn’t even remember why he was sitting in the lobby. Another morale booster by Charlie? Husk had learned to tune them out. Redemption was not in his cards, and with more than just what he had done when he was alive. He’d been clutching another bottle, half-laying on the couch. But, with enough sense to stay on his side. Just his side. To his right, it was like electricity, one that made his fur stand. But Alastor always sat wherever he fucking wanted.

He found himself waking up to static.

The revelation was slow. It’s what alcohol did; making him sluggish, wobbly, and too out of sorts. He could usually hold his own well enough, but he really went hard on the bottle this time. Old vintage. Probably from one of Alastor’s own personal stocks. The Radio Demon would sometimes just give what he had. Anything to amuse him, to make Husk ruin himself just a little more, piece by piece.

The warmth should have been surprising, and it was. It was like curling up against a fireplace, like pressing into something alive and malleable. He had fallen down at some point, letting his body drift off. One of his wings stretched out, reaching down to the floor. His hands pressed, and grabbed, and he buried his face to hide away. Hard to find something like it nowadays. So he had to hold on tight, for dear life, of whatever sort of life he even had left. His other wing furled around him and–

Him and–

The static fizzled and popped. And, just briefly, it keened like feedback. Still, it took him too long to move.

Husk opened his eyes to find himself half-laying across Alastor’s lap. His elbow was lodged within the crook of the demon’s leg. His claws were kneading against a torso, close enough to see a button’s details, down to the subtle engraving of antlers within its center. A head looked down. A shadow slithered within the darkness of the room. It was dark. The lobby was empty. It was just them both. Eyes lacking anything but sparks and fire.

No.

“Fuck! Sorry. I just–” Husk scrambled out of the way, as much as he could. He fell off the couch, hard on his shoulder. Red searchlights fell over his fur, his loose suspenders, no matter how much he tried to get away. “I didn't know that– It was you! I didn't know.”

Alastor remained seated. He held the long handle of his mic in both hands.

The man with a silver tongue was unusually silent.

And there really was no one else left in the lobby. The lights were dimmed, with only the sickly green walls of the bar showing anything bright left. How late was it? Husk could only imagine the scene from before; big dumbass cat falling asleep because he was drunk out of his mind, and he fell asleep over someone’s lap, which just happened to be Alastor’s lap. Some stupid cute image, all while Alastor just stayed still and didn’t move.

Fuck. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Husk had never felt so sober, so quickly, drowned out by confusion and worry and why the hell was Alastor just staring at him? Why didn’t he fucking say anything?

The silence was near-torturous, only interrupted by those bursts of static, not even a small melody playing or a laugh track to cover Husk in derision. Nothing but that one noise, endless as an ocean.

“How long was I…?” His mind briefly explored that line of questioning, stopped and turned away from any possibilities. Minutes were too long. An hour was too long. “You know what, never mind. I’m… going to bed.”

The shadows shifted. The eyes flickered, catching him in their sights.

“I said I was sorry… alright?” Husk walked backwards, trying to head for the stairs, a hand reaching out to feel for the banister. “Just… Let’s forget it. I’ll wake up early to work tomorrow to make up for it.”

He didn’t want to think about how he had reached out for Alastor’s touch. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to.

He wouldn’t have done that if he was sober. That was all there was to it.

Alastor said nothing still, continued to say nothing even as Husk got further away. And he didn’t move. He stayed perched on the couch, eyes fixated on a prey that slowly headed for escape without notice.

Husk hated the feeling, like he had somehow stumbled into forbidden territory. No, he had always been careful before. He just wanted to get out of here, and when the back of his foot finally hit the bottom step of the stairs–

The thing about the shadows though is sometimes Husk can’t fucking see shit through them. Not through Alastor’s. He thought those shadows were far away, lurking in the distance like trees with overhanging branches, with a pair of eyes peeking through, too impossibly far. But the colors melded, and Husk’s head was still spinning from his hangover–and then it was like those shadows transplanted right next to his feet. The hollow antlers stretched up to grasp the ceiling, the arms, crooked as they were, bent just so to grasp at him.

And the eyes were now only inches away, disembodied things, bright and piercing and latching onto him. They had always been there. To Alastor, the distance did nothing but give his next prey a false sense of safety. He had told Husk plenty of times before, how the terror was always a little added seasoning to his meal.

So Husk remained still, blinked–and then he was right next to his bar, back pressed against those green walls, matching with the swamps Alastor had once called home.

And with the shadows still lurking around him, a hand, seemingly so regular compared to everything else, slammed into that venomous wall right by his ear.

Husk was frozen. Don't move. Don't make a sound.

The creature before him continued to stare. The shadows of his boss’ face, framed by ever-growing antlers that seemed to grin within the green backlight.

Then that same face blinked. Then it leaned forward. The face of a monster dissipated, leaving him with Alastor as he knew him. Not much difference.

“You were clingy.”

Husk swallowed. His claws embedded deeply in the walls behind him.

“Now. Why is that?” There was a furnace inside Alastor's chest, the way it breathed out such heat and made Husk sweat beneath his fur. “Are you asking me for something?”

It was a question that demanded an answer. Husk overcame the fear, just enough, finding the old rage inside. 

“You know I don't ask you for anything,” Husk finally said. “I was drunk. That's it.”

“Oh, I see.” The static grew louder. It garbled with small high-pitched notes before Alastor’s words pushed through. “Then you must be so needy .”

Alastor stretched out the word like torture. The sound of it dragged nails inside Husk’s ribcage. It was a knife that carved into his back, searching for nerves. 

He didn't need…He didn't want… him .

If Husk thought about it any further, he knew he’d spiral. It took all he had to calm himself down, still hanging tight to the wall, keeping his eyes on Alastor for anything sudden, terrifying, unspeakable.

“I said I was drunk. You hard of hearing now?” Husk snapped, trying to regain ground. His wings stretched out, almost daring to take flight then. “Everyone acts a little stupid when they had too much. Even you fucking do.”

And this was one of the stupidest things he’d ever done. His list of mistakes and regrets was already miles long, and it was agony to have this be part of it, especially when he wasn’t sure if he’d even live to get past it.

Alastor wouldn’t give him any fucking room to leave. The static kept doing a number on his head, making Husk want to drown it out with more whiskey. Never mind that was why he was in this mess in the first place.

“What more do you want from me?” he had to ask. Alastor was now his only reality. The awful antlers and shifting shadows were no longer as pronounced, but that smile hadn’t wavered, and the radio feedback just kept rising and falling in its awful airwaves. Husk shuddered, gritting his teeth. “If…you’re going to kill me for falling asleep on you, then just hurry it up!”

He had said it out of frustration, despite remembering awful screams through the radio, despite wondering, dismally, miserably, if those voices just kept living to be tormented again. Sometimes he heard repeat performances, though he was never sure.

And then, Alastor’s eyes lost their brightness. The static abruptly stopped. He laughed, leaning up slightly to let Husk finally take in a deeper breath.

“Oh Husker, you misunderstand me! I’m not mad at you!” A quick shake of his head, his shoulders still shaking from a chuckle. “I am simply fascinated.”

This failed to make Husk feel any better. “What…?”

He noted how the hand next to his head hadn’t moved an inch.

“It’s simple, really. I’ve seen you be such a pathetic drunk so many times, I’ve lost count! Amusing, but it’s usually the same. You’re always just such a grumpy kitty, but… this time it was different.”

Husk’s throat was dry. Claws very slightly gouged deeper in the wood. “Different,” he echoed.

“Yes, there's so much truth revealed when inhibitions are lowered. I suppose it takes certain spirits, or maybe even certain situations, to really unravel a person.” Alastor slowly, methodically, placed the head of the mic under Husk’s chin, pushing it up just slightly. “The kind that makes your body betray you at every moment.”

The way Alastor spoke, softly and with such intense focus, and for a moment, letting fall the radio filter so that Husk could only hear him and only him …

Husk felt himself slip against the wall, a right wing flapping to try and keep himself up. His head angled further, held by that mic. 

Fuck.

He was still drunk.

Alastor’s eyes widened. The red was piercing again. There was a sound behind him, like boughs creaking from the night’s breeze.

“And isn’t that what they say? That your drunk self is your real self?” The hand by Husk’s head finally moved–only to place itself against his cheek. Nails ran through his fur. “You’re just so starved for affection. It makes you forget your place.”

In Alastor’s words, there were always sharp teeth and flowing poison. Husk felt it sift through his head, keeping him on high alert all while the whiskey still ran through his blood. It made him nauseous, made him want to find an escape. But the hand kept him in place, and the warmth there was hard to deny.

Husk nearly slipped again. The hand clutched the back of his head–then raised him up. The back of his heels no longer touched the floor.

The soft feeling of panic was small, distant. It drifted away so slowly with the heat. Still, he kept his claws in the walls, felt them carve through the wood.

Alastor didn’t seem to mind, only watching his every motion. Husk couldn’t take it.

“How is it fair?” He then asked quietly, keeping himself rooted. He hated it, how Alastor could pull out his weakness like drawing back a string. “You can do whatever to me, yet I'm…”

No. Husk was not allowed to want.

To be free. To be away. To stop repeating this cycle, again and again. To feel like he wasn’t just something to be kept around as a toy and nothing else.

Alastor raised an eyebrow, then chuckled once more. His voice fizzled, gaining back its filter like a veil. “Oh, I apologize, Husker. How silly of me to forget.” The shadows rippled beneath them both, and then Husk heard the familiar clink of glass, saw how the green light shone through amber. “You still need a little help.”

It was a small bottle, the neck of it long but its body bulbous and filled with whiskey. Husk could already imagine the taste on his tongue, the rush of it in his throat. He eyed it, but dug his claws even deeper into the walls.

“No, I don’t…want that.” Husk tried to shake his head, and couldn’t. The hand held him tighter.

Alastor’s head tilted to the right, slightly. “You’ve never refused before.”

The statement struck something so deeply inside Husk that he wished he could just vanish and never exist in the first place. He shook. His wings raised but they felt heavy, lethargic, barely a part of him.

“I’m fucking done. I don’t want it now.” A swallow, and his voice cracked. “You can’t just keep forcing me to be like this!”

God, his mouth felt so, so dry.

Alastor’s smile didn’t waver, as it rarely did. But he saw it tighten, and how the demon’s eyes narrowed in turn. The mic underneath his chin quickly vanished, leaving Alastor with a free hand, while the other still held Husk.

It unnerved him again when Alastor said nothing. No static. No bursts of sound. Only the shifting tendrils that formed around him like arms, one of them dangling the whiskey bottle by the neck, popping open the cap which fell to the floor.

Husk’s ears flicked at the sound. What was this game now? Nothing Alastor did made much sense to him anymore, and even less when he was hardly sober.

Then, the tendril upended the bottle by a fraction, and the whiskey was poured straight to the floor.

It was instinct.

“Wait. Wait, what are you–Stop that!” Husk lunged forward, unearthed his claws from the wood to reach for the bottle. The tendrils pulled it back just out of reach. “Fuck, don’t just waste it! Hey!”

Another lunge. The tendril swayed again. The alcohol poured slowly, seeping into the carpet. Husk tried to move more, but the hand on his head was like iron, locking him in its grip.

“You didn’t want it,” Alastor said. “So, I was simply getting rid of it.”

“You piece of shit, you can’t just…” He could barely finish, watching in despair as the whiskey was being drained right before his eyes.

“So, there’s this side of you I know all too well. Desperate. Whiny. Anything to get more of your booze. If I let you go, will you just grab what’s left of it on the floor?”

Alastor’s voice was so low that it sent shivers down Husk’s spine. Still, he couldn’t even find it in himself to deny anything. Even knowing there would never be any lack of cheap beer or vodka or whiskey or anything at all, he couldn’t stifle the fear away.

“But I can be kind. Because it’s not just this–” He waved the bottle again, now half-empty, the downpour of whiskey thinning down to a trickle. “That you ache for, isn’t it?”

He didn’t want to answer. He was just so thirsty. It was hard to even speak.

Alastor’s free hand reached out. Husk thought he would touch him, grab hold of his chin as he so often did. Instead, the tendril moved near, and poured the whiskey over Alastor’s open palm.

Husk watched the liquid trail down in rivulets, droplets falling in between fingers, winking in the green light. He watched it all, his throat getting drier with each lost drop.

“No,” Husk whispered, trying to turn away, failing utterly. 

He didn’t know what pathetic sound he made when he spoke, but it was enough to make Alastor lean closer, enough to bring his hand, coated in alcohol, near Husk’s mouth. 

The palm was just against his lips, giving him what little drops remained, like water in a desert. He should have bitten down on that hand, ripped those fingers off. The indignity should have left him with nothing but rage, but he suddenly felt so desperate and aching and aching. 

Husk's tongue glided across the black gloved palm, searching, searching, wanting.

He wanted so badly.

Alastor watched him, all throughout, but Husk could only focus on the taste that was on his tongue. Still not enough. More drops from those fingers, even with their wickedly sharp points. He wanted and needed. The taste of it, and the warmth that held it.

Husk wrapped his mouth around one of those fingers, sucking the burn of it. It slid down his throat. Down, down.

He felt the heat of Alastor’s eyes on him, felt the curve of a finger just against the roof of his mouth. Dangerous, but it didn’t stop Husk from running his tongue along the skin and catch any whiskey that was left.

“My, you’re easy , aren’t you?”

If Husk was sober, maybe he’d react. And maybe, there was some part of him that burned at the accusation. But the other part was stronger, just wanting the drink to drown him. Just wanting to drown.

Eventually, the bottle was emptied. The last of the liquor slid across Alastor’s hand like branching rivers, some of it to flow into Husk’s waiting mouth, the rest to fall away to the floor. Husk took all he could, his body shaking all the while.

In his need, his hands reached out to grasp Alastor’s own. He couldn’t speak, but with everything else, he was begging.

He was getting more drunk. He wanted to get drunk. And he wanted–

Alastor.

If there was fear and revulsion at that, it drowned away in the seas of all that he ingested. Even as little whispers ran through his skull (No, I can’t do this again.) his mouth lingered on Alastor’s hand.

Tendrils moved again, small undulations that he could barely make sense of. And Alastor’s other hand no longer clutched his head as tightly, patting down his fur and caressing at the skin beneath. 

Then, in a low tone. “Keep begging.”

A small shock, a brief intake of air to make him realize the horror–only to drown once again, Husk still clinging onto Alastor’s touch. His throat was dry again. “Please…”

“Oh, you can do better, Husker.” Another bottle floated within the shadows, its green glass melding with the dim light. “Or I’ll just have to keep you wanting.”

Husk shook his head. (Enough. That’s enough). But he watched Alastor open the cap of the gin, imagining all of it draining away. “Please, Al… I need…this…”

A small blip of static. Alastor tuning in to further find the root of Husk’s debasement. “What do you need?”

Agony. All Alastor ever gave him was agony.

And still, he kept clinging to his hand.

Husk couldn’t even remember saying more, but Alastor showed some mercy. He upended the bottle at Husk’s face, purposely missing his mouth. The alcohol stung his eyes, went up his nostrils, burning. But all Husk did was move towards the downpour, letting it scald his throat.

Drunker. The holes in his memory were growing bigger, no longer able to connect between moments. Because at some point, he had been moved to stand behind the bar. He felt the ache of his waist hitting the counter, of Alastor pushing him into it. Hard.

The gin bottle was only slightly empty. He needed more. Alastor’s hand moved down to grasp at his neck, hooking fingers beneath the strap of the bow tie and pulling at the hidden manacle that Husk always felt, always wore.

“Is it fair that you get to have all this?” Alastor said, or Husk thought he said. Words were muffled the further he sank into the depths. “But you’ve always been a greedy little kitty.”

Husk struggled, but his back kept being pushed into the wood grain of the bar. He watched in dismay as Alastor took a sip of the gin, wanting it. Wanting it. His hands reached out, grasping the front of Alastor’s coat to pull him near.

What happened next was hazy, dark, confusing. Moments of sanity interspersed with poison.

Husk had watched the alcohol pour down between them both, how it half-pooled on Alastor’s tongue. And Husk had leaned forward, taking Alastor's mouth, taking the demon's tongue for every taste. There it was. The familiar burn, the sting on his gums. Anything to fall. To keep falling. 

Hands slammed into the bar next to him. Tendrils snaked out to writhe and hold onto limbs. Something pushed at his right knee, another pinned his wrists above his head until he felt they would snap. But Alastor didn’t stop the kiss. He pushed further, sliding his tongue around Husk’s, the alcohol pouring in-between them, still. The strong scent of it, the way it nearly cut off Husk’s breath, but still he seeked out the mouth coated in alcohol and blood and heat.

“So this is you…” Alastor spoke, making Husk whine when he moved his mouth away. But not far, still so close for Husk to feel his laughter rumbling against his skin. “How good to see you again, dear friend.”

His lungs were too filled to cry out. His skull was too filled to process anything of what was being said. There was only his mouth that wanted to find another. His head was the only part of him allowed to move, so he kissed Alastor harder, leaning in until sharp teeth clashed against his own, getting drunk off the taste of gin and whiskey, off the taste of Alastor’s tongue that made him choke.

It was warm, and wet, and hot, and scalding, and overwhelming and he wasn’t going to survive but he had always fallen so hard until there would be nothing but pieces of him left. Pieces that Alastor would leave on the ground to cut him open afterwards, but it was worth it all just to get ecstasy now. Just to feel something other than complete hollowness, even with a blade held to his throat.

If there were more touches that fell across him, more sounds that were pulled out of his throat, more names spilled out of him, again and again, he didn’t know. He just fell into warmth that was pitch-black, robbing him of all senses all at once. It was like being buried alive.

--

When Husk woke up the next morning in his bed, tucked inside blankets with his head on a soft pillow, the first thing he did was vomit all over the floor.

It had taken him ages to wobble to the bathroom, to expel whatever was left inside his stomach so that the fire inside him would stop. He knelt on the floor, hands shaking against the tiles, watching fur and feathers scatter from his shivering. Then he moved towards the sink, running the faucet over his head, hoping the cold water would douse the fever overtaking him. 

He remembered too much. The fear that froze him in place, the monster shapeshifting in front of him, the alcohol pouring, the touch on his cheek, and the kiss that left him panting for more.

Then completely nothing after that.

Somehow, that just made it worse.

Husk raised his head to the mirror, dreading what he’d see, whatever would be left of him. But all he saw was unkempt fur, matted down from water, bags underneath his eyes, and a dry tongue. 

Ordinary, because he would always drink before bed. Bottles of whiskey, vodka, gin and more were scattered all over his bedside table, or hidden in drawers. There was nothing different, and it fucking terrified him.

He ran his hand over his chest, swallowing hard. But even as his claws sifted through the fur, he couldn’t feel anything different. Everything in place. No marks of any kind. The only pain was the hangover doing a number on his stomach and his head all at once.

Nothing. But Alastor had always been good at covering his tracks.

And that very thought sent Husk’s mind reeling. He could’ve done anything with me. He could’ve made me do anything. He gagged, but there was nothing more to retch up except drips of saliva. His wings covered his shoulders on instinct, feeling cold in his bareness. But he always went to bed without clothes, so that wasn’t anything new either.

Hangovers were normal. Feeling like complete shit was normal.

He was going to shatter if he kept thinking about it.

Despite it all, Husk got to his feet, pushing everything away to just move. Went by routine. Gotta get ready. Gotta get to work. After all, he was the fucking front desk slash bartender for some goddamn reason.

Washed his face again. Half drunk the mouthwash. Did his business. Took a shower. Sat in the bathtub for ten minutes too long. He laid his wings flat on their sides. His claws kept kneading into his own legs. Finding nothing. Just nothing.

He left the bathroom. Went to the clothes closet that was half-open. Nice collared shirts, half-made ties, and jackets that hung around to gather dust, nearly falling off their hangers. He never bothered fixing them. He looked down, and saw the usual suspenders folded neatly on the bottom of the closet, his hat perched on top, right in the center.

Perfectly made. All set out for him. Husk stumbled into the closet, hung onto the side to keep upright. He breathed hard, harder, before he could finally calm himself down.

The bastard.

And still, he took the clothes, put them on. Clean and pressed, as if it had just been retrieved from the laundry. 

Cover all the tracks.

--

It almost felt unreal to see Alastor just out in the hallways, like it was nothing.

The demon wasn’t even looking at him. Husk had turned a corner and found Alastor walking forward, occasionally drifting a gaze or two to a hotel room door. Inspection? Just a stroll? If he was going to the lobby to meet up with Charlie, he would have just teleported like always.

Watching him, Husk felt  every old anger, every nauseous thought, every despair inside him. 

Instead of half a hallway down, Husk found himself only inches away, enough to see the patterns in Alastor’s coat. He reached out and grabbed a wrist.

Alastor halted immediately, turning sharply with a raised eyebrow. “Starting early today?”

The words sunk into him. Husk shuddered and let go, but still kept his eyes on the demon. “What the fuck happened before? What did you do?”

Alastor turned to face him. “Oh, so typical of you to pin the blame on me. And all just for a little nightcap.”

There was so much he expected to hear and so much he didn't. But what Alastor said made him feel he was losing his grasp on what little sanity he had left. The simple casualness of it, like Husk had only stubbed his toe instead of feeling like absolute garbage, inside and out. “Enough with your bullshit! What. Happened.”

Alastor tapped his fingers against the mic, creating a faint feedback from the motion. His grin widened. “Only a lovely evening shared between old friends.”

Something hot over his neck. His throat burning as he became undone. And bright eyes peeling through his chest, straight through meat and bone and–

Husk shook his head, tried to control his breathing. Alastor stood still, with not a flicker of change over his face. 

“I blacked out and that’s all you fucking say to me,” Husk said through gritted teeth. “You don’t care how much you ruin me. Or just…what I have to deal with afterwards.”

“Don’t be so ungrateful now. And after I made sure you would have a good night’s sleep.” He twirled the mic cane in one hand, the hum of it making Husk’s tail twitch in reflex. “Even rolled you on your side! Just in case, well, you know. You really should be more careful. One of these days you might not even wake up!”

Was that a threat? Husk couldn’t parse it, the words said so glibly from Alastor as if he was ordering a small cup of coffee. He breathed faster, his heart feeling like it would jump right out of his throat.

He just wanted to know what happened. He just wanted to know what Alastor did to him when he removed that block of memory from his head, shoving it away and only leaving him with invisible scars inside him. Ones he may never know about, or ones he would only find out when Alastor would reach for his hand out of nowhere.

And he just had to keep living like this.

Alastor leaned forward, towering over Husk, his shadow stretching out to cover him whole. Still, a certain distance was kept. One that could be broken at any moment. “I could see how much you truly missed it, you know,” Alastor said with a chuckle, pointing a finger right at Husk’s chest. “You told me so yourself.”

He didn't remember at all. Not a thing about that. No, he only remembered how Alastor had told him to beg and how he obeyed and how desperate he had been to get any drop left and he could only think how it must have gotten worse after that. It only ever got worse. His tongue felt like ash.

Something made his teeth rattle violently.

Husk blinked. Alastor was closer, but his boss hadn’t moved. The cane was held just before the demon’s face, blocking the claws that had reached out. Husk felt electricity run from his claws and up his arm.

He had aimed for it. For Alastor’s face. For his eyes. The undeniable urge to tear them out for what they must have seen.

There was always something that kept drawing him to Alastor. Teeth, claws, blood, hatred, fists, heat, despair, love, greed, everything, everything that was his. He didn’t know where it ever ended.

The grin widened. A red gleam that coated the hallway. “Husker. You have no idea how kind I am to you.”

He thought the chains would manifest, bring him to his knees and make him sink further and further into Alastor’s very being. Instead he was shoved. He was thrown away like disgusting trash and he couldn’t tell what were his thoughts or Alastor’s many whispers that sometimes trailed inside his head. Husk’s back hit the wall. He heard the cracks made in the plaster.

The only marks made. Easily fixed. But Alastor left the damage there for all to see, walking away as Husk struggled to breathe.

“Please do join us when you’re ready to be civil. The front desk can’t be unmanned for too long now.”

Husk waited and waited and waited. He didn’t know what for. His wings shuddered, and the pain in his chest finally felt so close to bursting open. Even though it wouldn’t. He knew it wouldn’t, ever since he first fell and couldn’t find a way to escape the pit he found himself in.

And if, for a second, he remembered being held within heat, a touch handling him as if he was fragile instead of worthless, precious instead of disposable, it didn’t really matter. Because he was still here, lying on the floor, waiting for something to change, knowing it never would. 

[munson-blurbs]

I am thinking older Eddie? 🤔 he's not nearly as confident as he used to be but meets his dream gal at maybe a concert? Gets his groove back. Maybe he's a single dad who feels like he hasn't had time or energy to be himself anymore and she makes him feel like that again?

I just feel like you'll be able to really make it so good.

Warnings: none--all fluff :)

WC: 2.7k

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

“Okay, his bedtime is 7:30 PM, but if you get him down before 8:30, I’ll be amazed,” Eddie tells his uncle, grabbing his guitar case and slinging it over his shoulder. “He’s in that phase where he only wants to eat macaroni and cheese, so just go with that tonight. No need for you to fight with him over it.”

Wayne chuckles, bouncing the toddler on his hip. “And when will you be out of your ‘only eating macaroni and cheese’ phase?” he asks Eddie, who promptly flips him off in response. “Hey! Not in front of the impressionable kid!”

“Daddy will see you when you wake up tomorrow,” Eddie promises his son, pressing a quick kiss to his scalp. “Be good for Grandpa.”

“Oh, he’s always good for me,” Wayne says, making a funny face at the little boy. “Isn’t that right, Kirk?” He frowns as Kirk’s tiny bottom lip quivers and he reaches out for his dad. “C’mon, buddy; Dad has to go to his concert!”

“No!” Kirk whines, crocodile tears streaming down his chubby cheeks. Eddie’s heart pangs, and he second guesses his decision to go out.

As though he can read his nephew’s mind, Wayne tuts at Eddie’s hesitation. “Nuh-uh, absolutely not. You haven’t done anything for yourself since this troublemaker was born.” He wipes a tear from Kirk’s face and blows a raspberry into his belly. A mix of giggles and sobs leaves the boy’s throat. “We’re gonna be just fine. Now, go.” He practically shoves Eddie out the door. 

It’s been ten years since Eddie graduated from Hawkins High. The day he crossed that stage, middle fingers aimed at his exasperated principal, he’d vowed never to return to this shithole town. And he’d kept that promise up until two years ago. Kirk was only five months old when Celeste had up and left, claiming that she couldn’t handle the stress of motherhood any longer. She’d left her key to their dingy apartment on the countertop, along with the engagement ring Eddie had saved so long to buy her. He’d pawned it a few weeks later, desperate to scrounge up some money for baby formula. And when that money ran out, he’d found himself back in his hometown, bunking with his uncle. Again. 

The goal was to move out, get a little place for himself and Kirk, and give Wayne his trailer—and his freedom—back. After years of raising his brother’s kid, the last thing he probably wanted was to help raise his nephew’s. For the most part, Eddie’s able to balance his job as a telemarketer and fatherhood, especially since he mostly works from home. But on the days where he has to schlep into the office, he relies on Wayne for child care. His salary is decent, and he has medical coverage for himself and his kid, but he hates working a nine-to-five desk job. 

He tunes the radio to a classic rock station, bypassing whatever saccharine pop songs repeat on the Top 40 channels. A smile tugs at his lips when he hears the familiar bridge. 

Master, master

Where’s the dreams that I’ve been after?

Master, master

You promised only lies

It takes him back to a time where his only worries were passing O’Donnell’s class and planning sadistic Hellfire campaigns. Now, his life revolves around potty training and quelling temper tantrums. But even on his most exhausting days, like when he makes Kirk exactly what he wants for lunch, and the kid flips the plate onto the floor, he would do anything for him. He’d choose his son one thousand times over.

Did I leave the number to the club in case of an emergency? he thinks, slamming on the brakes and nearly causing a collision before remembering that he’d jotted it down on a notepad and given it to Wayne. 

It’s been too long since he’s played in front of anyone, save for lullabies to get Kirk to sleep. But Gareth was coming back to Indiana for a weekend, and he’d damn near begged the guys for a one-night only Corroded Coffin reunion. Eddie didn’t have the heart to turn him down.

He looks over his shoulder into the backseat, catching a glimpse of Kirk’s car seat. Who would’ve thought that the teenager who used to try to hook up with girls in the back of the van–emphasis on try–would now spend his time cleaning out Cheerio crumbs between the seats?

Pulling into the parking lot, Eddie breathes out a nervous sigh. He’s been practicing every day, all the covers they used to play back in the mid-80s, but he doesn’t have the same confidence he did back when they jammed out at the Hideout. Being a parent certainly knocks you down a few pegs, has you questioning yourself all too often.

“Here goes nothing,” he mutters to himself, pulling his guitar from the trunk and heading into the club. 

“Hey, man! Long time no see!” Jeff claps him on the back, and Gareth pulls him in for a hug. “Jesus, it’s been years.”

“You didn’t bring the kid?” Gareth asks, peering around.

Eddie just laughs. “Nah, ‘s a little past his bedtime. Plus,” he adds, “I don’t want him starting school and singing ‘Hot for Teacher.’” The rest of the band shares a chuckle and starts warming up.

“Did you guys check out the bartender?” Trevor asks, tuning his bass. “She’s a cutie, if any of you wanna chat her up later.”

Gareth snorts. “Eddie’s the only single one out of us; and we all know how he is with the ladies.” He turns to his friend. “Seriously, when’s the last time you got any, dude?”

Too long, Eddie thinks, but just gives Gareth a friendly shove. “Your mom gave it to me good last night.” He grins as Jeff and Trevor chime in with a chorus of oohs. But he’s curious about this bartender, so he peeks around the curtain.

And there you are.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. You’re wearing a black tank top that frames your chest perfectly, paired with a denim miniskirt. Your eyes crinkle as you giggle at something a patron says, and Eddie feels himself melt. “She’s, like, really fuckin’ pretty.” His eyes widen. “Should I talk to her?”

“Let’s play our set first, all right Casanova?” Jeff jokes. “Impress her with your kickass vocals and guitar skills, if you’ve still got ‘em.”

Eddie gives him the middle finger, but he’s wondering the same thing. He doesn’t have time to explore it further before the emcee is announcing Corroded Coffin. “Showtime, boys!” Eddie calls out, hoping no one catches the warble in his voice.

Forty minutes later, the four guys jog off the stage, drenched in sweat and filled with adrenaline.

“That…was…awesome!” Trevor shouts, high-fiving the rest of them. “We can still rock after all these years!”

Eddie’s grinning so wide, his lips could stretch off of his face. “Hell yeah, we do! Woooo!” He grabs a towel and wipes his forehead and back of his neck. He feels like he’s on top of the world; nothing he’d bought from Reefer Rick ever gave him this type of high. He clenches the guitar pick that hangs around his neck; it’s just like the one he wore in high school, except this one has a photo of Kirk on it. Wayne had it custom made for Kirk’s first Christmas. Your old man was a rockstar tonight, little buddy, he thinks, hopefully, you’ll be able to watch me in action someday.

His thoughts are interrupted by a light knocking. He turns around to see you standing in the doorway, holding a tray with four ice-cold glasses of water. “You boys thirsty?” you ask, flashing a smile that could knock him right off of his feet.

“Eddie sure is,” Jeff mutters with a smirk, which disappears as soon as Eddie shoots him a glare. If looks could kill, Jeff would be six feet under right about now.

You cock your brow with a confused expression, but Eddie just shoves his hands in his pockets and meanders over. “Thanks,” he mumbles, plucking a glass from the tray.

“Are you…Eddie?” You look up at him through your lashes, gazing into his chocolate brown eyes. 

“Thas’ me,” he says with a small laugh. “Did you like the show?” He could smack himself; you probably tuned out the music at this point. Especially loud metal covers by a bunch of late twenty-somethings.

He’s surprised by your enthusiastic nod. “Yeah, you guys are amazing! It was a nice change from the grunge bands that usually play.” You wrinkle your nose. “The other day, we had someone come in who only sang Spice Girls songs. That was interesting.”

Eddie laughs, despite his nerves. “Was she any good, at least?”

“No,” you reply pointedly, “he was not.” You motion towards his empty cup. “Want a refill? Or maybe something stronger?”

“Maybe just a Shirley Temple; he’s gotta get up in the morning with his kid,” Gareth pipes up, and Eddie whips his dirty towel at his head.

Your eyes soften. “You have a kid?” It’s not an accusation, nor is it said with disgust, which Eddie is all-too used to. 

“Y-Yeah, a two-year-old,” he stammers, leaning forward slightly to show the guitar pick necklace with his son’s photo on it. “His name’s Kirk.”

“As in Hammett, or as in Captain?” you tease. “Or both?”

Eddie runs a hand through his tangled curls. “Hammett; definitely Hammett,” he answers with a chuckle. “Kid’s probably cooler than him, too.”

“Well, his dad is a total rockstar, so I’m not surprised,” you shrug. “C’mon back to the bar with me, and I’ll get you that Shirley Temple. On the house,” you add.

Jeff waggles his eyebrows and Trevor lets out a low wolf-whistle as Eddie follows you. Gareth is still traumatized from the towel incident to mess with him.

He used to flirt with bartenders all the time; the more out of his league they were, the more fun it was to shoot his shot. But he’s out of practice now, and it doesn’t help that he’s completely intimidated by you.

Think, Munson, think, he wills himself. “So, uh, what’s your name?” You give him your name, and he smiles. “That’s a kickass name, yeah.” A ‘kickass name’? That’s the best you could come up with?

You only laugh at his response. “I mean, I’m not named after Kirk Hammett, but it’s not half bad.”

“Nah, it’s a good name.” Okay, enough with the name, Jesus. “How long have you been a bartender?”

“Feels like forever,” you muse. “It’s my night gig; just a way to make money while I’m working on my novel.” You drop some maraschino cherries into a clean glass. “Fun fact: thinking about publishing a book pays zero dollars.”

“You’re an author?” Eddie asks incredulously. “What kinda book are you writing?”

A blush creeps into your cheeks. “An aspiring author, I guess,” you say shyly, “but it’s a fantasy novel, like a Lord of the Rings type of thing.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve read Tolkien?” Duh; she literally just compared her work to his. Why else would she do that?

“He’s one of my favorite authors,” you admit, pouring the sweet grenadine and ginger ale before sliding the glass to him. “Him, Stephen King, Mary Shelley…”

“No fuckin’ way,” he breathes, and you look at him quizzically. “I mean, I’ve never met someone so pretty who was also into fantasy.” 

You giggle at the compliment. “Well, maybe we could talk more about it sometime? Like, when I’m not on the clock?”

Eddie’s head spins at the offer. “You drink coffee?” he blurts out. He couldn’t stand the stuff when he was younger, but after far too many sleepless nights with a colicky infant, he’d acquired a taste for it.

“I do,” you nod, grabbing the pen from behind your right ear and snatching the nearest unused napkin you can find. “Let me give you my phone number, if you wanna call me.”

They’re the most beautiful ten digits Eddie’s ever seen. “If I wanna…of course, yeah, that sounds great.” He folds the napkin carefully before putting it in his pocket, not wanting to smudge the ink. “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon?”

“I’ll be at home, writing,” you laugh. “See you around, Eddie.”

“Yeah, see ya…thanks for your number,” he manages before darting back to the band, beaming like a kid who just woke up to a pile of presents on Christmas morning. “Oh, shit,” he says suddenly, reaching into his wallet and fumbling for some cash, pulling out a crumpled five-dollar bill.

“I told you,” you remind him with the smile that makes him swoon, “I’ll cover this one. Use the money you’re saving to buy something awesome for Kirk.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Gotta at least leave a tip for excellent service. And for managing not to tell those idiots back there to shut the fuck up.” Although he wouldn’t have been mad if you had. At this point, he didn’t think there was anything you could do that would turn him off.

“Nah, they’re harmless,” you wave off his statement. “Trust me, that’s nothing compared to some of the things guys say to me.” You shudder at the memory of the perverted statements leaving their whiskey-soaked lips.

Eddie sits up straighter. “Like what?” he asks, voice brimming with concern. 

“Oh, you know.” You try to sound casual. “Commenting on my body, grabbing my ass, asking to take me home–even when I can see that they’re wearing a wedding ring.”

“Sounds like you need a bodyguard,” he muses, taking a sip of his drink, rings clinking against the glass. The sugar perks him up as soon as it hits his tongue. 

“You offering?” It comes out more salacious than you’d anticipated, but you’re not about to take it back. The look on his face is priceless; he’s clearly not used to people flirting with him so brazenly. 

You watch as Eddie gives a shy smile, caught off-guard yet again. He toys with his necklace before answering. “Gotta earn my free drinks somehow. Otherwise, I’m just a mooch.”

“Yeah, but you’re a really cute mooch, so…” you giggle, wiping down the bar with a nearby towel. “I’d call it even.”

He nearly chokes on his drink. You think he’s cute? Really cute? He wants to ask if it’s a joke, or a prank that the guys put you up to. But you seem so genuine, and it’s been years since anyone has made him feel this special, so he swallows his insecurities. “Th-thanks,” he stutters. “I think it’s mostly the guitar; makes me look like a big shot.”  

“I think it’s your eyes. Or your smile,” you counter, placing your hand on top of his. “But the guitar certainly doesn’t hurt.” You glance down at his ringed fingers. “None of these symbolize an everlasting union, do they?”

“Nope,” he replies, popping the p dramatically. “Just my commitment to tacky jewelry.”

You laugh, leaning in a bit closer to him. “I think I can handle that.” And for a moment, the world stops as Eddie’s breath hitches. He’s desperate to kiss you, but he’s sticky with sweat and doesn’t want to do anything in the dingy bar where you work. No, you deserve a nice date at a fancy restaurant with a freshly-showered Eddie Munson.

“Hey, Romeo!” Jeff calls out, walking towards the two of you with the rest of the band. “Wanna grab some pizza before your carriage turns back into a pumpkin?”

No, Eddie thinks crossly, I want to stay here and talk to the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen until closing time. 

“I’ve gotta get back to work anyway,” you reassure him. “But we can continue this conversation over that coffee date.”

Eddie visibly relaxes at the mention of your next meeting. “Abso-fuckin-lutely,” he agrees. And before he can wimp out, he presses his lips to your cheek, watching as your cheeks tinge a delicious shade of pink. 

Look at you, Munson. Back in the game.

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