#i think if mike still insists he wants to front as host again despite the total drama bs he faces

[zootopiathingz]

Thanksgiving in Quarantine

(A/N: more Pixar AU!! no there's not really a plot I just wanted to write something for thanksgiving. Also friendly reminder I've never cooked a day in my life so Imma just be vague on those details)

"Alright Pixars, listen up!" Mike called to get everyone's attention. After their conversations died down, he stepped forward towards the front of the room so all eyes would be on him. As the group leader, it was his job to host the monthly meetings and inform them of recent events or decisions made by him or their creator, Luxo Sr.

Once he was sure they were listening, he proceeded to explain, "So as you all know, even though we aren't affected by Covid, we still have to stay in quarantine for the sake of others. So that means that this year, we won't be spending Thanksgiving with the Disneys—"

"YES!!" Everyone cheered ecstatically, some standing up to pump their fists or high-five each other.

Mike was taken aback by their joyous reaction. Not just because it was a response to what he said, but he couldn't remember the last time all of them were that excited about anything. "—like we usually do.." He finished.

"Oh don't act like you're not relieved about it, Mike." McQueen said, "You hate the Disneys just as much as we do."

"Excuse me, but we do not 'hate' here." He said, "We just strongly dislike. Anyway, I'm not that relieved like you guys are. I was actually looking forward to our tradition."

"Well, I'm just glad we won't have to be greeted by them singing 'Be Our Guest' for the millionth fucking time." Woody scoffed, earning some murmurs of agreement from the rest.

Their relationship with the Disneys was complicated, to say the least. Luxo Sr. started the alliance with Mickey Mouse himself several years ago, and thus they joined the Disney family. But the Pixars were never given a say in the deal, and while they did admire the Disneys and were grateful for the success they brought them, that didn't mean they were tolerable to be around. The Pixars didn't hate them (despite constantly joking that they did), they just despised their arrogance and their random outbursts of songs every ten minutes.

"Wait so if we're not going to the Disneys, we're gonna have Thanksgiving at our house?" Marlin asked, "You do realize we haven't done that in like, 14 years? And obviously the family's grown since then."

Mike nodded, "I understand that, but if we're able to somehow survive Halloween, Easter, Christmas, and New Years on our own, then how hard can Thanksgiving be?"

"Your optimism is appreciated." EVE said, "But from past experience, this feels like yet another disaster waiting to happen."

"Yeah, I mean, who's even gonna cook dinner?" Remy asked.

"You are." Mike shrugged.

The rat man widened his eyes, "Say what now?"

Remy was a great cook, and honestly he was the only one who actually knew how to use an oven. But cooking an entire Thanksgiving meal for the whole group was asking a bit much.

"I can't cook that much in one day by myself!"

"You won't, some of us will help you. Right, guys?" Mike asked. But he got no responses, instead everyone just awkwardly looked away.

Remy sighed, "Come on, guys. Do you really want to eat burnt turkey for Thanksgiving? Imelda?"

She put her hands up in defense, "Don't look at me. I don't know how to make white people food."

"Okay, relax. We'll have WALL-E help you." Mike said, gesturing to the robot man—who gave an enthusiastic wave.

But this offer didn't make Remy feel any better. Out of all the Pixars Mike could've suggested, it just had to be WALL-E. "Seriously?" He asked, "You know he burns toast, right?"

"He'll be fine." Mike waved a dismissive hand. "..probably. Okay, does anyone else want to help with Thanksgiving dinner?"

Once again there was nothing but silence and awkward glances. Remy looked around with a pleading face, trying to get anyone to agree, but no such luck. Well, until Atta got tired of the lack of responses and and decided it was best to take one for the team. "Alright fine. I'll help you." She said to Remy.

"Thank Luxo." He sighed with relief, "You are a saint, Atta."

She shrugged, "I try."

"Then it's settled." Mike said, "Thanksgiving will be hosted by Remy, Atta, and WALL-E. Let's pray they don't screw it up."

The three gave him a cold look, while the others nodded in agreement.

—

Thursday came sooner than they realized, and unfortunately due to the pandemic, buying groceries was a pain in the ass and getting what they needed for dinner took longer than they would've hoped. Luckily they were able to have it all in their kitchen and (hopefully) would have enough time to make it. And even though they were spending the holiday by themselves, the Pixars still got dressed up and decorated for the occasion.

Since the kids would be joining them at the table as well, that meant having to cook for even more people. Remy, WALL-E, and Atta were hard at work in the kitchen making gravy, deviled eggs, sweet potato casserole, pumpkin pie, mashed potatoes, etc. And of course, turkey. At first it didn't seem like cooking was going to be so bad. They got an early start before most of the Pixars even woke up. If all went well, they would have dinner done by the afternoon.

"Okay guys, we've got a full house of hungry Pixars so we gotta get this done quick." Remy reminded them, "Atta, you're on pie detail, and you're gonna help me with the turkey. WALL-E, you focus on the casserole, eggs, and making sure Atta stays away from the marshmallows."

Atta slowly looked over at him while he pointed at her, "Yeah, I see you."

She narrowed her eyes at him before slowly reaching her hand toward the bag of marshmallows. He scolded her as she popped another one into her mouth, smirking at him and holding back a laugh. But then the two quickly moved on, since they couldn't waste much time on banter and jokes.

"I don't see how the Disneys do this every year." WALL-E commented, taking a bite of bread.

"Well, they don't actually make it. They have a whole cooking staff that serves them every meal. Which is kinda why they invite us in the first place." Atta explained to him, helping Remy baste the turkey.

Remy scoffed, "And yet there's only one chef in this house. Man, I'd love it if I could get more help around here. Hopefully the new Pixars will know how to cook."

"That's what you say every time." Atta chuckled.

"Maybe if I keep saying it, it'll happen." He shrugged.

After a few minutes, the turkey was ready to cook. They placed it in the oven and set the correct amount of degrees and time. Now all they had to do was wait and finish the rest of the meal.

Violet walked into the kitchen, inhaling the strong scent of half-cooked food. "Mmm, smells great in here." She commented, opening the fridge to grab a water bottle. "So how's slaving away for the others going?"

"We're not 'slaving away', Violet." Remy rolled his eyes. Although now that he said it out loud, it kinda seemed like they were, considering not a single other Pixar was offering to help. Instead they were all hanging out around the house doing who knows what. "Regardless, we're doing just fine."

"You wanna help us?" Atta asked with a mouthful of marshmallows—which earned a scowl from Remy.

Violet sighed, shutting the fridge. "I'd love to, but Joy's taking me out shopping for Christmas presents.

"But stores aren't even open today." WALL-E said.

"That's what I told her." The teen shrugged her shoulders, "But she insisted on taking me and a couple others. I honestly think they're just trying to get out of the house so they have an excuse not to help out."

The three exchanged an annoyed glance. While they expected that sort of behavior from their friends, it was still irritating to know they didn't care enough to even stay home for Thanksgiving. But then again, ditching her friends when they need her didn't sound like something Joy would do.

Before they could question it, they heard Violet's name being called from the other room, signaling her to walk away. "Well, good luck with dinner, guys." She said.

"Okay, have fun today." Atta said to her right before she left. The three then gave each other the same confused expression, all thinking the same thing. But it was a short-lived moment, as they quickly got back to work.

"Alright, making conversation is nice and all, but we can't spend much time having social interactions." Remy reminded them, "From now on, no more distractions, okay? Focus is key."

He turned around, seeing a certain someone once again stuffing three marshmallows in her mouth. "Atta!"

"Leave me alone!" She retorted.

—

Several hours passed since the three started cooking, and they were getting close to being finished. It was hard keeping the kids out of the kitchen to stop them from sneaking bites of the food, since they always did that even when eating at the Disneys' place. But in a display of irony, Remy always shooed them away or chased them out with a broom.

A little after noon the meal was finally ready to be gorged. Everyone had a little bit of everything on their plate and had to pull up a few chairs and small tables so they could all sit together in one spot (one of the tables was actually just an old nightstand). Usually when eating meals, the Pixars would just sit in different areas around the house since the table wasn't big enough for all of them to sit at. But since this was Thanksgiving, they wanted to be together.

"Alright everyone, before we eat, we should go around and say what we're thankful for." Woody said, "And I'll start if that makes it easier."

"It would." They all agreed.

They all joined hands as Woody began, "Well, I'm thankful for all of you. You're not just my friends or people I'm forced to live with, you're my family. Which is kinda the same thing but has better meaning. I'm also thankful for our success, and I'm thankful we're doing this here and not at Disney hell."

A few of them laughed and nodded, although they never thought they'd hear the words "Disney" and "hell" in the same sentence.

"I'll go next." Sulley said, "Let's see, I'm thankful for the food on my plate, and the hard-working people who made it for me."

Remy, Atta, and WALL-E smiled at him.

"And I'm thankful to have the privilege to celebrate this holiday with the people I love."

"Awww!!" They cooed.

Barley leaned towards Sadness to whisper, "Wait, are we supposed to say meaningful shit like that every time?" The girl merely shrugged in response.

Once everyone had a turn saying what they were thankful for, they were finally able to dig in. The turkey was even better than they were used to. The whole meal tasted far better than what they would've received at the Disneys' Thanksgiving. Except the sweet potato casserole appeared to be missing quite a few marshmallows.

"I'm so glad it's Thanksgiving." Joy said, a little out-of-the blue.

"Why's that, Joy?" Bob asked her curiously.

"So I can finally get in the Christmas spirit without people telling me to 'wait until Thanksgiving'." She rolled her eyes.

Out of all of them, Joy was definitely the Christmas fanatic, so much that all other holidays around the end of the year were irrelevant to her. The Pixars didn't mind it, though. They loved Christmas, and they were glad she was always the one to go all out on decorations so they didn't have to.

"Can't argue with that." Jessie said, stuffing a piece of pie in her mouth. "But sadly it's not gonna be the same this year."

"No kidding." Merida scoffed. "If people had just done what they were told back in March, this wouldn't have happened."

McQueen raised a brow, "Dude, we had a whole ass celebration for the Swearing-In in March—"

"That was before quarantine, shut up." She was quick to defend.

"When's quarantine gonna be over?" Dash asked, "I'm tired of staying inside all day."

Mike sighed, as he dreaded this topic every time it came up in conversation. But as the leader, he had to be the voice of reason. "Look guys, I know it's tough, okay? We can't even die from Covid but we're being forced to stay at home, and I know it's frustrating. Heck, there's probably not even gonna be a Swearing-In ceremony for 'Soul'."

"There's not??" Dory asked with a frown.

"If things stay this way, then no." He said, even though it hurt to admit. Swearing-Ins were a big deal for the Pixars. It was what made them apart of the family. "But there's nothing we've been through that we've faced alone, right? We've always had each other, and we always will."

Even though they were still sad about the situation, and even if what he said was a little cheesy, they knew he was right. They were the Pixars for crying out loud, they could handle any challenge as long as they stuck together.

Mike raised his glass, signaling everyone else to do the same. "I propose a toast. To our Pixar family."

"To our family!" They cheered, sipping their drinks afterward.

[thisbrokenmask]

V for Vivian

pairing: female reader x Kim Seokjin

genre: angst, romance

word count: 5,409

warnings: nothing explicit, but there are descriptions of a toxic relationship

summary: certain that your ex sort-of boyfriend won’t turn up to taehyung’s new year’s eve costume party, you go ahead with your half of the couple’s costume you’d planned. 

a/n: I need to stop writing 5k+ ‘drabbles’ in 24 hours, but I wanted to get at least a line of my @btsholidaybingo​​ card completed before New Year! I have two left to do tonight, so hopefully I’ll get them in before the clock ticks over to 2021 here in the UK. Somehow my ‘Costume Party’ prompt became this 5.4k word story, but hopefully it’s okay. Massive shout out to @hereinyourarmsforever​ for putting up with me sending her these at all hours of the day - couldn’t do it with you ♥

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea~” Namjoon singsongs from your bed. He’s lying on his back staring up at the ceiling, the same position he’s been in for the last twenty minutes while you’ve been getting ready. His feet are hanging off the edge to keep his shoes from getting on your sheets, even though they’re brand new and basically clean, especially considering they’ve only touched the floor outside when he’s gotten in and out of his Uber to your apartment. “You know he’ll think you did it for him.”

“I still don’t think he’ll be coming~” you sing back as you adjust your wig, a blonde bob that frames your face. You decide to bypass pinning it tonight, knowing that it will be held on by your hat until you decide to take them both off later. “Besides, if he turns up, he’ll just look like any other guy in a suit,” you sniff dismissively as you pick up your large gold hoop earrings. “I, however, will look hot as fuck whether he’s there or not. See?”

You turn and pose for Namjoon, who looks up just as you’re pushing your red painted lips into an exaggerated pout, blowing him a kiss. 

You laugh when his jaw actually drops and he stares at you unabashedly, blinking at you from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. His eyes rake across your frame, taking in the large cut outs in your dress, the skirt of which finishes way above mid-thigh, and dropping all the way down to the black, knee-high boots on your feet, safety pins instead of zips for added effect. 

“No?”

Namjoon’s eyes snap upwards, mouth still gaping like a lost fish. 

“Huh?” You smirk at the way his voice catches in his throat as he adjusts himself on the bed, not so subtly trying to adjust himself in his khaki cargo pants at the same time. At least they give him some breathing room, you think to yourself deviously, wondering if you’ll have the same effect on everyone else going to the party tonight. 

“Hot as fuck, or?” You turn on the spot, shimmying your hips to make sure your exposed waist draws attention, grabbing your paperboy hat from your dressing table as you go. With a pointed look at your long-term friend, you pinch the bill of your cap between your fingers and pull it down over your wig, relying on it to keep everything secure for at least the first hour of the party. “Or not so much?”

“Definitely hot as fuck,” Namjoon agrees, nodding as vehemently as he can without taking his eyes off of you. “Yeah, screw Seokjin-hyung,” he declares after a few more seconds of inspecting you. “You’re wearing that whether he’s going or not.” 

“I’m glad you agree, kind sir,” you laugh, preening under his attention and performing a curtsey that pushes your skirt even higher up your legs. You try not to spare too much thought to the brief mention of your sort-of ex, too many complicated feelings thrumming under your ribcage at the thought of him. You grab your coat, a cheap red one you found on eBay and super-glued some fake black fur cuffs onto, and your favourite black purse as you usher Namjoon to follow you. “Because I have nothing else.”

Part of you really doesn’t want to see Seokjin, still mad at the way he easily brushed off any talk of commitment one too many times. Everyone thought you were together, your friends referred to you as one of the couples of the group, and yet he would always make a point of saying you weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend - you just… went together. 

Another part of you, though, wants him to be there. Wants him to turn up at Taehyung’s apartment in his stupid suit that makes him look like he walked right off the runway, just so he can see you dressed in Julia Roberts’ knockout opening outfit from Pretty Woman. You could probably have a few guys eating out of your hands with just a bat of your eyelashes to prove a point to him, too. 

You don’t need him, not if he doesn’t want you.  

“I’m sure Taehyung wouldn’t complain if you went naked,” Namjoon ponders, and you can tell by the slightly dreamy tone to his voice that he’s definitely thinking about it. You lightly elbow him in the ribs as he follows you out of your front door before you turn to lock it and he laughs, adjusting his glasses. 

“You look good, by the way,” you tell him as the two of you turn to the building’s elevator. “Who are you again? Mike?”

“It’s Milo,” Namjoon whines as he steps in behind you, tapping at his phone for an Uber. This is the fifth time you’ve gotten the name wrong and by now he’s certain you’re doing it on purpose. 

“Ah, yes, Milo. From Atlanta-”

“Atlantis.”

“Right, right,” you grin as the doors open and you step out into the lobby. “Atlantis.”

Taehyung’s apartment is significantly bigger than yours, easily hosting at least 50-odd people for his New Year’s costume party, and you happily let yourself in like it’s your name on the buzzer. Namjoon follows, your hand wrapping tightly around his fingers to keep him close as you start to make your way through the throng of people. He keeps his expression as blank as he can when he eyes any guy who gives you a double or triple take, fiercely protective of you despite your assertions that you can handle yourself.

He’s known you long enough, though, to know that there’s only so much attention you can enjoy before you get overwhelmed. He knows large crowds panic you, which is why you’re gripping onto him so tightly, scared of getting separated from the people you’re comfortable with. You may bask in the attention of flings and passersby, but you are really only happy to spend time with those you know well.  

You spot Taehyung’s mop of dark curls through the gaudy costumes and head straight towards him, dropping Namjoon’s fingers. You know he’ll be right behind you no matter what. You move as fast as you can without pushing anyone over, a grin already plastered on your face before you reach the evening’s host. 

“TaeTae!” you call out and he whips round, completely forgetting whoever he was talking to as a wide boxy smile takes over his face at the sight of you. He scoops you up when you jump, his arms around your waist as he spins you round in a hug. He puts you down just as Namjoon makes his way into the little pocket of space that always seems to form around Taehyung.

“Hey, kitten,” Taehyung croons into your ear and you flush at the nickname that only Taehyung calls you. There’s always been an unspoken attraction between you and Taehyung, unspoken only because it’s so blatantly obvious that neither of you actually need to say it. You’ve never acted on it, both gluttons for the excitement of dancing around each other and having someone decent to flirt with at parties. The number of ‘almosts’ with Taehyung are too many to count and, still riding the wave of confidence Namjoon’s reaction gave you earlier, you’re sure tonight will be another almost-notch on the bedpost. “You look great.”

His nose brushes against your ear before he pulls away, turning to greet Namjoon, acknowledging the older man for the first time. 

“Who are you meant to be?” Namjoon and Taehyung ask each other at the same time, staring at each other with critical gazes and you burst out laughing between them. 

Taehyung’s brow twitches as he takes in Namjoon’s brown boots, his khaki-green pants and his cream sweatshirt, a light jacket thrown over the top (that you know Namjoon will hide away in Taehyung’s spare closet so he doesn’t lose it). You join Taehyung in his scrutiny of Namjoon’s outfit, but you rather admire how his chest fills it out, how his styled hair sits perfectly above his wire-rimmed glasses.

Namjoon eyes Taehyung’s military-style jacket in return, brow furrowing at the frilly black cuffs peeking out at the end of his sleeves, the white ruff at his neck and the two red stripes of face paint across his cheek in return. You love Taehyung’s outfit and you must admit you’re impressed with the level of detail he’s been able to achieve, down to his black painted nails. You’re pretty sure no part of his outfit came from eBay.

“You’re meant to come in a costume,” Taehyung says, eyes zoning in on the book in Namjoon’s hand. “Not your normal stuff.”

Namjoon stares back at him blankly. 

“Do you literally ever see me dress like this on a normal day.”

“I mean-”

“It’s a costume.” He insists, and Taehyung snickers.

“He’s Mike from Atlantis,” you supply, Taehyung leaning closer to you to listen, an arm snaking under your coat and curling around your waist. You suppress a shiver at the heat of his palm against your skin, his fingertips sinking into the curve of your waist.

Namjoon’s eyes quickly flicker down to watch the movement before he levels his gaze at you, his jaw clenching when he arches an eyebrow at you. You can see the playful glint in his eyes and you’re trying just as hard not to laugh as you bite your lip to keep your giggles in check, clinging onto Taehyung’s jacket as he looks on in amusement.

“Wasn’t he called Milo?” Taehyung asks and you see Namjoon’s eyes literally light up.

“Yes! Thank you,” he excitedly claps a hand on Taehyung’s shoulder, jostling the two of you slightly but he’s so happy to hear someone get the name right after all the times you’ve said it wrong that you can’t help but smile.

“And Tae is clearly Adam Ant,” you say, pressing your hand to Taehyung’s chest and smiling up at him. “Gotta brush up on your 80s rock bands, Joonie.” Taehyung stands taller, chest pressed forward into your palm, clearly glad that someone has picked up on his costume first try.

“Yeah, Joonie,” Taehyung grins, knowing Namjoon won’t hurt him, especially not in front of you. 

“Drink, Valerie?” Namjoon asks, purposefully getting your name wrong in a failed attempt to annoy you. You grin.

“Yes please, Joonie.”

“Usual?” 

“Uh-huh.”

“You got cherries?” he asks Taehyung, who looks offended that Namjoon even had to ask.

“Of course.”

With a nod, Namjoon heads off to the kitchen before stopping himself, looking back to Taehyung. “Look after her,” he warns, voice dropping low. Taehyung pulls you closer with a nod, hand slipping onto your hip as Namjoon starts to pick his way through the crowd.

“So,” Taehyung hums when Namjoon finally leaves you alone together, guiding you by his grip on your hip to the edge of the room. Several partygoers vacate the sofa pushed up against the wall when Taehyung approaches, allowing the two of you to sink down into the velvet together. “You look great, Victoria,” he teases, leaning in close with his hand still firmly on your hip.

“Thanks,” you cross one leg over the other, your boot brushing against Taehyung’s knee as his gaze drops down to the skin of your thighs. “Pretty Woman is one of my favourites, and this was probably my favourite look in the whole movie,” you say, repressing a shiver as he lets his free hand ghost against the side of your thigh. His eyes are dark and hooded but he’s still attentive, listening intently. You’re pretty sure you could talk about the colour of his ceiling right now and he’d be just as enraptured. 

“Mine too,” he says, voice low enough for only you to hear. His fingertips ghost the hem of your skirt, barely inches from a heat that always grows when you’re near him. “Especially on you.” He pauses, gaze dark as the hand on your hip climbs back up to your waist and keeps rising, drawing light circles across your ribs. “Although that scene in the bath is a close second.”

“Want me to badly sing Prince songs to you, Tae?” you tease, reaching up to finger the gold detailing on the lapels of his jacket. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest under your fingers. 

“If you’ll be wet and naked and covered in bubbles, you can sing whatever you want,” he grins. “Want me to go fill up the tub?”

“Maybe later,” you say, and it’s not entirely a lie. You’re pretty sure you wouldn’t turn down a bath with Taehyung given the opportunity, but you doubt either of you will remember this conversation within the hour. “This was supposed to be a couples costume, you know,” you sigh, letting the jacket drop back off your shoulders to pool on the sofa. Taehyung watches the material fall, absentmindedly licking his lips when his eyes rove over your newly-exposed skin. “But no way was I passing up wearing this outfit just because we weren’t coming together.”

“Very good choice,” Taehyung says, pressing his lips to your shoulder in a lingering kiss and you feel heat curl in your abdomen. “I would have had to kick Seokjin out if you’d come in something else because of him.”

He feels you tense under his hands and presses another quick kiss to your shoulder, his wandering hands pausing, relaxing to be more comforting than exciting.

“So he did come, then,” you mumble, refraining from turning to search through the crowd and focusing on fiddling with Taehyung’s buttons. 

“He did.”

“Is he-?”

“Dressed as Richard Gere?” Dark umber stares back at you when you meet his gaze, soft around the edges. “Yeah, he is.”

“Goddammit,” you huff, letting your body drop into the back of the sofa. You were hoping he’d at least come as something else, if he was going to come. It wasn’t like Seokjin didn’t look good in a suit, very much the opposite actually, but without you dressed as Julia Roberts on his arm, you figured he’d switch to a different costume that could be recognisable on its own. “Where is he?” you ask, picking at the hem of your dress while Taehyung puts his hand on your knee, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb. His other hand slides across the back of the sofa and you lean your head against his forearm.

“Dunno,” he says without even looking at the crowd around you. “Don’t care, to be honest. I’m just glad you still came. But I’ll keep him away from you, if you want.” 

You smile up at him, knowing that he’s just as protective over you as Namjoon. You’re well aware that the two of them both have feelings for you, a cause of contention between them as they both feel the other isn’t good enough for you. Whether it’s simply lust or something more, you’re not sure, but you’ve never been able to say wholeheartedly that you felt the same about either of them and so you never allowed anything to happen. Taehyung is fun to flirt with, and he knows the limits he’s allowed to dance around with you, whereas Namjoon is your best friend, for years the two of you have been each other’s go-to dates for work events and other things you’d rather die than go to alone.

You’ve made it clear where you stand with both of them, and they respect those boundaries. 

Seokjin, however, had been incredibly confusing for you. He could be incredibly sweet, even domestic when you’d spend weekends in his penthouse with him and you’d quietly become exclusive without a conversation. He’d never said so himself, but you knew from whispers on the socialite grapevine that Taehyung kept you tapped into that he wasn’t seeing anyone else. 

You’d had a few flings over the years, nothing too serious but at least they were willing to publicly claim you were seeing each other. Seokjin had never done that for you, but you’d been more like a couple than any other relationship you’d ever had before. He was definitely the first person who made you feel so fiercely you feared your chest would burst just from him looking at you. The first man to make you feel like you wanted to be with someone long term. 

You haven’t seen him since he let you walk out of Jimin’s Halloween party, although ‘party’ may be too casual a term for the events Jimin throws. Halloween had been an elegant masquerade ball in an old theatre uptown, every room lavishly bathed in purple and silver, from the drapes to the wait staff’s outfits. 

You’d been drawn into yet another conversation about the nature of your relationship when Jimin’s latest flame had asked how long you’d been together, although Jimin had quickly dragged her away with the lure of more champagne to avoid the impending argument. 

You’d jokingly suggested that maybe you should put a label on whatever it was between you and Seokjin, if anything to make those conversations easier, but he hadn’t agreed. Oh no, he’d told you to stop trying to fit other people’s expectations rather than doing what you wanted for yourself. When you’d shot back that maybe you did want to put a label on it, he’d told you firmly, again, that he’d never agreed that would happen. You accused him of giving you whiplash, of treating you like he loved you one minute then acting like you were nothing more than a fuck on speed dial the next. At least Jimin acted like he liked his flings, could bear to be seen with them in public and admitted to the connection, however brief. Seokjin had fallen into stony silence instead of replying, sipping his champagne as he watched the party, making it clear the conversation was over without walking away.

So you did, instead. 

You found Jimin, who protested profusely when you pressed a kiss to his cheek as you said goodbye, and walked out without looking back.

You have only heard from Seokjin once since, a single text that you’d refused to answer, and when he hadn’t tried again you’d assumed that, whatever it had been between you, was over. You weren’t going to be the one to extend the olive branch this time, tired of waving a tattered white flag and being the first to break the silence. If he’d wanted you, he’d known where to find you, known which circles you ran in and which friends he could scout out. 

But he didn’t.

Fuck him, you thought, shaking off the growing ache in your chest and forcing a smile to your lips as you considered Taehyung’s offer.

“Don’t worry, Taetae, I’m sure he won’t be seeking me out any time soon.”

“If he does, you come find me, okay? Or Namjoon,” he adds, and you can tell it almost pains him to suggest you go to someone other than himself. “I don’t want him ruining your night.”

“I won’t let him,” you say resolutely, although neither of you quite believe your words. 

You’re not quite sure how it’s happened, but you’re still wearing your hat two hours later despite having lost your wig from underneath it. You have a vague memory of Jungkook dancing around with a blonde bob, but you’ve had several more Cherry Bombs following the first one Namjoon had made you earlier. He had been making them for you, but when you’d figured out he was skimping on the rum, you stopped telling him when your cup was empty, much to Taehyung’s amusement. 

That’s where you are now, in the kitchen making your next drink in a daze, popping a cherry in your mouth as you go through the motions. 

The kitchen is pretty much empty by this point, most of the partygoers having  collapsed into plush sofas around the apartment or filed out to the balcony ready for the fireworks. You know both Taehyung and Namjoon are out there waiting for you, although your head is a little fuzzy on who you would rather be standing next to when the clock ticks over. 

You’re pondering if you’d be capable of convincing them both to kiss a cheek each at the same time when someone else enters the kitchen. You don’t notice the footsteps coming toward you until you get a strange feeling down your spine, but you just figure someone else is waiting for something you’re using. 

“I’ll be done with the rum in a second,” you say cheerfully, finishing your pour and putting it out to the side for them to grab, but they don’t move.

“I don’t drink rum,” a familiar voice murmurs, sending a chill down your spine that’s definitely not coming from the ice cubes in your hand. “You know that, Y/N.” He takes a step towards you, not close enough for your bodies to touch but you’re definitely aware of his presence now. “Or should I say Vivian?” 

“Seokjin,” you breathe out, turning to see the man in question stood in front of you looking just as handsome as you feared he would. Despite several hours of the party having passed, he doesn’t look anywhere near as dishevelled as most others are, but you assume that’s due to the scotch you recognise in the crystal-bottomed glass he’s holding. He’s always been one for sipping something stronger to keep his buzz rather than drinking to get wasted, and tonight is clearly no different. He’s not wearing a suit jacket, probably hung up somewhere to keep it safe, but he’s still wearing his dark blue waistcoat and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to expose his forearms. His hair has retained its style for the most part, only a few strands having fallen out of place across his forehead. 

“You look good,” he says, holding your gaze, and you know without asking that he doesn’t need to look down at your outfit because he’d have memorised it within the first half hour of seeing you. You consider your words carefully, knowing that this is much more than him simply coming to pay you a compliment.  

“I know,” you turn to grab your drink and make to leave, but his voice still has the power to stop you in your tracks. 

“You still wore it,” he states, and you’re surprised to see his eyes are softer than you expected despite the slight smirk on his lips. 

“Of course I did. It’s a good costume.”

“It is,” he agrees simply, looking down at his suit with a frown. “I just look like a rich asshole without my Vivian.”

“Nothing new, then,” you mutter into your cup and you’re surprised to hear him laugh.

“I guess so,” he says, and if you didn’t know him better you’d think he sounded sad. He takes a sip of his drink and you can’t help but watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. The kitchen falls quiet between you. It’s awkward and heavy but neither of you make to leave. This is the closest you’ve knowingly been to him all evening and you’re torn between wanting to leave him in your wake and wanting to stay close to him. As much as he hurt you, you’re still drawn to him, still feel pulled towards him by the rope around your heart that neither of you ever severed. 

“What do you want, Seokjin?” you ask, wishing you were in between a bickering Taehyung and Namjoon right now instead of here with him. At least you know how everyone feels when you’re with them. 

Seokjin falters slightly at your question and your own nerves grow, a thickness in your throat that even your rum can’t cut through. Seokjin never falters. Something’s wrong.

“I just… I wanted to apologise,” he says, not quite meeting your eye, neck flushing red. You subtly take a sniff of your drink, making sure you haven’t accidentally slipped in something stronger, but the sweet cherry scent is exactly as it always is. 

Seokjin notices your shock and chuckles to himself, embarrassed, but he’s been going over what he wants to say to you for weeks and he’s not about to back out now. Steeling himself, he puts down his glass and turns to you, his expression sincere. 

“I really am sorry, Y/N-”

“For what?” you interrupt, curious whether he actually knows what he did wrong or if he’s just trying to butter you up. He doesn’t falter this time, as if he’s been expecting a third degree interrogation from you, but he doesn’t bristle either. The more you watch him and the way he accepts your sharp tone with resignation, the more you realise he is genuinely apologetic. It’s such a strange concept to you that you briefly wish he would go back to being an asshole to you just to feel a bit more familiar. 

“For everything,” he says, continuing before you can berate him for such a cop-out answer. “For never treating you properly, never treating you like you deserve to be treated.” He slips his hands in his pockets as he takes a few cautious steps towards you, keeping an eye on your reaction to make sure he doesn’t overstep. “I know I hurt you, when I told you I never promised I’d call you my girlfriend. I know I hurt you a lot of times.”

Hearing him say the words you’d wanted to hear for so long, actually admitting that he knew he’d hurt you and apologising for it, is enough to make your throat sting with the rising sensation of tears. You stare into your cup but you don’t see the cherries and ice cubes swimming in your rum: your attention is solely on him.

“I’m sorry I let you walk out of that party without telling you how I feel about you, about us.”

Your gaze snaps to him, feeling like all of the air is being squeezed out of your lungs. Seokjin never spoke about his feelings or spoke about the two of you as an ‘us’, only ever referring to you as two separate people who just happened to go to events together. 

“The last couple of weeks, I’ve… thought about you, a lot. I’ve really fucking missed you, Y/N,” he chokes out, closing his eyes tightly and you grip your cup. You’ve never heard him cry before. 

He looks up at you, eyes red, and you almost step towards him before you catch yourself. You’ve missed him, too, and not just for the way he leaves you weak in the knees the morning after. Despite his reluctance to put a label on your relationship, Seokjin was more domestic than he was perhaps capable of admitting. It had touched you when he’d learned your coffee order within a week, always had your favourite snacks stocked away in his penthouse kitchen and even bought you a small wardrobe’s worth of clothes. 

But it was the occasional evenings spent on his sofa that you remembered fondest, a bottle or two of red wine split between you while you watched TV together. He would always lay your legs across his lap, gently massaging down your calves while your chosen film or documentary played out in front of you until he was pressing circles into your feet with his thumbs. He always said he didn’t care for TV so he’d let you choose, but he’d be just as engrossed as you by the end of the night, insisting on one more episode before you dragged him to bed. It was those moments of intimacy that you missed, when he seemed like he could actually be your boyfriend if only he wasn’t so reluctant. 

You’re not sure if you can bring yourself to believe him, given how easily he threw it all away. 

“Sure, you did,” you roll your eyes, sarcasm dripping from your voice to mask the hurt you can’t swallow. “My phone’s barely stopped ringing.”

His gaze hardens, but a flash of hurt crosses his face. 

“I texted you,” he bites out. “You didn’t reply.”

“You asked me what I was doing for the holidays, Seokjin. You didn’t apologise, you didn’t say anything about what happened. You didn’t give me any reason to talk to you.” You put your cup down on the counter behind you, the temptation to throw it at him growing every second. 

“I didn’t know what else to say,” he says quietly. “I’m not used to…” he trails off, unsure how to phrase it. “I’m not used to being the one to fix things.” 

You laugh hollowly; you can’t help it. It’s bitter, the reminder that you were always the one to crawl back first, but it’s true. 

“It’s not nice, is it?” you ask, letting him see your own teary eyes as you look up at him. “Waiting for someone else to give you what you want.” His features fall and his shoulders drop, the meaning behind your words as clear as day: you waited for him to give you a relationship and he kept teasing you with it, pulling you along like a fool. 

“No,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not. But I’m ready, I think.” Seokjin takes one more step towards you, his hands still buried deep in his pockets, arms tense with the restraint it’s taking him not to reach out and touch you. 

“Ready?” you ask, head spinning, heart pounding. “Ready for what?”

“To give you what you want,” he says gently. “I’m ready to give you a relationship, if you still want one… still want me.”

You’ve waited months to hear him say those words but now that you’re hearing them you’re struggling to understand. Your eyes search his features and you see that he looks tired, like he hasn’t slept properly for a while. 

You’re conflicted. The disbelief of hearing those long-awaited words sits level on the scales of your emotions, balanced out by the sting of too many rejections in the past. You’re tired, too. Tired of waiting for him, of having your hopes raised by tender touches only to be dashed by the sharp words claiming you’re nothing more than his friend. You don’t want to fall for his words only for them to come back and cut you later on, but you also don’t want to miss out on the opportunity to at least try having everything you’ve ever wanted with him. 

It’s too big of a decision to make in one moment, even when you’re sober.

“I do,” you say hesitantly, careful with your expression. “I do still want you, but-” you put your hand out to stop him when he takes another step closer, hands withdrawing from his pockets to reach out for you. They hesitate in mid-air at the touch of your fingertips to his chest, fingers curling in on themselves. “But I can’t just say yes to this, not tonight. I need time. I need you to prove to me that I can trust you, and that you mean this, Seokjin.” 

His gaze softens and his hands slowly close over yours, holding your palm to his chest.

“I understand,” he says, hands holding yours tightly. “I’m willing to wait. I think it’s only fair, I’ve made you wait long enough.” 

“Too right,” you say, pushing him gently on the chest and his cheeky smirk falls into a grin. 

“Start the new year with me,” he says, gradually bringing you closer until he can press a kiss to your hair.

“Okay,” you whisper, wrapping your hands around his torso and relaxing into the planes of his chest. You’ve missed being held by him. “Let’s go outside.”

You retrieve your glasses and head out onto the balcony together hand in hand, taking the alcohol with you more to keep you warm than to keep any lingering buzz going. Namjoon smiles when you come up beside him, almost wrapping his arm around your shoulder when he catches sight of your hand entwined with Seokjin’s. His expression falls slightly but he recovers, meeting your gaze to silently ask if everything’s okay, and when you nod his smile returns, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. You know he’ll have questions and you’ll answer them in time but, for now, you’re happy to watch as colours explode in the sky above you all. 

If you’d like to read any more of my writings, please visit my masterlist  ♥

[jemej3m]

RADIO CALLER AU RADIO CALLER AU RADIO CALLER AU

OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY

I’m way too lazy to link the rest of the parts so here’s the latest one lmao srry 

p3

*

Wymack settled into his chair. He well trusted Neil by now, but Minyard had a reputation that precedented him, so Wymack wouldn’t let the man derail the show with his presence. 

He hadn’t told Kevin about Andrew’s sudden and startling reappearance yet: He knew his son would grow too fanatic and overenthusiastic, and probably put Andrew off all over again. Wymack looked into the man’s credentials: His behavioural record was tarnished to all hell, but every one of his grades had been stellar. It was baffling enough that the name Minyard had remained, lodged in his brain, until Neil had finally admitted who he wanted to co-host.

It was a Tuesday evening, already hitting close to midnight. Through the glass Neil was setting up, the routine old hat by now, but Andrew was lounging in a chair he seemed too familiar with, a lolly-pop in his mouth. 

Wymack leaned into his soundboard and spoke into the comm. “You sure you’ve never been here, Minyard?”

The candy came out of his mouth with a pop. “Nope.” Neil sent Minyard a quiet smile and jostled his shoulder gently. Minyard flipped him off. 

I’m too old for this.

‘This’ entailed: Obvious, middle-school flirting and being away past ten o’clock, both of which Wymack’d had enough of to last the rest of his presumably short lifespan. 

He simply shook his head and settled further into the chair to watch the slow as it went live. 

“Welcome back to Mid-Nights, with me, the same person who’s been hosting this show for months and yet still repeats his name, Neil Josten.” He grinned into the microphone and winked at Wymack, who rolled his eyes. Minyard mirrored him. Maybe Andrew would be the one to finally tame Josten’s shitty attitude. “But guess what? There’s someone else here with me today, cohosting tonight.”

“It’ll be a one-off event, undoubtedly.” Minyard said into his mike. 

“Am I introducing you?”

“You dragged me on here, junkie.”

“I did, didn’t I. Cohosting with me tonight is Andrew Minyard, who’s got some new music and absolutely scathing opinions to share with you all. It’s a pleasure to have you here, ‘Drew.”

“Call me that again and I’ll sew your lips shut.”

Neil just laughed. 

Wymack didn’t have to worry. Neil seemed well versed in conversing with Andrew, who, despite his misgivings, was very good at what he did: Things ran incredibly smoothly, to the point that Wymack realised it was ridiculous that he was here. Of course, he needed to assess Minyard to see if he was up to a permanent gig if he ever wanted one, but Neil easily had it under control. Minyard was way too familiar with the space, the boards and controls: He had to have been here prior, but Wymack wasn’t going to ask.

They made a good pair, Wymack thought. He wondered what they’d say if he offered them a prime-time spot. 

It hit about two-thirty in the morning and Wymack hit the comm button mid-way through a song. “I’m going home. Congrats, Minyard. You better not have razed my studio to the ground by the time I get back here in a few hours.”

“Can’t make any promises.” The pint-sized man muttered. Wymack simply shook his head and tucked his chair under his desk, shoving his notes into his bag and filing out with his keys hanging off his ring finger. 

It could just work. Neil and Andrew in evening peak-hour, the most promising intern Robin running graveyard shifts, and Allison moving up and out to the news broadcasting position she’d been offered. 

It all fit together, like a hideous puzzle. Wymack didn’t mind: He’d keep adding pieces and making the FM-OX network a home for his kids.

*

“How’d you like that?” Neil insisted, forever obsessed with his work. Andrew rolled his eyes, standing up and pushing the chair under his desk. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

“You can’t think you’ll successfully entertain me with your own obsessive tendencies.”

“Fine.” Neil challenged. “I’ll let you drop me home if we go to Sweeties on the way.” 

Andrew narrowed his eyes. Neil didn’t give in to an argument so easily, especially not one that had been consistent over the past few weeks. Neil, as Andrew eventually discovered, walked home in the dead of the night after his show. Like the reckless idiot he was. As if his striking features and scars didn’t draw enough attention to him: He deliberately put himself in harms way so often, and so carelessly, that Andrew wondered what kind of childhood he must have endured to be so infuriatingly reckless. 

He’d asked Neil why he was so obviously flippant about himself. Neil had retorted with a sharp “I do care. I just can’t trust anyone to look out for me in my stead.” 

“Can’t, or won’t?” Andrew offered. Neil, in a particularly bitter mood that day, had said nothing else. 

Now Neil was letting Andrew drop him home. He had to want something. 

“Only if you get me fries and ice cream.”

“Pl - Don’t put them together. I’ll be sick.”

Andrew noticed the way he caught himself before saying ‘please’. It was the little things about Neil that had him stumbling over himself as he fell deeper and deeper into the hole that was being attracted to Neil Josten, when he realised that Neil adhered to every one of his boundaries. 

“Funnily enough, I couldn’t give less of a shit. Let’s go, Josten.”

They’d queued good music on the station in their absence and listened to it whilst Andrew drove with the windows down, careening into Sweeties’ drive-through. Neil had a small smile playing across his lips, curls fluttering in the breeze. When the car rolled to a stop his cheeks were flushed red, looking utterly windswept. Andrew had to avert his eyes. 

Neil ordered for him, seeing as he’d spent the past four hours talking intermittently - more than he’d ever had to before, but also surprisingly easy when it was with Neil. 

The other man said just what Andrew was thinking as they sat in the parking lot, Andrew dipping curly fries into strawberry ice-cream and Neil breathing in the steam from his black coffee. 

“And to think this all happened because you called me one night.” Neil muttered, a teasing sparkle in his eye. 

“You were confounding enough to keep my interest.” Andrew said dismissively. 

“Am I still? Confounding?”

Yes and no. Andrew felt like he knew nothing about Neil. He’d known Neil did a course with Kevin and got into FM-OX through Kevin’s connections. He knew he didn’t talk to his family, that his scars were a premeditated attack from someone he knew. He knew Neil liked the colour grey and fruit and obscure, unknown musicians and the radio and that he didn’t celebrate his birthday. He didn’t have a car and liked going for jogs in the morning and took his coffee plain black and had moved around a lot as a kid. Neil was smart enough to entertain anyone on a specific topic, but he never let on that he knew more than he should for some scrawny young guy in the middle of a scrappy South Carolinian city. 

Other than that, Andrew had nothing. Neil was like water between his fingers: Cool, refreshing, but impossible to get a grasp on. 

“You’re still irritating.” Andrew answered. Neil just snorted and drank his coffee. “You haven’t eaten and definitely shouldn’t be drinking coffee at this hour.”

“I can take care of myself,” Neil argued, hiding behind his cup. 

“Clearly.” Andrew grunted, shoving the car into reverse once he’d finished and pulled out of the empty parking lot. 

Neil’s home was relatively close to FM-OX studios, a decrepit looking doorway between two crusty shop-fronts that lead to studio apartments that looked down on the street. Neil clambered out but turned around and leaned back into the car with a shit-eating grin. 

“I had a good time, ‘Drew.” Like he was dropping Neil home from a date. Should he walk him to the door? Kiss him on his doorstep? How horrifically cliché. 

Andrew scowled. “Don’t get comfortable, junkie.”

Neil winked. The fucking bastard winked. “Keep an eye out for a call from Wymack. He might just have an offer that’ll be too good to resist. See you soon, Minyard.” The car door slammed behind him. 

Andrew was too late, distracted by watching Neil in his jeans and button-down walk to the front door of his apartment block, but still muttered “Fucking asshole.” like Neil was still there to hear him. 

He thought he’d be exhausted, but he was fucking wired beyond belief. Even when he laid on his bed upon arriving home, he couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes. Sleeping would reset the day. And Andrew wouldn’t admit this to anyone, not even to himself: 

He didn’t want it to end. 

*

ibfnakhrualhifwkjdbhferghifwuekjnhv HOW MANY PARTS WILL IT TAKE FOR THIS PINING TO BE OVERRRRR

[spideyy-girl]

Dating Richie Tozier Would Include...

Request by anon: hey are u writing richie fics??? if so can you just do one where he realizes he really loves her or just a dating richie fic?

Summary: pretty simple,,, what it would be like if you were dating the infamous “trash mouth” of Derry (spoiler it’s fukin awesome)

Fandom: IT

Warnings: swearing, abusive parents are mentioned, serious injuries and talking of death, making out

Word Count: 1480 (4.3 pages)

A/N: so this was requested in May and to the anon who did request this I’m so sorry it took so long! Also, I hope you don’t mind that I did a headcanon instead cause I just had so much to say. But anyways hope you enjoy!

~~~

Dating Richie is just so like nice and just perfect

you guys would've met a long time ago, he defended you when Henry Bowers tried to take your animal crackers in kindergarten

and ever since then you two were thick as thieves

being the closest friends out of the entire Losers club

you started to get feelings for him in sixth grade...

it was one of the many nights when he had come over to your house in the late hours of the night due to his mother drinking again or another family issue

you had stayed up and let him rant to you, holding his hand in yours and gently brushing your thumb against his knuckles as he tried to keep his tears at bay

he hated crying in front of you more than anyone

after he had gotten everything out he was exhausted

he fell asleep right away as you were finding extra pillows

still dressed in his jean shorts and stupid hawaiian shirt

you had seen it many time before but this time it triggered something in you and you knew you were fucked

you not being able to hide your feeling for him and told him two weeks later

you never kept any secrets from the other so it was bound to happen

but thank god he felt the same whoo

and this BOY he was just so EXCITED like YES

after you turn around he definitely starts dancing and pumping his fist in the air

you catch him doing it too

your first date is at the arcade (obviouslyyyyyy)

he teaches you how to play mortal combat

you guys get slushies and it somehow ends up in spilling the entire thing on each other

"SLUSHIE FIGHT"

but as I was saying he's just really the perfect boyfriend right y'know

cause he's already your best friend and you guys aren't awkward and you can trust him and tell stupid jokes to each other

but also Richie has a soft side (fight me on this)

tells you stupid pick up lines, gets you little gifts and flowers, always spoiling you with little things like that

is SOOO into pda but only if you're comfortable with it of course

soft pecks: YES 

forehead kisses: MORE YES

hand kisses: BIG YES

hand holding: ALL THE TIME

hugs: EVERY DAY

always has to be touching you, sorta clingy but in a good way

especially after the events of IT, he is always nervous and always has to have his hands on you

because you got seriously hurt during the events of the Well House in the final battle

this poor boy thought you weren't gonna make it and was just so distressed

staying by your side at your hospital bed every single day without fail (not like he had many other people to be with)

crying silently into your hand when he was alone 

but when you woke up he was so happy he started to cry more

showers you in kisses and cries to you about how scared he was about you leaving him and his nightmares about the clown from the sewers

slips the big L-word while rambling without even realizing it

and even though you guys are young you knew that you felt the same way, but would save that conversation for later

when your nurse walks in to check on you she finds you and Richie asleep on the tiny hospital bed, cuddling

his head was on your shoulder and your hands were threaded through his long black hair, that was pretty greasy but you didn't mind

his glasses fell off a while ago and cracked but neither of you really cared

Richie practically living with you after his household becomes too much so he's just always over

him always acting like an angel when he's around your parents and them actually loving him and basically adopting him

him wanting your parents to think he's a good influence because all of his other friend's parents despise him for some reason

OMG SLEEPOVERS 

your mom and dad wouldn't think much of it before agreeing like once a week since you used to have them all the time when you were younger and before you were dating

you two making out in your room and Richie being really nervous because "what if they just come in?"

(they never do anyways)

doing dumb karaoke sing-alongs to songs like africa and bohemian rhapsody

MOVIE MARATHONS

would usually consist of multiple star wars movies and stupid romcoms that your mom has a stash of

groaning at all the cheesy scenes even though they were exactly like the two of you in real life

cuddling on the couch and sharing a blanket awwww

him feeding you popcorn as you're watching the movies AWWWW

you guys eventually tire yourselves out and sleeping on the couch LIKE JUST SO GODDAMN CUTE WOW

you guys go to your first school dance together

Richie bicycles to your house and makes sure to bring you the nicest bouquet of flowers not so much money could buy

he was for some reason so nervous, like his palms were sweating as he rang the doorbell, and was constantly smoothing down the one regular white button-up shirt he owned

when he sees you in your cute little dress with your hair done in little curls and the small amount of makeup your mother had done for you, he felt like he was gonna faint

how did he get so damn lucky like... SERIOUSLY

little did he know you were thinking the exact same thing as you smiled brightly back at him

you guys had an absolute ball, dancing all night like crazy people, not even caring about the popular kids at school judging you

slow dancing at the end of the night to put your head on my shoulder and it being really sweet

him kissing you at the end, and even though it's still awkward middle school kissing it was just the best thing ever

"I sorta think I may be in love with you"

"I know, you told me last month" 

going into highschool still strong as ever just POWER COUPLE

still being nerds and bullied a lot but also everyone wanted to be you cause your relationship together was PERFECT

you guys had one small fight in junior year because of some nasty freshmen were trying to get him to ask them to prom

the poor boy was absolutely oblivious and didn't know what was happening until you started yelling at him

you guys break up during the summer but just before school starts he shows up at your door with a big teddy bear, a bog full of chocolate, a handpicked bouquet of daisies, and a very practised apology

you couldn't help but run into his arms again

you went through everything in life together after that, graduation, college, getting jobs, finding a place to live, and eventually getting married and having a family together

you guys have one little girl named Annie and she's just so perfect

her being such a daddy's girl and having Richie wrapped around her little finger

Richie is the best dad imaginable, despite his not so similar upbringing, going as far as to play dress up and having tea parties with his little girl

living in a cute apartment together in new york, where Richie worked as a radio host for one of the biggest stations in the country

your loves being complete and everything was just how it was supposed to be finally

well, that is until you guys get the phone call from your childhood friend Mike

when IT comes back Richie insists you don't come with him back to Derry, saying that you had to go watch the Annie while he was away

you gave up after a long few days of fighting over it

never being able to sleep since whenever you closed your eyes all you could see was that stupid clown hurting your husband

always keeping Annie close to you all the time and never letting her leave your sight, even though you no longer lived in Derry, or Maine even and there was technically no threat towards you guys

when he gets home you've never been happier in your life

taking Annie to the airport to pick him up and running into his arms when you finally see him, your little girl in your arms as well

"It's over now, it's gone for good this time"

you guys grow old together, and are both really happy and love to recall useless memories from when you were children and everything turns out great

wow honestly I'm crying at this point

you guys are just so damn perfect and everything is perfect I love this 

okay sorry I'm done now have fun

~~~

TAGS:

Permanent: @phonegalhelp @caswinchester2000 @gwenebear @morganvanilla

Let me know if you want to be added to a taglist!

[fakeyellow]

Part 2 of if MC had leukemia. Prepare yourselves for the angst!

“I don’t want to die,” Celia whispered into Kamilah’s chest as the older woman gently stroked her head, careful not to pull her hair.

It had been just a week since her first chemo session but already, Celia noticed the large amounts of hair she was losing. It seemed foolish and vain to cry about her hair of all things, but after a shower that had ended with particularly large clumps around the drain, Celia had burst into tears on the bathroom floor. Kamilah had needed to wrap her wet body in a towel before gently supporting her to the bed, where they currently lay.

Kamilah suddenly pulled Celia’s chin upwards so their eyes could lock.

“I won’t let you,” she promised and the love in her eyes was more than Celia had ever hoped for. With a teary smile and a small kiss, Celia finally fell asleep in the arms of the woman she loved.

—-

“It says I might have a cerebellar haemorrhage,” Jax said, tapping furiously on Lily’s phone.

“Jax. You’re a vampire,” Lily repeated.

“But what if I do have it? My head’s been sorta sore” Jax said stubbornly as he gingerly rubbed the back of his head, feeling for the presence of protrusions.

Lily let out a cry of frustration, looking to the skies as if begging for divine intervention and Celia couldn’t help but laugh as she joined them despite her anxiety. 

This was the first time she was seeing them since she’d told everyone of her condition and even though these were her friends, her family, she felt a little uncomfortable. Because for all of Jax’s worries, they were still vampires, unable to get sick. Although Lily had been Turned recently, Jax and Adrian had been Turned years ago; could they still understand illness? 

“Wow! You look great!” Lily exclaimed, breaking her out of her brief moment of worry, “You have a really nicely shaped head. 

Celia touched the silk scarf wrapped tightly around her newly shaved scalp, and did a little twirl to show off her new look, “I do have a nice head, don’t I?”

Lily nodded gravely, “I’m a verified connoisseur of skulls and I can definitively tell you, yours is top-notch.”

The two of them fell into giggles as Jax watched them, momentarily distracted from his “haemorrhage,” but soon their attention returned to him.

“Who knew Jax would be the hypochondriac of the group?” Celia joked, an amused grin on her face.

“I know, it’s literally gap moe,” Lily gushed in excitement, “but it’s still really annoying.”

“I should remind you two that I’m a Clan leader now. Make fun of me at your own peril, particularly you, Lily. I might be tempted to kick you out,” Jax warned, bringing out his already immaculate sword and polishing it for good measure.

Lily patted his warning aside with a roll of her eyes, “Bah humbug. You’re a big softie on the inside, no use trying to hide it. Besides, your old ass wouldn’t survive a day without my skills.”

Celia couldn’t hide the wide smile growing on her face and she forgot why she had been worried in the first place. Everything was normal.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Lily whispered as she crushed Celia in a goodbye hug, “You’re literally the strongest woman I know. Well, other than Kamilah I guess. And me now that I’m a vampire. But you’re still really strong and I know you’re gonna kick that leukemia right in its balls.”

Celia was once again reminded of how lucky she was, that she could still do this, still hug her friends. It had filled her with such happiness when Kamilah had told her that vampires were incapable of hosting bacteria on their bodies. If she had been forced to stay away from them all, Celia wasn’t sure she could survive.

All Celia could do was hug Lily even tighter.

—-

Kamilah had put in an indefinite leave of absence from her company in order to take care of Celia and it was a testament to how much Celia was suffering that she’d put up only the weakest of protests.

She’d accompanied Celia to every hospital visit, even in the daylight, hiring a human “bodyguard” whose real purpose was to make sure she was adequately shaded from the sun. Although human medicine had never intrigued her enough for her to study it, Kamilah was a fast learner and soon enough, she was asking the physicians and nurses to explain everything they were doing, making sure Celia was truly receiving the best care possible. It didn’t hurt that she was intimately connected with the CEO’s of the best hospitals around the world.

But even still, Kamilah felt like she wasn’t doing enough. 

She let out a frustrated sigh and turned in the bed, back towards the sleeping figure of Celia. She tucked an errant curl behind Celia’s ear before her brows furrowed in concern. 

Celia was burning hot. 

“Celia,” Kamilah said urgently, before her voice grew in intensity, “Celia!”

But the woman did not rouse, her sleeping face covered with profuse amounts of sweat. 

There was no time to lose.

She threw on the first piece of clothing she could reach, a loose, long-sleeved blouse and a floppy hat, before carrying Celia’s too light, too feverish body out of their bedroom, out of the apartment, and into the sunny streets of New York. 

Kamilah let out a stifled hiss at the feel of the sunlight on her exposed wrists but she ignored it, pushing past the hordes of well-dressed businessmen making their morning commute.    

At last, she made her way to the hospital, and she headed straight to the front desk.

“I need you to call Dr. Nguyen and tell her that her patient, Celia Sinclair, has a 104 degree fever,” Kamilah ordered, the receptionist quickly nodding and doing as she was told. A pair of nurses rushed to Kamilah’s side and she reluctantly gave over Celia to them, watching their every move with narrowed eyes.

 The nurses wheeled Celia’s bed away and it was only when the receptionist cleared her throat, that Kamilah realised the scene she must have made, her lingerie clearly visible underneath the shirt she had hastily put on. 

“Ms. Sayeed, we’ve prepared Celia’s usual room. You can go on in there and wait for the doctor,” the lady said kindly, not a hint of judgment in her eyes.

Kamilah nodded regally at her in thanks before making her way to the elevator.

—-

“Are you okay?” 

At the hoarsely whispered question, Kamilah was instantly at Celia’s bedside.

“You gave us quite a scare,” she whispered fondly, tightly gripping Celia’s slender hands to her chest.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” Celia laughed weakly before she refocused on the bandages wrapped around Kamilah’s wrist with concern and repeated, “Are you okay?” 

“Mild irritation from the sun, it’s not important,” the vampire dismissed but Celia’s eyes flew open.

“Oh my god! Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Focus on your own recovery first before worrying about me,” Kamilah rebuked, but there was no real bite to her words. That Celia would still be worrying about her when she herself was lying in a hospital bed… Her heart was painfully full in a way she’d never thought she’d deserve.

“You should Feed,” Celia insisted with a lopsided grin, “I’d offer but I don’t think my blood would taste that good right now.”

Kamilah let a small, forced laugh and pressed a kiss to her forehead, “I’m fine. Sleep now.”

—-

Celia had slowly but steadily been regaining her strength after she’d returned home from the hospital. While they’d both been relieved nothing more serious had happened, it still brought up issues they had both avoided until now.  

“I just don’t understand why you won’t let me Turn you!”

Kamilah paced around their apartment as Celia sat on the side of their bed.

In their previous ordeals, there had been concrete enemies to defeat. Vega, Ferals, Gaius, There had been clear targets endangering Eden’s life that Kamilah could focus her fear and hatred on; she’d ripped through them all without a single hint of remorse, all to protect her. 

But now, Kamilah had never felt so powerless. 

What could she do when the enemy was Celia’s own body and Celia kept refusing the only way she could help her?

“I don’t want to, okay?! Just leave it alone!” Celia said softly, her arms wrapped around herself, but Kamilah was too agitated to just give in like she’d already done the last times they’d brought this topic up. 

“People die from your disease. Do you understand? There’s a 76% chance you’ll die in the next five years! It’s more likely you’ll die than it’ll rain tomorrow.”

“I prefer to think of it as that there’s a 24% chance I’ll survive the next five years. Those odds are pretty good and I’ve always been lucky, I mean I met all of you and what were the chances of that?” Celia said stubbornly, her eyes fixed on the ground.

“Eden,” Kamilah finally cried out desperately.

Celia finally raised her face, revealing eyes that were brimming with tears.

“I KNOW!”

She sighed and continued in a calmer voice.

“Do you know, I’ve made a lot of friends in the cancer ward at the hospital. Opening up to strangers is a lot easier when you’re both being ripped apart from the inside by the same disease…” Celia let out a dark chuckle before she spoke again.

“Haley was accepted to NYU last year, and she was ecstatic because it’s literally been her dream school since she was a kindergartener. But she had to postpone her matriculation because she was diagnosed with cancer, so now she’s in the hospital and all she can do is like her friends’ Facebook posts about their college entrance ceremonies. Carmen, all she’s ever wanted is to have a baby with her husband, but she can’t continue her IVF treatments and they don’t even know if she’ll still be fertile after her chemo. Mike’s daughter just had her first child and it’s killing him that he can’t be with them now, that he can’t even hold or kiss his only grandson.”

“Do you want to know what they all have in common? They’re all going to die. Maybe today, tomorrow, two years from now, they’re all going to die.”

Kamilah stared speechlessly at Celia, her mouth drying up. Celia had always been the optimist, always holding onto an indestructible hope and belief that they would overcome any obstacles life threw at them. If Celia felt this way now…

Celia spoke wistfully, “I think they’re the bravest people in the world, facing their deaths head-on like that, suffering through painful treatments that are just as likely to kill them as they are to save them. And it’s unfair. They all have so much to live for, but they’re going to die because of a condition they have no control over. Why should I get a free pass when they don’t? Why do I get to live when they don’t, just because they don’t know you?!”

“I understand how you feel, but we can’t Turn everyone who’s dying,” Kamilah said carefully, and she did understand. She truly did. She’d spent the first hundred years of her life repressing her guilt that she had been given immortality when so many others, so many good people had not. And then she’d realised that it wasn’t a gift but rather a curse. 

But if Turning Celia meant she wouldn’t die, Kamilah would face Isis herself and walk straight into hell.  

“Why not?!” Celia yelled even as she knew she was being unreasonable, “Why do you guys get to decide who lives and who dies?!”

Kamilah icily replied, “I don’t recall you getting mad when you used your connection with Adrian to get Lily Turned and Branded.”

Celia buried her face in her hands, “I know. I’m a hypocrite. But it’s still not fair.”

One last sob escaped from her before she took a deep breath and stared directly at Kamilah.

“Don’t Turn me Kamilah,” she said with finality, and the conversation was over.

—-

A/N:  “I will face God and walk backwards into hell” sounds cool so I used it, but replaced God with Isis for Kamilah (I still can’t believe this badass line was first said by Dril). 

All of my MC’s seem to have the greatest aversion to being Turned, which is funny because I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’d all too happily be Turned. But you know, having them refuse to be Turned opens up the story to so much angst! If the MC was Turned, then I mean, it doesn’t really matter that she’s got cancer or anything. 

Honestly, I feel like I’ve written everything I wanted to for this story so I don’t think there will be a Part 3. I’m also starting medical school literally tomorrow so it’s unlikely I’ll be able to write anything soon. I hate open endings but I really couldn’t decide whether I wanted MC to make a miraculous recovery, die and not be turned bc Kamilah respected her wishes, or die and be Turned by Kamilah regardless of her wishes. I suppose if you want to imagine the last one, you could always head on over and read this story I previously wrote which is literally about Kamilah Turning MC against her wishes. 

Anyway, thanks for reading! 

Tag List: @h-doodles @viosoul (I think you guys were the only one who asked to be Tagged. Sorry if I missed anyone)

[alarawriting]

Inktober #13: Ash

Here we are with “No Drama” again. The actual book is in first person, but I went with third and a different POV than John’s because I wanted to explore what he looks like from a human’s perspective.

***

Lailah arrived at the bar as quickly as she could, panting slightly. “John! What’s the emergency?”

“There’s no emergency,” her partner, John Deer, assured her, slurring slightly. He had a glass of bourbon in front of him, no ice, mostly empty. The fact that he was slurring, and the fact that he had called her insisting that it was an emergency and she needed to meet him at Gaetano’s right away and now he was claiming there was no emergency, suggested that it was not his first one, or likely, even his third.

“You said there was an emergency,” she snapped. She hated bar stools. She hated absurdly tall men who sat on bar stools and then looked down at her because she was very short and not on a bar stool. “Tell me now why I don’t just walk the hell out of here.”

“Because Heph was busy and Mike’s in his studio and he won’t let me call,” John said, “and it’s a funeral, so I need someone to drink with.” He grinned as if what he had just said was the most reasonable thing possible.

Lailah sighed and put her camera bag on the bar. “Buy me something, then,” she said. “Something light if you expect me to drive your ass home when you’re done.”

“Bartender!”

Despite the fact that the bar was fairly full, the bartender came over to him almost immediately. John had a weird magnetism that made everyone pay more attention to him when he wanted attention, ignore him when he wanted to be ignored, and assume he belonged anywhere he happened to be. Lailah was pretty sure the personal magnetism thing was dependent on the fact that he was a white dude – she couldn’t imagine a world where that trick would work for a black woman – but it went a lot farther than just being a charismatic and decent-looking white dude could explain; he’d gotten her into the White House once. Any time anyone had questioned what she was doing there, he’d said, “She’s with me.” No one had ever asked him what he was doing there.

“What’ll you have?”

“A hard cider for the lady, and another bourbon for me.”

The bartender nodded and bustled away. “How many of those have you had?” Lailah asked.

“Not enough yet.”

She sighed, mentally shrugging. She wasn’t his mom. If he wanted to drink himself stupid, that was his problem. She’d nurse her one cider, watch over him to make sure he didn’t do anything egregiously dumb, and drive him home when he was done, or when she was sick of putting up with him, whichever came first. She liked John, but he could be an amazing ass sometimes.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked. “Did we get a contract? Or did one fall through?”

“Neither,” he said, and waved at the front windows of the bar. “You can’t see it from here. I mean, you could see the star, maybe, if there was a lot less light outside and it was the right season or you were in the right place, and it’d help to have a telescope, but the point is. The point is. You can’t see the planet. It’s two hundred fifty-seven light years away from Earth, right now.”

“I’m sure that seems really relevant to you in your current state, but—”

“No. Listen. They killed themselves. You’d be seeing it right now if you could see it. Two hundred fifty-seven years ago they burned their entire planet to ash. There were single-celled organisms left alive, and some of their equivalent of insects. You know every single planet with multi-cellular life has something like a cockroach, right?”

“I’m sure it does,” Lailah said, wondering if a hard cider was going to be enough to get her through this.

John was weird. Possibly not all there, mentally. He was brilliant, he was amazing at persuading people to do anything – including answer his questions, which for a journalist was an incredible talent – he saw connections no one else could see, and he spoke so many languages, Lailah hadn’t yet been somewhere that John wasn’t fluent in the local speech. For a photojournalist, he was a great partner to have, and if she ever won a Pulitzer it would probably be for photos he got her in place to be able to take. But he was weird.

If he’d been frequently drunk, like he was tonight; if he’d sexually harassed her, or anyone else; if he was on illegal drugs… she wouldn’t have liked any of those things, and the sexual harassment thing would have been a deal-breaker for their partnership, but she knew a lot of journos with one or many of those particular flaws. Those, she would have understood. But John… occasionally talked about historical events as if he’d been there, frequently made off-hand references to other planets and then pretended he hadn’t, and often referred to humanity as “you” instead of “us.” She strongly suspected he was delusional, and overly influenced by science fiction.

Most of the time he stayed professional about it; an occasional slip, and then a bullshit excuse why he’d said it, an outright denial that he’d said it, or completely ignoring her questions, and moving on. She suspected that tonight wasn’t going to be one of those times.

“Nothing left,” he said, and took his new glass from the bartender, downing about half of it. Lailah winced. Her cider was cold, and tasty, and desperately needed with John turning weird up to 11.

“Okay, so let’s say for the sake of argument that I accept this. There’s a planet 257 light years away and they destroyed themselves. Why do I care? Why do you care?”

He blinked at her. “Because!”

“I need a little more than that to go on. Because why?”

“Don’t you care? They were people. Like you’re people. Like—” he waved his left arm to encompass the room, and narrowly avoided smacking the guy next to him – “this whole planet. All the creatures on it. Now imagine they’re gone. Ashes. Dead. Don’t you think it matters?”

“It matters while we’re dying, I guess,” Lailah said. “But after we’re dead, who’ll be there to know or care?”

“I will!”

“Right, because you’re immune to nukes. I should’ve figured.”

“I am,” John said, pointing at her as if he was imparting vital information, or dressing down an unruly student. “But that’s not the point.”

“I’m not sure what the point is…”

“They’re dead!” John snapped, and slid off his chair, staggering toward the door. Cursing quietly, since she expected her cider wouldn’t still be there when she returned, Lailah grabbed her camera bag and followed him.

Directly outside the bar, John pointed at the sky. “They were just like you. Six legs instead of four, radial symmetry instead of bilateral. They had three eyes, three vibrating membranes for picking up sound. Made noises like parrots do, they could imitate almost any sound they heard. They blew fiberglass into tapestries. Thick skin, it didn’t make them itch. Blanketed their world with fiber optics to communicate with each other. Laid eggs. The females used to go out and get food while the males cradled the eggs and kept them warm, but they’d developed sexual equality so both parents took turns cradling the eggs.”

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

“Because they’re dead. I tried to help them and it turned into a holy war and that was the last thing it should have been and I didn’t see the danger in time and then they hit the buttons and they blew it all up. You think nukes are bad. They had antimatter. It was going to be clean, pure energy, they were using the power of the sun to make the stuff, in space. Their sun was bigger than yours. Still is, the sun’s still there. Planet too. It’s the life that’s gone. So much ash.”

Lailah shook her head. This was plainly a mental illness. John was seriously distressed by the imaginary death of his imaginary planet. But it wasn’t going to do any good to tell him it was imaginary if he was delusional. Best for him if she played along. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know what they were going to do.”

“But I should’ve! It was my job! I was… I was supposed to be guiding them. Helping them. It was going to prove to the Convocation that my way would work. Strong intervention policy, step in and help them reach the eschaton, right? But they never will because I fucked it up and they’re all dead.” He looked around himself. “I’m not drunk enough.”

“I think maybe you are,” Lailah said.

“Then why hasn’t it stopped? I look up in the sky and I know, if I had a powerful enough telescope, I could see it now. I could see them dying right now. Today’s the day. Two hundred fifty-seven light years, three light months, twenty-two light days. I can see it but I can’t change it. It’s in my past, you can’t break causality like that. You can go back but you can’t change things. Whatever happened, always happened, or things break. Worse things than one planet. But they were my charges and they’re dead and it’s my fault.”

“And you think you can drink enough to stop thinking about it? To make it stop hurting?” She wanted him to be sitting down so she could put a hand on his shoulder. He was way too tall for that when he was standing. “It doesn’t work like that. “Maybe you can blunt it some, but you aren’t going to make yourself feel better. Not if you’re carrying guilt like that.”

He swayed slightly, and sat down on the sidewalk, with his usual unconcern for whether something was socially appropriate to do. “I got them killed. They should have kicked me out of the Host forever. I thought ten years was bad, but that’s nothing. All those people have been dead for two hundred and fifty-seven years.”

Lailah had no idea what he was talking about, but now she could reach his shoulder. She crouched so she could look him in the eye. It wasn’t comfortable; her thighs started to burn immediately. But if she sat, she’d be shorter than him again. She reached toward him, two brown hands on the shoulders of the loud pink button-down he was wearing. “Listen to me. You’re a good man, John. You could make a lot of money doing celebrity bullshit or puff pieces for politicians, but you’re nobody’s lackey. You find stories about corruption and people getting hurt and you expose all that. Your reporting has gotten stupid laws repealed and people suffering from those laws support.”

“That’s supposed to make up for an entire planet?”

She shook her head. “Look, I don’t know why you’re carrying this much guilt. You know I think you’re having some kind of mental episode when you talk about alien planets. But I can see the guilt is real. No matter what actually happened, I know to you it feels like you got an entire planet full of people killed. But let me ask you, did you pull the trigger?”

“No, but—”

“Did you tell any of them to do it? Did you trick them into killing themselves? Did you rig things so that was the only way forward they saw, or did you make them think something different would happen?”

“No – no, I tried to tell them, I tried – but I could have done something! I have powers! I could have – I could—”

“I don’t know much about this situation, but it sounds to me like something you didn’t have nearly as much control over as you think you did, or maybe as you wish you did. Maybe you want to believe you could have saved them because you’re afraid for this planet, and if you could have saved them but you messed up and you didn’t, then maybe you could save us from ourselves and not mess it up. I don’t know. But it sounds to me like it wasn’t really your fault. I think you got a bum rap, is what I think. Like that woman who got charged with vehicular homicide because her son was killed in a hit-and-run while she was trying to cross the street. Maybe she shouldn’t have been jaywalking, but the crosswalk was half a mile away and the guy driving the car, he was a drunk driver. He was the one who killed her son, not her, but the system decided to blame her because it’s always gonna blame a mother for whatever happens to her kids and especially if she’s black. But it wasn’t her fault. And this whatever it is. I don’t think it was yours.”

“I want another drink,” he said stubbornly.

“Well, you gotta pay your tab, and if they threw out my cider while I was talking with you, then you owe me another one,” Lailah said. “But I think you should do beer or wine at this point, or you’re gonna be puking in my car when I take you home.”

She helped him back to his feet. “I wanna talk to you about the DC trip,” she said. “Tomorrow. We’ve got logistics to work out. I don’t want you driving.”

“I can drive,” John complained. “I mean, not now. ‘Cause I’m drunk now.” He laughed. “That’s the rule, right? You get hammered, you don’t drive. But I can drive. When I’m not drunk.”

“Yeah, but you drive like shit, so I am not letting you behind the wheel. Which makes things complicated if we’re getting a rental, because my credit cards are all maxed out.”

“And mine aren’t?”

“Well, I hope like hell that they’re not, because you don’t have a car and mine’s way too crap to drive to DC. But we’ll talk about it tomorrow.” She guided him to the bar, where, miracle of miracles, her cider still stood. “Come on. Let’s get a booth. I want a crab pretzel.”

“Only if. Only if I can have nachos.” He put far more import into his tone than the subject of nachos really deserved.

“Yeah, sure. You’re buying, right? So you can have whatever you want.”

[floralreddie]

omg can you do richie x reader with 179 and 187

179: First one to make a noise loses and 187. Already? Do I really have that much of an effect on you?

I’m going to make this part of my 10 part Richie x Reader imagines simply because I nee some kind of emotional shit when I write smut otherwise I can’t get the background of the characters, in this case the Reader (part 10 is coming out after this some time tonight, final part guys!) Something fun before than, though bc angst angst angst. This is smutty guys, so be warned! Both Richie and reader are 18 in this. This is my first IT smut!! be kind!!

Warnings: NSFW, swearing, general Tozier, jealous Richie bc I’m a fucking idiot and love that shit

Pairing: Richie Tozier x Reader

Richie x Reader taglist: @pearltheartist@mikoalabearwrites @arielgirly @trashmouth-smashmouth@mzcescapie @somenates27@reddiesballoons @cawcawhawkeye @richietoaster @sassy-molassy @fuckin-richie

forever taglist: @pearltheartist@mikoalabearwrites @arielgirly @trashmouth-smashmouth@mzcescapie@somenates27@reddiesballoons@cawcawhawkeye@richietoaster@sassy-molassy@fuckin-richie @zerealromaniangurl@notagoodplace4gods @itsway-past-mybedtime @homohayls @reddiefic@trashmouth-tozier69@temptedtozier@bitchardtozier@virgo-green

You’re quite sure that Richie is entirely unaware of how fucking good looking he is.

You know this simply because of the way he dresses and presents himself. Okay, shit, that’s probably not the nicest thing to say about your boyfriend of six months, but it’s fucking true. Richie has big ol’ glasses that magnify the shit out of his brown eyes, he practically lives in Hawaiian shirts and bans shirts that smell like smoke, and he rarely brushes his mass of curls.

You can’t really talk. You don’t exactly dress cool, Like Bev did, nor trendily, like Greta, your ex-best friend, does. You usually wander around in boyfriend jeans, dungarees, one of Richie’s shirts, or occasionally shorts. Thing is, you know this, but you know guys look at you. Still, not as many as the amount of girls that look at your boyfriend.

Tonight is no exception. 

You’re at a party, all you and the Losers (you still call yourselves that, even though you’re without Bev and Ben now), and you’re so very fucking aware of how the wannabe punk and rock girls are giving your boyfriend the side eye. You know, despite the fact that he’s wearing horrendously torn jeans rolled above his ankles, chucks than you know smell fucking terrible, and a grey Ramones tee that is far to fucking big on his lanky, tall form.

Hell, you don’t really get jealous when you catch them eyeing Richie as he spins Eddie and Bill around the makeshift dance-floor, because you’re well aware that Richie would never do something as terrible as cheat on you and being jealous just isn’t you.

So, you take another sip from your red cup (you don’t know what it is, but Stan insisted you drink it because the dude secretly loves to party) and you lean against the wall with him and bop your heads to Guns ‘N Roses.

‘I’m going to go to the bathroom!’ Stan yells over the music. He was never one for rock, but when anything by Blondie came on he would find Richie and the two would dance away. Never, though, would he get messy drunk. You had never seen him like that. You had never seen Stan be a messy anything.

You nod and pull a thumbs up and continue to lean against the wall, eyes wandering over the mass of Derry teenagers crammed into the small sitting room. The song had changed to something by The Clash, and you find yourself bobbing drunkenly along to the tune. When Richie jumps beside Eddie and Bill (both of whom are messy drunk), hair flying as he imitates an air guitar, you catch his grin and throw him a smile and a snort.

You had elected to enjoy nights like this (because College reply letters are coming, and you and Richie both know you’ve applied for schools at separate ends of the country and the idea of forgetting terrifies you), so you’re just about to step out onto the dance floor with your friends when a hand latches onto your shoulder.

You turn, then smile lightly. ‘Oh, hi, Daniel’.

The boy, of whom you were well aware had a crush on you, grins toothily. ‘Heya, (Y/N)! How’re ya doin’?’

You shrug, reply something, and take another gulp of your drink. He nods, sways, and asks if you want to dance. You throw him an awkward look, and he jumps, hands up. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ he smiles. ‘I know - Tozier has claimed you’.

You want to snap that Richie did not fucking own you, but just smile thinly instead. It’s then that some idiot who called himself Big D (you had no fucking clue what his real name was) come up behind Daniel and threw an arm around his shoulders. ‘Aaaah, told you to just talk to her, Dan!’

You stare at the tall and broad teen. Daniel blushes puce.

You don’t notice Richie beginning to stare.

‘Uh, I was just gonna go and dance…’ You begin to say, starting to edge toward the dancing teens once again. You really could not be fucked with whatever this was, nor could you be bothered with Big fucking D. Whatever that was.

Daniel smiles and nods, but Big freakin’ D reaches forward with a meaty hand and clamps it down on your shoulder, dragging you back forward. You begin to glare, a hot retort already on your tongue, but D cuts you off with, ‘Come on, (Y/N)! One last night for the little virgin here before we all start hopping off to College, huh? I’m sure Tozier won’t mind-’

‘I think he fucking might,’ you snap, pulling yourself away from D as Daniel shrinks against the larger boys form and stutters out a sorry to you. ‘Now, fuck off and let me finish my drink and dance with my boyfriend, Big D. Christ. What a fucking name’.

With that, you chug down the rest of your drink and drop the cup at the two boys feet, before turning on your heel and starting for where Richie was already breaking free of the crowd with an out of character stern look on his sharp face. Behind him, you see Eddie and Bill drunkenly swaying with each other as Bill screams out his own rendition of Everybody Wants To Rule The World.

Some guy in your Math class even whips out a lighter.

‘The fuck was that?’ Richie asks, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed behind his large glasses. He catches your elbow as you trip toward him, and his cheeks are flushed from drink and dancing as you reach up, curl a hand around his neck, and press your mouth solidly against his. 

You know that he’ll know something is up form just that, because you’re totally not one for PDA.

His glasses knock against your nose, like every time, but you hardly notice. Instead, you pull away from him and press one more kiss against his lips and pull a sardonic smile. ‘Just some assholes being assholes,’ you reply.

Richie grins and throws an arm around your shoulder and dips his head his curls brushing your forehead and his nose bumping against yours. ‘Well, shit, maybe more people should start being assholes to you if it gets that reaction’. You stare up at him and snort, to which he gazes drunkenly up, a thoughtful look on his face, and then back down at you. ‘Shit. That sounded better in my head’. He glances over your head, presumably toward Big D, before wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you closer to him. ‘Daniel Edge, huh? He still after you?’

You shrug. ‘Doesn’t matter. I got myself a Trashmouth, who needs Daniel Edge, right?’

Still, Richie looks back over your shoulder with narrowed eyes. ‘I’m not exactly thrilled about how Big D is looking at you right now, doll. Mind if I show him exactly why you’re with the stud Trashmouth and why you’re the luckiest girl around?’ He looks back down at you, a grin flashing across his features.

And you’re drunk and warm, so the words have warmth spreading through your stomach. You roll your eyes. ‘Fine-’

And the his mouth is on yours, and you’re glad beyond fucking belief that the Losers are all far to wasted (and that Mike isn’t here and instead saving himself for work in the morning, because you really don’t want him to see this). Richie is gathering you close to him, both arms around your waist and mouth hot against yours, and its his favourite way of kissing. All teeth and tongue. 

You hate that he can make you fucking goop, by just one kiss.

And you’re half annoyed that he did this, because if he had told you he was going to kiss you like this in front of all your peers, you would have told him to fuck off. Instead, you do something else. You do something that will embarrass him back.

You wrap your arms around his neck (you feel his jolt of surprise) and your press yourself closely to him as Nena blares around the small house. You move so that every inch of you is against his tall and lanky form, and so that your chest presses hard against his.

And you’re tipsy and will probably regret this later, because someone fucking whistles.

You don’t even know who was hosting this fucking party. 

You bite his lip and Richie yanks his face away from yours, his cheeks pink, his eyes wide, and his glasses askew. ‘Shit, doll,’ he breathes, a slow smile making it’s way onto his face as you scoff and refuse to look about you. You don’t want to know who saw that. ‘Shit, I have a fucking hard-on’.

You grin and nod. ‘That’s what you get for bombarding me!’

He gapes. ‘With a kiss? How dare I kiss my girlfriend’. He grins and kisses you on the nose. ‘Well, mission accomplished. Big D and Mr I-Cant-Take-A-Hint have gone. Oh, look, Stan’s dancing with Eddie and Bill now’.

You do look, head craned round Richie’s form as your arms stay around his neck. Ah. Blondie was playing. 

You stiffen when Richie lean close to your ear, mouth against your lobe, and whispers lowly, ‘I really fucking want you now, doll’. You blush to your roots and blink up at him, belly flipping as his darker than usual eyes and dusty pink cheeks.

You press yourself to him, grin sliding onto your face, and feel his arousal. Mouth a breath away from his, you murmur, ‘Wanna take a trip upstairs, Trashmouth?’

Richie stares at you, checking your seriousness, before swearing and all but dragging you from the living room and up the stars of whoevers house this was. The upstairs was slightly quieter than the downstairs, filled with the drunkest of the party. Most were sitting on the landing floor, crying or having some heart to heart.

You and Richie stumble past them, your hand in his. You nudge him toward the bathroom, where you quickly slam the door shut, lock it, and do exactly what you had wanted to do for the past ten minutes.

You press him up against the wall, hands on his cheeks and body pressed close to his as you reach to tug at his hair, your lips on his jaw and lips as he breathes heavily, hands rounding to slide over your waist to your behind.

‘Shit, doll,’ he breathes, nudging your chin up with his nose as he all but attacks your neck with his mouth. ‘Fuckin’ hate seeing guys looking at you like that, y’know,’ he hums, ducking even lower to kiss your collarbone. You sigh and hold his hair, tugging it again and relishing his groan and hot breath against your neck. ‘Even when we were kids, and now…’ he trails off and presses a sound kiss to your lips. He shrugs and pushes your bum forward, so that you’re pressed even closer to him. You forgot how fucking much he loved dirty talk. ‘Hate it even more, now’.

Your grin and shush him. ‘You’ve got to be quiet!’ you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. 

‘Now, doll,’ Richie hums, dragging you closer and nibbling your ear, breath warm and voice low. ‘You know you just make me all swoony and such-’ You snort and slam a hand over his mouth as he starts being loud again. ‘You’re fucking louder than me,’ he says, voice muffled by your hand.

You pull your hand away, brown cocked. ‘I am not’.

Richie snorts. ‘Fine then. Tell you what, first one to make a noise loses’.

‘Lose at what-?’

But you’re already being spun around and pressed against the tiled wall as music thrums beneath you two, and Richie’s mouth his hot against your neck as he reaches for your thighs, pulling one of your legs high around his waist.

You gasp.

‘Ah, shush now,’ he admonishes, grinning and winking through thick lens glasses.

You clamp your mouth shut, even when he flick his tongue out and licks up your neck, ending with a kiss to your mouth. It’s when he rests his head against your shoulder and grinds against your hot core that you stutter out a breath, already freaking turned on beyond belief. Through his jeans, you can feel just how much this is effecting him, too.

Still, you stay quiet.

And then the asshole, the utter asshole, does the one thing that he knows has you melting. He lifts his head, and you feel his hot breath on your ear before he rakes his teeth over your neck, tongue hot as he bites lightly.

By this point, you’ve had enough.

You reach up to tug at his hair again, his weakness, and you watch as he pulls away from your neck and his eyes all but roll to he back of his head, his teeth clamped over his lip.

You grin as you watch, quite decided that you love this boy.

He glares at you and you kiss his nose, before dropping your leg from his large hand and blinking up at him as he stares down at you, glasses fogging up, hair a disarray, hard-on painfully obvious, and grey shirt rumpled and showing his dark trail of hair leading below his low slung jeans.

You’re going to win this.

So, you smile up at him and kick off your heeled boots, before reaching underneath your dress and quickly discarding yourself of your pretty plain dark underwear. Still, the blandness of the underwear doesn’t stop Richie from staring down at your as your straighten up like you’re the actual she-devil.

You suppose he didn’t think you’d take it this far.

And honestly, you can’t really believe you’re about to do what you are about to fucking do.

You step back, back pressed against the wall, and reach under your dungaree dress and you touch your wet self. You have to admit you’re a bit dramatic with the way you open your mouth and bite your lips, eyes trained on his wide ones, but you want to fucking win this, okay?

Richie starts for you, hand coming for you arm and chest heaving, but you jolt back, had still beneath you dress. You shake your head.

He all but gapes at you.

You continue to touch yourself, even going as far as to allow yourself to briefly kiss him, before backing away again. You’re pretty fucking sure you’re going to be the one to cave soon, because you want nothing more than to have Richie touching you right now.

You can see him cracking, though. He’s watching you with an open mouth and clenched fists as you pleasure yourself, your hand working faster now. The sight of him alone, looking like that, is bringing you to the edge closer than you would have thought.

‘Oh, fuck it, doll. You win, alright?’ And then he’s crashing against you, his mouth hot against yours and his glasses clattering onto the floor. You grasp at his face and yank at his hair, so fucking thankful that his willpower as shit. You laugh into his mouth, stuttering when he reaches underneath your dress and picks up where you left off.

And, finally, you can tell him how good it feels. ‘Already? Do I really have that much of an effect on you?’

‘Jesus fucking Christ, (Y/N),’ Richie breathes, biting and sicking at your neck. ‘Never wanted to touch you so fucking badly before. You are cruel, woman’.

You laugh, before reaching down and unbuckling his belt and slipping your hand underneath his boxers and touching him, and you nearly laugh at how hard he is. He groans and buries his face into your hair as you touch him and he touches you, and you’re not really sure when he hooks your hips around his skinny waist, but suddenly he’s inside you and you’re both muttering to each other as music blares around you and someone knocks on the door.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Richie mutters, moving inside of you faster now, and you know he’s close.

‘Love you, Rich,’ you mutter, pressing kisses to his cheekbones as you claw at his back. 

When you both come, it’s with your eyes on him as he clenches his own shut and mutters your name, his mouth against your neck. When he helps you onto your feet, it’s with gentle hands a sleepy gaze and kisses to your hair.

When your both unlock the door and open it, Stan Uris stares at you both with a highly repulsed expression and says, blandly, ‘Bill threw up. We’ve got to leave’. He throws you the side-eye for a moment, as Richie coughs next to you and adjusts his glasses. ‘Your underwear is on the floor behind you, (Y/N)’.

You blush. Richie snorts. 

And you look at Richie as Stan walks away and someone stumbles past the bathroom door, and you press a kiss to his mouth and he wraps an arm around your waist, and you say, ‘That was a one time thing, don’t expect that again’.

‘I can be very persuasive, doll,’ he winks.

You roll your eyes and reach up to flick the lens of his glasses. ‘They fell off again. I would say get lenses, but I love these too much, four-eyes. Promise you’ll never get contacts, right?’

Richie rolls his eyes and drags you from the bathroom. At that moment Greta stumbles in and spews into the toilet bowl. ‘I promise, doll’.

-

Decades later, you find yourself in a Chinese restaurant walking slowly toward your old friends, and hugging a man without glasses who was the love of your life who you had forgotten, and wondering why he broke his promise.

[littlewitchhazels-blog]

One More Night Out

I thought I’d jump on the bandwagon of Xmas fics and boy did I have fun scrawling this one out! I must have taken three different approaches to the story, but I decided to go with something fluffy whilst I work on something a little more angsty and ‘serious’ (wink wink nudge nudge ;) look out for that, coming soon). Kind of cheesy and cliche, but that’s just the way I like it! Anyhow, Joyce deserves all the happiness in the world and this is my non-canon way of giving it to her. (Read on AO3)

“Jane shouldn’t have to miss out,” Joyce had reasoned, “and the boys have been desperate to show her all things Christmas, or so I’ve been told.”

“I don’t know, Joyce, the Snow Ball was one night already and—“

“I know, Hop, I know. Just… Think about it?”

That was how Hopper had ended up at the Byers’ front door with El — or Jane, as he should be calling her now — in tow. She was practically buzzing with excitement over the unexpected outing, and the chance to be with her friends again. Yes, she was allowed visits from the party at the cabin (something of which Hopper had begrudgingly agreed to), but there was something special about being allowed to set foot out instead. Twice she’d changed her outfit, going through a good load of the new clothes Joyce had gotten her, before finally settling on something she seemed satisfied with. It was strange but nice to see her acting like a regular teenage girl in spite of… Well, everything.

They hadn’t had time to pick up a proper present for their hosts, partially due to Hopper’s very last minute decision to take up Joyce’s offer, which had frustrated both of them greatly. Jane because she was incredibly insistent on ‘following holiday tradition’ — quite a mouthful for her, but Hopper expected it was a line fed to her by Mike or Will — and Hopper because turning up on Joyce’s doorstep empty-handed on Christmas Eve felt wrong. Joyce had assured them that gifts weren’t necessary, but at least it was something to say ‘thank you’ for the thoughtful invitation. In the end, Hopper settled with a bottle of wine hastily picked up from town hand a quick card cobbled together by Jane with what little art supplies they had.

Hopper squeezed Jane’s hand, “You ready?”

Beaming up at him, Jane nodded vigorously. “Yes!”

He chucked at her boundless enthusiasm and raised a hand to knock soundly on the door. From within, he could hear soft Christmas music intermingling with chatter and scattered footfalls. Following his knock on the door, Hopper could hear a swiftly approaching “I’ll get it, I’ll get it, don’t worry baby; coming, coming!” At the sound of the voice, Jane clutched the presents to her chest tightly and turned her unwavering attention towards the door. Within a matter of moments, the door creaked open and Joyce appeared before them. “Oh, Hop! You came!”

There was nothing particularly special about the way Joyce looked, but that care-free smile that only seemed to widen at the sight of him made her look radiant. Suddenly, all his worries and doubts about coming seemed stupidly inane in retrospect.

“Yeah, I thought about it and… Well, it couldn’t hurt to spend Christmas somewhere other than, you know, the cabin. And El— Jane, she deserves a night out, so here we are.”

Joyce’s gaze quickly fell upon Jane, and Hopper couldn’t help but smile as her eyes lit up at the sight of the young girl. He nudged Jane forward, who quickly ran into Joyce’s outstretched arms. “Merry Christmas, Joyce!”

Joyce laughed and pulled Jane even closer. “Merry Christmas to you too, sweetheart, you looking forward to tomorrow?”

Jane nodded into Joyce’s shoulder before pulling away to offer the merger presents they’d brought for her. “For you, from me and Hopper.”

It took a moment for Joyce to register the gifts, which she took carefully from Jane; her eyes flickering between Jane, Hopper, and the items she held in her hands. “Oh, you didn’t have to—“

“Think of it more as a ‘thank you’,” Hopper supplied, “from us.”

Joyce regarded him for a moment before stepping out of the doorframe and letting them into the house. Hopper had almost forgotten that they were still standing on the porch in the cold, bundled up in scarves and coats. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in, come in! It’s freezing out there!”

They hurried in, shaking off the snow clinging to their winter clothing before peeling off the layers they’d wrapped themselves in. Hopper had only just helped Jane wriggle her arms out of her slightly-too-large coat before she’d spotted Will across the room and dashed to give him a warm hug. They collided into each other with peals of laughter that swiftly changed to soft words that Hopper couldn’t hear from where he stood. After a moment, Jane nodded enthusiastically and Will began to lead her around the house in what was presumably a tour of Christmas tradition, considering their stops at the tree and all the decorations hung around the house.

Joyce and Hopper weren’t exactly sure when it happened, but Will and Jane had become fast friends in a matter of days, quickly forming an incredibly close bond seemingly from the moment they met properly. It was certainly a strange friendship — built on quiet contemplation and hushed conversation — but it was a strong one at that. Perhaps they’d found something in each other, linking back to their harrowing experiences with the Upside Down, that built the foundations for a bond between them. Whatever it was, Joyce was certainly glad for it.

Hopper hung up his and Jane’s coats and took the chance to look over the living room. Without prior knowledge, he bet that nobody would be able to imagine the mess that had once sprawled across the walls, floor, and halls of the Byers house. Everything had certainly been sufficiently tidied away with everyone’s help following what had happened in November. Sure, the corpse in the fridge and the enraged teen out cold on the living room floor had been something of an unpleasant surprise, but they’d dealt with that too.

“You know, you really didn’t have to get me anything, Hop.” Joyce muttered once Jane was out of earshot.

Hopper shrugged. “I wanted to,” he said plainly, “and besides, Jane wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I— we didn’t give you something.”

Joyce smiled, turning the handmade card over in one hand. The lopsided handwriting was something of an attempt to teach Jane how to write better in preparation for school, but for as messy as it was Hopper was glad that it was at least readable. “This is very sweet. Thank you.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment, their conversation at a standstill, before Joyce gestured towards the dining room. “Do you want to sit or— we could open the wine, I guess—“

“Yeah, no, that would be— that would be good.”

He followed Joyce as she made her way into the kitchen, rooting through the cupboards for a corkscrew. “Where’s Jonathan tonight?” Hopper asked, hesitantly floating around Joyce as he waited for something to do.

“The Wheelers’, with Nancy, or so he told me. Hey, could to reach that— no, no, not that one… Yes! Thanks.”

Setting the old wine glasses he dug out down on the table, Hopper leaned over to take the bottle from Joyce to free her hands. “Need anything else, Joyce?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, it’s all right.”

Hopper nodded slowly, sliding into one of the chairs as he waited for Joyce to emerge from the cupboards she’d practically crawled into in her search for a corkscrew. Finally, he heard a triumphant exclamation, and Joyce came over brandishing the nifty device victoriously.

Joyce wasted no time opening the bottle and pouring a hearty glass of wine for both her and Hopper. “Cheers, my friend, and a very merry Christmas to you!”

“And a happy, hopefully more normal, new year!”

Dinner had been a success despite Joyce’s warnings that cooking was ‘definitely her strong point’, an overall enjoyable time in spite of Jane’s stubbornness to avoid anything green on her plate. Joyce, however, had managed to goad her into eating her vegetables with promises of Christmas sweets and sugary drinks. As much as Hopper scowls over Jane’s smug grin as she scoops up her well-earned treats, he can’t help but find a sort of merriment in all of it. Must be the Christmas spirit in the air.

Soon enough, Will and Jane retreated further into the house to gorge themselves on candy canes and continue whatever conversations they were having when they came giggling to the dining table. Neither parental figure was able to coax it out of them, so they thought it would be best to just leave it at that. Now alone once more, Joyce had suggested moving to the living room. “It’s more comfortable,” she’d reasoned, before promptly standing up and taking both her and Hopper’s glasses with her.

So, of course, he had no choice but to follow her over. Joyce sunk into the couch with a groan, obviously worn out by a busy day of working, dashing around, and preparing dinner. Hopper took a seat next to her, but was sure to leave a respectable distance between the two of them. He still wasn’t sure exactly about the boundaries between the two of them, but he would rather be overly cautious than overbearing.

Just as they’d settled into their seats, the old Christmas album came to its end and the sound of the looping crackle of the record player coaxed another tired groan from Joyce. “Don’t worry,” Hopper laughed, pushing himself up from the couch, “I’ll do it.”

Joyce mumbled a thanks as she took another sip of wine, watching over the brim of her glass as Hopper sorted through the pile of old records she’d dug out for the festive season and pulled out something from the bottom without looking too closely at the label. It didn’t take long for the silence to be filled with soft-jazzy Christmas tunes. Hopper looked over to her for approval, and came back over once she’d given him a small nod.

He sat back down with a sigh, and they swiftly fell back into their comfortable silence. Joyce closed her eyes and let herself sink even deeper into the couch. With the soft music, warmth of the living room, and the exhaustion of the busy day, she could have almost fallen asleep right then and there. But then, after a few moments, Hopper spoke up. “Joyce, uh, thanks for this. It was… It was nice. I think Jane really enjoyed herself tonight.”

She smiled at him. “Anytime, Hop.”

“I… I had a good time, too. It’s been a while.”

Though he’d left the rest unsaid, Joyce easily picked up on the context. It was easy to read in the stilted words and far-off gaze; telltale signs of when he let his thoughts trail off to darker places, locked away behind hurriedly built walls in his mind. Pursing her lips, Joyce reached over and laid a hand on his arm. “It’s really nice that you came.” She said quietly.

He shrugged. “I nearly didn’t. But look at all the fun I would have missed out on if I hadn’t!”

Joyce laughed, rolling her eyes at the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth at what he must have thought was the best damn joke in the world. “What,” Joyce challenged, “so sitting around with me isn’t fun?”

“I never said it wasn’t. I’ll be sure to add ‘great company’ to the list, along with food, a glass of wine, and peace and quiet for once!”

She smiled, and was suddenly very aware of the fact that she was still touching his arm. Clearing her throat somewhat awkwardly, Joyce pulled her hand away and laid it purposely on her own knee. As far as she could tell, Hopper didn’t react.

In fact, it almost seemed as if he was going to continue their little conversation before a familiar few notes suddenly played from the sound system and brought on a whole host of old memories to Joyce’s mind. She must’ve had quite the reaction, considering the laugh that it coaxed from Hopper.

“Oh!” Joyce exclaimed, bringing a hand to her face, “I haven’t heard this song in years!”

As if one cue, Hopper put down his glass of wine on the table beside him and stood up from the couch offering her a hand. “How ‘bout it, Joyce, for old times sake?”

She gave a breathy laugh. Maybe Hopper’d had one too many glasses of wine tonight if he was suddenly asking her to dance. “Really, Hop?”

He shrugged, swaying ever so slight to the music. “Why not? We never slow danced back then, so why not start now?”

A smile began to pull at the corners of Joyce’s lips. It was funny to bring up the old days, seeing as how nostalgia ran rampant with each and every little thing she and Hopper did together — chatting, confiding, smoking, laughing, smiling, and generally being close once again. Just over a year ago, this whole situation would have been unheard of, but here they were. “Joyce,” Hopper said, bringing her back to reality again, “that wasn’t exactly a ‘no’…”

She regarded him for a moment. On one hand, it was a difficult proposition to take up, considering the pain that still lingered in her heart after what had happened to… To Bob. Just to think that two months ago, they’d been doing the exact same thing whilst the boys had gone out trick-or-treating. The thought was enough to put a damper on her mood, and the smile that had found itself upon her lips was beginning to falter.

“Joyce?”

She opened her mouth to tell him a polite ‘no’, but something stopped her. As much as Joyce wanted to say ‘no’ — needed to, almost — there was something deep down that seemed to push her towards this strange but not wholly unwelcome situation. A piece of her from twenty or so years ago, laughing and smiling over the smallest matters in life, that swooned over the idea of dancing with Hopper. Biting her lip, she looked up at him and saw that concerned furrow of his brow at her hesitation. She knew if she said no, Hopper wouldn’t push her into it. There was every opportunity to step away, and yet…

“I guess,” she said slowly, “we could do… One dance.”

Joyce hadn’t even finished answering by the time Hopper had pulled her to her feet, barely giving her enough time to put down the glass of wine she’d been sipping at throughout the night. Laughter escaped her lips as she almost collided with Hopper before she stiffly straightened herself up.

Pushing herself up on her tiptoes, Joyce reached up to place a hand on Hopper’s shoulder; all the while, Hopper just looked down with an amused glint in his eyes but said nothing. A wise choice. “I’ll try not to step on your toes.” She whispered.

Hopper laughed. “Don’t worry, Joyce, I think I’m far more out of practice than you are.”

“We’ll see about that, Hop,” Joyce chided, “we’ll see.”

Jane and Will peered out the crack of the door, watching with intrigue as Joyce and Hopper swayed to the music playing from the record player — some old song that Will didn’t know the name to; Jane thought it sounded pretty. Will had told her that his mom and Hopper liked to talk and smoke together, but his face right now seemed… Weird. Not confused, not angry, not upset, just weird. Jane was going to have to find a word for it when she got home, or ask Mike about it later.

At first, when they’d heard Joyce’s laughter floating down the hall, Will had gone very still. And when Joyce had laughed again — this time, intermingling with a deeper but softer chuckle that no doubt belong to Hopper — Will had stood up and peered out of the door to the hallway, then he went completely quiet and still.

She’d shuffled her way over and squeezed by Will’s side to catch a glimpse of the sight that had made him go confusingly quiet. “Are Mom and Hopper… Dancing?” Will asked, almost as if he was thinking of the question but had accidentally said it aloud.

“Is that bad?” Jane asked, immediately taking Will’s confused and intrigued tone as something to be worried about.

“Huh? Oh, no,” he laughed, “nothing’s wrong.”

Looking back and forth between Will’s face and the two adults dancing together in the living room, Jane tried to piece together the situation with what little words and understanding she had of everything. “So… Is it good?”

After a moment of pondering, a small smile broke out on Will’s face as he watched him mom laughing and smiling freely (for real, not just to make him feel better) for the first time in weeks. “Yeah, it’s… It’s really good.”

Jane nodded in agreement. “I think so, too.”

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