#it's sixty five degrees out

[moistvonlipwig]

Scisaac for the bingo?

apologies to all the scisaac warriors out there including yourself but isaac only entertains me when he is mean to stiles. however i get why people ship scisaac, they had a nice bond

[lowkeyrobin]

UMBRELLA! BEN ; a million timelines

summary ; you'll always end up with one certain face in every universe and timeline

warnings ; language

disclaimers ; ben isn't dead, umbrella! ben in fact bc I love that dork sm, viktor is already transitioned the whole way through, random word vomit

track ; not a lot, just forever, adrianne lenker

word count ; 1.1k

masterlist

It seemed in every timeline, you'd be semy straight back to Ben's side.

You were intertwined, sewn together, in fact.

In 2019, you were reunited with him after Sir Reginald Hargreeves' death. You hadn't seen each other since you were kids, it'd been years.

You didn't have any special powers like the Hargreeves' did, you were just their normal friend who lived next door above the laundromat. You came back to town for other reasons, but when you heard the news, you had to go see them.

Your eyes first landed on Viktor, his short hair completely different from his old, long, luscious locks. You immediately smiled, wrapping him in a solemn hug, congratulating him yet showing remorse and compassion over his dad's timely demise.

You went through the rest of the siblings, other than Five, as he'd gone missing all those years ago.

Then up came Ben.

You could feel the soft look on his face as he looked at you, finally being reunited after all this time. He was by far your favorite of the academy, holding a special spot in your heart.

It wasn't just that his cool tentacle shit that drew you to him. He was a total dork, and you adored it. He always found a way to make you smile, he noticed the smallest of things, he was so sweet and compassionate. He could light up a room like a flashlight in the dark.

He wrapped you in a hug, spinning you around in joy.

"Oh my God, Y/n!"

"Ben!"

Your smiles were unmatched, the other siblings watching with little smiles, nostalgia crashing against their mental shores. They loved you too, but they also loved seeing their two favorite people together again.

"God, why are you here?"

"Came back for some stuff, but also for you guys. Sorry about your dad"

"It was coming-"

"He was murdered"

"Luther!"

You softly chuckle, hiding your face in his shoulder, enjoying the sweet dopamine rush infecting your brain.

You were stuck to Ben by the hip, almost literally, as you landed on cold, wet concrete on April 28th, 1960. You share a panicked look, calling for any of the other Hargreeves' before eventually giving in to failure.

At least you still had each other.

You spent the next three years thinking the others were dead and that you were permanently trapped in the sixties. You worked in a bar, and he worked right beside you. You both didn't understand that without degrees, you were hired, but it was much better than nothing.

Then you were reunited with Klaus, then Five, then the others.

But of course, some weird fuck up in the space time continuum forced the world to attempt to kill itself, again.

And once again, you stood behind Ben as he unleashed the tentacles from his internal organs to protect you and his family.

Good God, what did you do to get wrapped up in all this?

That lead you all astray again back in 2019, thankfully, but some other superpowered people had taken the Umbrella Academy's place. The Sparrow Academy.

But once again, you were right by Ben's side.

You were at his side during the first Kugelblitz, travelling with Five and Klaus to meet Klaus' already deceased mom, and at the end-of-the-world wedding between Luther and Sloane.

You now sit at the bar at the Hotel Obisidian, sipping on mocktails as you watch Luther and Sloane break it down on the dance floor. A tune calls your name, screaming for you and Ben to jump out there.

Just Like Heaven by The Cure.

"Oh my God, we loved The Cure when we were little!" You giggle, only a buzz directing the slight slur in your words.

Ben smiles, "We did"

"Come on" You quickly set your glass down on the counter, looking over at Ben, who hasn't moved, giving you a raised eyebrow. "C'mon, Ben"

He looks over at Five who rolls his eyes, sipping on some sort of champagne. Ben gives into your pleads, setting his glass down to go with you.

You join Luther and Sloane, and Klaus and Viktor, on the dance floor, allowing the song to consume you inside out. You jump about, singing along to the lyrics as you hold each other's hands.

Colorful lights splash upon your faces, blinding you for milliseconds as they pass you by.

Five, now accompanied by Diego and Lila, watches you two from afar. He lightly smiles, enjoying the smiles on your faces as you await to be disintegrated into dust as the world crumbles around you.

"Even in every jump across the space time continuum and in every alternate timeline that will somehow find a way to end, they're always at the end together" Five observes, glancing over at the couple, elbows rested against the bar behind him.

Lila gives him a cringed look, not understanding a word of the gibberish he'd just spoken. Diego sighs and shakes his head, taking a bite out of a bologna sandwich he made for himself.

"It's cute," Five clarifies.

"Why don't you get out there?" Diego asks Five, "The world is about to end. Enjoy it, Ebenezer Scrooge McDuck"

Five chuckles. "Yeah, let me go enjoy the world fading into dust at every touch." He sets his glass down on the bar, deciding to go join the enthusiastic group of mentally dead Hargreeves' plus you.

You and Ben, even as the song switches, continue to dance together, creating a little circle with Klaus and Viktor so Sloane and Luther could have their little alone time. Eventually, the whole family is on the dance floor, enjoying their final hours on Earth.

After a while, you crash on the floor beneath the couch, mindlessly listening to Luther, Five, Diego, Klaus, and Viktor drunkenly sing along to Seal's Kiss From A Rose. Allison, Sloane, and Lila enjoy the show, singing along from the couch.

Five, noticing you two were slumped over, half dead, calls out to you. "Hey, lovebirds! Get up here!"

You and Ben immediately look down toward each other, your feet touching one another's, giggling like little kids as you realize what Five had called you. You crawl up to your hands and knees, then rise to your feet, joining the brothers up on the little karaoke stage.

"Now that your rose is in bloom, a light hits the gloom on the grey!"

It was true, in the end of each timeline, in each version of the world ending, you and Ben would end up side by side. Nothing, not even theories and paradoxes, and jumps across the fabric of the universe could separate you.

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

a/n: i played myself on this one. posted that little barzy blanket thief headcanon post a million years ago and then i had to write this! the pro shop doesn’t sell the themed comfy, which i think it should but whatever. couldn’t resist writing this one and it just got away from me. full disclosure this was written before christmas but i didn’t want to post it in the middle of posting the other christmas fics so i held it back for a little bit! enjoy!!

word count: 6.2k

tw: brief unprotected sex, fingering, dirty talk, protected sex

summary: mat’s a blanket thief and tries to make it up to you

In theory, the king sized mattress that you’d bought for the new house was meant to stop Mat from stealing all of your blankets in the middle of the night. What with king sized sheets and blankets and comforters to go along with the king sized mattress, the thought was that Mat would have more than enough of his own coverings without having to take yours too.

Wrong. So wrong.

Every night for the first week in the new house, Mat rolls himself into a little burrito of blankets, cocooned up in the warmth that you’re missing. He’s oblivious to it too, which is extra annoying for some reason. It’s not even like he normally sleeps all rolled up in the covers. Usually Mat’s a restless sleeper, all that energy trying to escape even when he’s asleep, and he’s starfished on the mattress or rolling from one side to the other. Only after games or travel days does he pass out like the dead, after, of course, working you into the mattress and making sure you both have at least one orgasm.

For whatever reason lately, even when he’s got an off day, he’s been sleeping like a log, moving only to pull the covers over his shoulders and rolling them around his body.

“Mat,” you hiss his name, pulling at the comforter. He doesn’t budge at all. “Mat!”

If anything, he wraps himself tighter in the blankets.

You let out a frustrated little growl and pull harder, planting your foot flat against his outer thigh, or where you assume his outer thigh is, and kick a little, trying to get some leverage. Mat grunts a little in his sleep and shifts his lower body away from you, taking the blankets with him.

You flop back against your side of the bed, exposed to the elements and freezing. Stupid fucking Mat and his “the bedroom has to be at sixty-five degrees so we get the best possible sleep” arguments. A chill runs down your spine and you scowl to yourself, yanking at the little bit of sheet you managed to keep him from taking, wrapping it around yourself and snuggling up close against his back for a little warmth.

The next morning, as usual, Mat’s awake before you and you’ve got the covers back, having subconsciously pulled them over your body when he left the bed. Groaning at the thought of having to leave the warm bed, you drag a hand over your face before slowly getting up and padding to the bathroom to brush your teeth and wash your face. Feet shoved into Ugg slippers that have seen better days and pulling a sweatshirt over your head, you make your way down to the kitchen where you find Mat making himself eggs at the stove. You lean a hip against the kitchen island, watching him for a few minutes, the way his muscles work as he’s cooking, bare back displayed just for you. His sweats hang low on his hips and you want to press your hands against his lower back.

“Staring’s rude, Squeaks,” he says on a laugh. Without turning from the stove, he gestures to the counter with the spatula in his hand, “coffee’s hot.”

“Stealing all the blankets from your poor frozen girlfriend is also rude,” you reply deadpan, reaching up for your favorite mug and pouring yourself a generous serving of coffee. You doctor it up with sugar cookie flavored creamer and wrap your hands around the ceramic to warm them up before taking a sip.

Now he turns to face you and his eyes go wide and his eyebrows lift up his forehead. “Ah, shit. I’m still doing that even with the bigger bed?”

“Mhm,” you confirm with a roll of your eyes. “I’d say we should upgrade to a California King, but you’d probably keep doing it.” An amused smirk plays on your lips and Mat grimaces.

He sets the spatula down and flips off the burner before coming over to stand in between your legs. You keep your mug held up by your chest as a barrier. “I’m sorry, babe,” he brushes the tip of his nose against yours. His hands fall to your hips, sliding up underneath the fabric of your sweatshirt. His palms are warm and rough against your skin and you shiver a little. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts and you can’t help yourself from pushing your chest further into his hands. “You should’ve woken me up, I would’ve given you the blankets back.”

A startled laugh bursts out of your mouth and Mat looks briefly offended. The pads of his thumbs freeze on your nipples.

“What?” He asks, flicking a nipple with his fingernail. You press your thighs together. “I can share.”

“If you,” you start, stuttering a little as Mat’s fingers roll over your nipples, “think that it’s just that easy to wake you up, you’re delusional.”

Mat huffs a laugh and you yelp when he pinches down hard. The menace. He knows he’s a heavy sleeper. You reach behind you to set your coffee mug down on the counter, afraid that the hot brew is going to spill everywhere. “Aw, come on,” he teases, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, “it’s so easy to wake me up.” His hands continue their work under your sweatshirt and you feel your panties growing damp.

“Mmm?” You hum, letting your knee rub up against the outside of Mat’s thigh slowly, opening yourself up to him. “I kicked you twice and not even a peep.” Your hands come up to lock around Mat’s neck. Your fingers play in the shirt bristles of Mat’s hair and you wish, not for the first time in months, that he would let his hair grow in again.

He lets his hands slide down your sides again, one over your stomach and one around your back. “Your mistake,” he says, pulling you closer so your core is flush up against the hard ridge of his erection. You grind against him mindlessly, tension building low in your stomach, already forgetting why you were annoyed. “I don’t respond to kicking,” his hand works its way underneath your sweats and grabs a palmful of your ass. The other hand remains frustratingly warm against your lower stomach, the tips of his fingers just barely brushing against the elastic of your panties. “Gotta be nicer to me, baby.”

“Oh yeah?” You breathe, wiggling against him, scratching your nails absently against his scalp. “What do you suggest?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, kneading your ass with one hand. “Could’ve wrapped that pretty mouth around my dick.”

Fire pools in your stomach even as you giggle. “And how would I have penetrated that cocoon of blankets you stole?” You ask tartly, raising an eyebrow. Before Mat can answer, you continue, “besides, blow jobs are a reward for good boys.”

Mat’s ears go pink, but he smirks at you. “Just like getting your pussy licked is for good girls?”

Your cheeks heat and arousal floods between your legs, a little gasp punching from your lungs. You try to press your thighs together, but Mat’s hand is lightning fast, sliding under the band of your panties and cupping you in one warm, broad palm. You squeal at the sudden contact, grinding down onto his hand. “Maaat,” you whine his name, his fingers stroking gently between your folds, teasing at your entrance. He uses his grip on your ass to drag you closer to his chest and you allow him, knees feeling weak as his fingers play with you.

Your hands drift down to his biceps, gripping them for dear life to keep you upright. “Stop teasing,” you hiss, the tip of his middle finger sliding inside of you. You clench around him, chasing his hand and your pleasure.

“So fucking wet, babe,” Mat grins, dropping his forehead to yours. His hand never stops moving, drawing you closer to the peak of your pleasure. “So good for me.”

All the blood in your body rushes to your cunt at the praise and your back is arching, pressing Mat’s fingers deeper. He holds the pad of his thumb firmly over your clit and squeezes your ass, slanting his mouth over yours to muffle the moan that escapes when he rubs against your clit. Your toes curl in your slippers and your head falls back, legs trembling with the force of your orgasm as it washes over you. Mat’s fingers guide you through the aftershocks for a few lazy moments and you drop your chin to your chest, breathing hard.

“Why was I mad at you?” You mumble, laughing breathlessly. You wiggle your hips, starting to get overstimulated and uncomfortable with Mat’s hand still down the front of your panties. He takes the hint and pulls his hand out of your pants. His fingers are wet with your arousal as they brush against your lower stomach and you shiver happily.

Casually, he sticks his middle and ring fingers in his mouth to suck them clean, releasing them with a wet pop. “‘Cause I steal blankets,” he replies, without really thinking. He realizes his mistake a beat later, hazel eyes going wide and jaw dropping open. “Aw, fuck. If I haul you up on the counter and eat you out will you forget I said that?”

“Nope!” Your giggle turns into a shriek as you try to escape Mat’s lunging hands. He digs his fingers into your sides, tickling you mercilessly. “Nooo! Mat! Stop! No tickling-“

“Gonna make you forget about the blankets one way or another,” Mat laughs, holding your squirming body tightly. Your ass presses against his crotch and he hisses, biting gently on your shoulder.

“Never! If I forget, you’ll just steal them again,” your words are stuttered from laughter and you fight Mat’s hands. He’s stronger and manages to wrestle you to the kitchen floor, pinning your wrists above your head, straddling your lap, knees on either side of your hips. His sweats ride low and the chain around his neck sways with the momentum. His cock bobs behind his sweats and you swallow harshly. Mat grins down at you, flattening his body to yours, his cock pressing insistently against your stomach. He kisses the edge of your jaw as you wiggle under him.

“You look pretty warm to me,” Mat teases, rolling his hips against yours. The hard heat of his erection makes your thighs tremble.

You wrinkle your nose at him, fully aware that he has the upper hand in your positioning. “You’re going to be late to practice,” you say, even as your hips lift to his subconsciously.

“Always plenty of time to fuck my girl silly,” he says lightly, bumping his cock against your cunt again. “As long as she forgives me for being a blanket thief.”

“Mmm,” you whine, heat prickling up your spine, “you’re forgiven. Just…I need you.”

Mat’s teeth scrape at your jaw and one hand lets go of your wrists, moving between your bodies and tugging your sweats and panties down in one swift move. The cold kitchen tile against your bare ass has you yelping and instinctively bucking your hips off the ground, up into Mat’s hips. He soothes a hand over your inner thigh before pulling his sweats down enough to free his cock. You crane your neck to look down at him, grinning when you see the tip of him, groaning when he bumps it against your clit. Shocks of pleasure ripple through your body and you whine again, heels kicking against the floor, dripping for him.

“Gonna give you everything, ‘kay?” Mat mumbles, gripping the base of his cock and guiding it to your entrance, letting the tip slip inside of you. His head falls forward on a groan and you grind down on him, trying to get more.

“Just not - can’t come inside,” you babble, bucking your hips up into his. “Not without a condom.”

“I’ll pull out,” he promises and you know he means it. You’re on birth control and neither of you is ready for kids. “Gotta fuck you good. Make you come on my cock and gonna finish in your mouth.”

His words are punctuated with harsh thrusts that have your back sliding against the floor. Your free hand roams Mat’s body, scratching against his chest and arm, fingers tangling briefly in the chain around his neck. You egg him on, reaching down to dig your nails into his hips. “C’mon, Mat. Harder, please!” You beg, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“Fuck. Fuck, so good. You’re so perfect, baby,” Mat grunts, leaning down to kiss you and changing the angle so he hits harder and deeper inside of you. “Gonna fuck you everywhere in this house. Every wall, every floor.”

Your body tenses up with pleasure, gasps and moans leaving your lips along with Mat’s name. Your orgasm builds heavy and fast in your stomach, clit throbbing from the drag of Mat’s pelvis against the swollen, sensitive nub. “Gonna - Mat, please!” You cut off in a wail when his free hand finds your clit and pinches it, sending you over the edge of pleasure, sparks dancing in your vision, arousal leaking from your cunt down the curve of your ass. Your hand slaps against the floor, fingers scrabbling for purchase as he continues fucking into you, the hard, hot drag of his bare cock making you stupid.

Mat’s hips continue pistoning into yours and you’re faintly aware of the slapping of skin against skin underneath his babbling. “Jesus, so fucking pretty when you come. Love that face, love that I made you make that face,” the words fall from his mouth without him even focusing on them, too busy working his cock in and out of you.

You watch his shoulders tense up, feel his thrusts falter a little and you know he’s close. “Mat, not - no baby,” you remind him, pushing at his shoulder, hand slipping down to his chest, stomach, hip.

“Fuck,” he groans, pumping into you once more before pulling out completely, the sudden loss of him inside of you leaving you feeling too empty. You slide your own hand from his hip and let your fingers skate over your clit lazily, not really working yourself towards another orgasm, but just easing the empty feeling. Mat’s hand grips the base of his cock, jacking himself once, twice, three times before his entire body goes taut and he comes all over your sweatshirt covered chest, too far gone to even give you a chance to try and get your mouth on him. “Sorry, baby, sorry. I’ll buy you a new one. I couldn’t—“ he mutters around the groans and slick sounds of his palm sliding over his cock.

When he’s done, the hand holding yours above your head loosens and Mat flops down onto his back next to you. His cock is softening against his thigh and you have a literal puddle of his cum warming your skin through the material of your sweatshirt. Your ass is cold against the tile, wet where your arousal had dripped down the curve. You roll your neck and look at Mat, watching his chest heave while he catches his breath. His cheeks are pink from exertion and his limbs are completely limp.

“We’re disgusting,” you comment on a laugh, afraid to move.

“Why didn’t you say the tile was so cold on your ass?” Mat replies, lifting his hips so he can pull his sweats back up. You watch with a little pout as his cock disappears under the sweats, a little wet spot forming and turning the fabric a darker grey.

“I was a little busy getting railed on the kitchen floor,” you deadpan. “That I’m going to have to clean with, like, bleach now.”

Mat rolls onto his side, props his head up on his elbow, and gives you such a mischievous, shit-eating grin that you kick out your foot to make contact with his shin. “What’s with that look?” You comment, wiggling your sweats back up over your lower body. He whines a little.

“Just thinking about how hard up we were that I had to fuck you on the floor,” he laughs, his fingers coming over to tug on a piece of your hair.

“If anyone hears about this,” you warn, half-joking, half-serious, “I swear to God that I will never give you a blowjob again.”

A laugh startles out of his chest and Mat promises he won’t say anything, defends himself that he doesn’t usually talk about your sex life with the guys anyway.

“That includes Beau,” you warn him, carefully wiggling into a sitting position, wincing when Mat’s cum slides down your chest and pools in the fabric of gathered on your lap. “This is so gross, Mat.”

“He’s my best friend!” Mat yelps. “I tell him everything.” You whip your head in his direction, eyes wide and mouth dropped open a bit. There is no way Beau knows everything about sex life. Mat backtracks, his hands up in surrender, “not everything. I didn’t mean everything. He knows a lot, but not about the time we almost killed each other in the shower or the time I almost —“

You clap a hand over his mouth, muffling his ramble. “Enough. Oh my god. You seriously need to get a filter,” you can’t help the little disbelieving laugh that works its way out of your mouth. Shaking your head, you mutter to yourself, “to think this all started because you’re a fucking blanket thief.”

Mat opens his mouth under your hand to defend himself and you can physically see him gearing up for a long ramble, so you shake your head. “No, nope. Go get yourself cleaned up for practice. I need to get myself in a completely different headspace for the day,” you laugh. “Fucked on the kitchen floor was not how I pictured my week starting.”

Mat licks your palm so you’ll pull it away from his face. You grimace at him and wipe your hand on his bare chest, the faint smattering of dark hair over his chest tickling your skin. “Don’t say that’s gross, Squeaks,” he teases, leaning in to kiss you, “I’ve had my tongue all over that body.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “it’s the principle of the licking. Now leave me, I have to figure out how to get this sweatshirt off without making more of a mess and it’s not going to be cute.”

He laughs at you and gets to his feet, dropping a kiss to the top of your head. “Whatever you want, babe. I’ll be back down in a few to finish making breakfast.”

You’d almost forgotten that Mat had been cooking when you came downstairs. Thank God he’d turned off the stove. As he heads back upstairs, you drop back onto your back, arms spread out to your sides. What a fucking morning.

——-

Mat’s out of town for a few days, a mini road trip that has him gone from your bed for nearly a week, and so you get the bed and blankets all to yourself. You’ve more or less forgotten about Mat’s thieving habits when you have the thick comforters wrapped securely around your body.

So when Mat comes home on a Saturday afternoon, lugging a giant shopping bag along with his suitcase and duffel bag, you’re a little curious and a lot confused.

“Plane snacks?” You tease after accepting a hello kiss from him.

“Those didn’t even make it out of the Tampa airport,” he grins, setting the bag on the couch. “This is even better.”

You lean over the back of the couch and watch as Mat pulls a blue and orange something out of the bag. He shakes it out and you recognize it as the extra long Islanders-logo patterned, hooded Comfy that’s being sold in the pro shop at the Northwell rink. Mat holds it out in front of him with a little “ta-dah!” and a big, cheesy grin on his face.

“What is that?” You ask rhetorically, hand reaching out of its own accord to touch the fleecy fabric. It’s soft, you’ll give him that.

“It’s one of those Comfy things, for you to wear when I steal blankets,” he laughs. “I haven’t forgotten what happened last week.”

Instinctively, your gaze cuts to the spot on the kitchen floor that you’d scrubbed three times with bleach. Mat’s eyes follow yours and his grin turns into a feral little smirk. “Haven’t forgotten that either,” he continues. “But try it on.”

“This is ridiculous,” you say, grabbing for the hooded blanket. Pulling it over your jeans and t-shift, your voice is muffled, “you could always just stop making a cocoon out of the blankets - oh!”

It’s extremely soft, the Comfy. The hood is oversized enough that the hem of it flops over your eyes, obscuring your view of Mat, and keeping your head nice and warm. The sleeves hang a few inches past your hands and the bottom of it comes to your mid-shin. It’s like wearing a space heater. You wrap your arms around yourself and sway a little, giggling.

“I actually love this?” You can’t believe it. There’s so much room and you know that if you were sitting on the couch you could tuck your legs up under the fabric and still have plenty of space. “Okay, we still have to train you not to steal blankets, but this is a nice temporary solution.”

Mat’s laugh is delighted and you flip back the hood to look at him. “You’re adorable in that,” he says, coming around the back of the couch to get into your personal space. “Gonna share with me?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” you giggle, dancing away from him, the fleece swishing around your legs. “This is my reward!”

“For what?” Mat cocks an eyebrow at you.

“Putting up with you,” you retort, hands on your hips, knowing you look insane in your new getup.

Mat grabs for the fabric, snagging it between two long fingers and pulling you into him. “Babe,” he kisses your cheek, “you give just as good as you get.”

You cuddle up against his chest, head tucked under his chin and arms wrapped around his waist. “Missed you,” you mumble into his shirt.

“Missed you too,” his arms tighten around your back. “How about we do something fun tonight? I’ll take you out for dinner too.”

——-

The Comfy works wonders even though Mat continues to steal the blankets. More often than not, you’re wearing the giant hoodie to bed, tucking your legs up underneath and curling up in a little ball.

Mat loves the stupid thing too - if you’re wearing it while laying on the couch, he’ll crawl up underneath it too, laying on top of you, chest to chest, like a giant weighted blanket. The head hole isn’t quite big enough for both of you, so usually the top of Mat’s head is bumping up against your chin while he rests his cheek against your chest, groping and mouthing at your breasts.

“It’s hot under here,” he complains, voice muffled. He’s kneading one of your breasts in his giant hand, lazily grinding his half-hard cock against your thigh.

“The Comfy is only meant for one person,” you sigh. You’re getting sweaty and worked up from Mat’s body heat. “It’s a giant fleece blanket, what did you expect?”

“Dunno,” Mat says against your shirt, licking your nipple through the thin cotton. You arch your back, pressing your breast into his mouth. “Wasn’t really thinking.”

He bites the underside of your breast and you wince, even as a spark of pleasure fires low in your stomach. You’re surprised that you don’t have a permanent mark there - Mat’s a biter.

“Story of your life, Mathew,” you murmur affectionately. “How about I take the portable sauna off and you fuck me into the couch properly?”

Still under the Comfy, Mat tries to sit up, gets tangled in the fabric and before you know it, you’re both falling off the couch and landing on the floor in a pile. Your knee drives into Mat’s thigh, your elbow in his stomach and he grunts with pain. Your head takes a glancing hit to the edge of the coffee table and you see stars briefly. “Fuck,” you drag the curse out for a few extra seconds. Mat’s wiggling underneath you, trying to get out from the confines of the fabric.

“Are you okay?” You ask, trying to roll off of him and help pull the fabric away from his body. Mat’s face is bright red, but he looks okay.

“No one can ever know about that,” he says seriously.

You laugh and he breaks, cracking up too. “How about we never discuss our sex life outside of the relationship cone of silence?” You hold out your hand for him to shake.

“Deal,” he shakes your hand once, snorting a laugh. He leans up into a sitting position. “Can I still fuck you into the couch?”

“I think I’d be kind of insulted if you didn’t,” you pull the Comfy over your head and toss it off to the side before crawling into Mat’s lap so you can wind your arms around his neck and kiss him deeply. Mat’s hands roam up your back, under your shirt, pulling you closer to him. You rock your hips, grinding down over his cock and Mat moans into your mouth. He braces one arm around your lower back and gets up on his knees to lift you onto the couch, pressing you back into the cushions. He settles into the cradle of your hips, your thighs coming up to wrap around his waist, ankles crossing at his lower back.

He grinds his cock against your cunt and you whine into his mouth, breaking the kiss to say, “want it hard and fast, Mat. Don’t be sweet, just fuck me hard, okay?”

Mat’s pupils are blow so wide you can’t see any of his hazel irises. He nods like a bobble head, “yeah, fuck yeah, baby. Whatever you need.”

He makes quick work of your pants, leaning back on his knees to get both of you bare from the waist down. His jaw goes slack when he sees just how wet you are for him, his hands holding your thighs open so he can just stare for a bit. “Jesus,” he mutters and your cheeks warm. You kick at the back of his thigh, startling Mat.

“If you don’t get a condom on in the next thirty seconds,” you say, fighting past the blush that’s heating your entire body, “I can’t guarantee that I won’t just take matters into my own hands.”

Mat laughs hoarsely and springs into action, reaching for one of the little side drawers on the coffee table. A strip of condoms is hidden away there just for times like these. Your hands are already sliding down your stomach to tease at your throbbing clit. Mat catches sight of you and smacks your hands away, the condoms in his other hand. “Oh no way,” he growls. “I still have twenty seconds.”

You laugh and start a little countdown, making Mat’s fingers fumble on the foil wrappings. He scowls at you and shifts so one knee is pressed firmly against your cunt. You break off into a surprised moan, head thrown back against the couch cushion, “Mat!”

He shifts his knee, moving it slightly so your throbbing clit catches against his leg hair and you whine, grinding down harder on him. “You’re not gonna touch yourself,” he warns, finally getting the condom open and rolled down his straining erection, “are you, baby?”

“No, no,” the words stutter out of your chest as Mat keeps moving his knee against you. Your hands fly out to clutch the couch cushions and Mat grins down at you.

“This pussy’s mine,” he says, planting one foot on the floor and keeping one knee bent on the couch so he can stabilize himself. You whine at the loss of contact from your cunt, but the noise gets choked off in the next second when Mat grabs your hips and thrusts into you in one swift punch of his hips. His hips smack against yours as he bottoms out and you cry his name in a babble of breathless chants.

“Told you,” he grunts, pumping into you and using his grip on your hips to push and pull you closer, your ass hitting high up on his thighs. “Mine, fucking mine.”

Your legs lock around his hips, thighs trembling, heels pushing against the top of his ass. “Oh - god, more! Mat!” Your fingertips turn white from how hard you’re grabbing at the couch cushions, your body sliding up with the force of Mat’s thrusts. Your breath hiccups out of your lungs, fire burning in your veins. Every hit of his cock against your g-spot has you screaming his name.

“Fucking -“ Mat grunts, jaw slack as he watches where his cock splits you open, disappearing into your soaked cunt. “Gorgeous. Fucking all for me, baby.”

You need more, just a little more to push you over the edge. Mat usually pays attention to your clit, helping you finish, but he’s pounding into you hard and fast, just like you asked, so you reach a shaking hand down and circle your fingertips around your clit, arching your back with the added stimulation. Mat growls over you and bats your hand away, not stopping his pace.

“Told you no touching,” he huffs, pulling your hips flush against his and holding you there, his cock throbbing inside of your cunt. “Ask for it, baby.”

Tears slip out of the corners of your eyes and trail down your temples. You whine, “wanna touch my clit, Mat. Need it.”

Instead of touching you, Mat’s hands tighten on your hips and circle them slowly over his cock, your clit pressed tightly against the dark hair at his base, making you moan, eyes squeezed shut hard enough for you to see stars.

“Come on, baby,” Mat mumbles, watching you fall apart. “Come for me, gonna make you cum. Right here on my cock.” He pulls his hips back, all but the tip of him leaving your body and you babble at him, trying to grab at his wrists to pull him back in. “Who’s gonna make you cum?” He asks, snapping his hips back against yours, harsh and fast.

“You!” You wail, dragging out the word for several seconds, barely breathing as Mat bullies the orgasm from your body, holding your hips to his as you clench around him, shaking in his grip. Pleasure loosens all of your limbs as you gush around Mat, crying his name.

He strokes his thumbs over your hipbones and pumps into you a handful more times, but you’re barely aware of him filling the condom with a shout of your name, your head fuzzy with post-orgasm haze. Mat breathes heavily over you, slumping slightly to the side as he finishes, loosening his grip on you. You blink sleepily up at him, a lazy, satisfied smile forming on your lips. “What?” He asks, voice raspy and smoky.

“Just really like your face,” your smile turns a little wicked, “‘specially when you’re cumming.” You wrangle your features into a caricature of his orgasm face. “Looks like this.”

Mat pinches your hip and pulls out of you, wincing when he takes the condom off and ties off the end. “Yeah? Yours looks like this,” he throws his head back dramatically, squeezes his eyes shut, and drops his mouth open, letting his tongue flop out like he’s a corpse on a terrible soap opera.

You bark a laugh, kicking at him. “I do not!”

“Do too,” Mat grins, leaning down to cup your jaw and kiss you with tongue and teeth. “Good thing I think you’re the fucking hottest woman on the planet.” He climbs off the couch to toss the condom and you watch his ass as he walks away. It should literally be a crime to have an ass that tight. Your clit gives a pathetic little throb as you watch him, used and abused but so ready to go another round. You slip a hand between your legs, rolling the swollen nub between your fingers gently.

“Can we implement like naked weekends around here?” You ask, popping your head over the back of the couch. Mat’s laughter echoes through the kitchen.

“You know I’m never gonna say no to that,” he replies, and then in the next second, his t-shirt is flying through the air and landing on your head. “In fact, let’s start now.”

——-

You get in late from girls’ night - it’s close to one in the morning - and you know Mat’s asleep. He’d texted you around midnight, a typo-filled message that essentially said he was going to bed, but if you wanted to wake him with a blow job he wouldn’t be opposed to it. You’d snorted a laugh at the message, hiding your screen from the other girls while you typed back a definitive no. He’d replied with a pouting selfie that you ignored. You figure he’d gone to bed shortly after that since the boys have a game later in the day.

The house is dark when you get home, just a few of the under cabinet lights on in the kitchen so you don’t trip on anything.

You make your way slowly up to your bedroom, unsteady on your feet, discarding your shoes and clothes as you go. All you want to do is curl up in bed and pass out.

There’s a lump of blankets on one side of the bed that tells you Mat is passed out under there. Sure enough, when you get closer, you can see one of his bare feet poking out from the bottom of the covers. You smile faintly to yourself, getting rid of the last of your clothes and rummaging around in a drawer for a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. The alcohol has your body feeling overly warm so you don’t bother with retrieving your Comfy from the closet. You’ll manage with whatever blankets you can wrestle away from Mat.

The bed is nice and warm from Mat’s body heat and you settle happily on your side of the bed, cricketing your feet a little to really warm things up. Mat hasn’t wrapped himself all up yet, so you scoot closer to him, planning on pressing your chest against his back and spooning him, but instead of feeling bare skin or the cotton of a t-shirt, your fingers are met with a familiar fleecy material.

“What the fuck?” you forget to whisper and your voice is loud and echoes around the room. You squint and pull back the blankets that are partially covering Mat’s head.

The royal blue and orange of the Islanders’ logo comes into view and your jaw drops when it finally clicks that Mat’s wearing your Comfy to bed. The hood is secured over his head and his hands are tucked into the sleeves.

“Oh my god!” You shove at Mat’s shoulder and he startles.

“Hnghh?” He grunts, rolling onto his back, yawning.

“You took my Comfy!” You jab at his arm and Mat’s eyes crack open.

A faint, sleepy smile curves his lips. “Hey, babe,” he mumbles, reaching a hand out for you. “Have fun with the girls?” He stretches, blankets shifting around.

“Don’t ’hey, babe’ me!” You grumble, pulling at the blankets. “You literally gave me that because you take my blankets. Now you take my Comfy?”

Mat yawns again, jaw cracking. He doesn’t look apologetic at all. “It’s warm,” he whines, grabbing your hand to pull you closer. “And it smells like you.”

You go to him despite yourself, scooting over and curling up against his side, tucking your shoulder under his armpit. Your legs brush against his and you frown. “Are you naked in my Comfy, Mathew?” You yelp, pulling at the fleece fabric. “You cannot be serious!”

“I have boxers on!” He laughs in protest, swatting your hands away from him. “I’m not gross.”

“Yes, you are,” you grumble, growing sleepy again. “I want a new one now that you’ve taken this one.”

He slings his legs over yours, arms holding you close as he kisses your forehead. “I can share, Squeaks. I’m a generous boyfriend,” he laughs against your hair. You press closer to his warmth, burying your face in his chest.

“You failed sharing in kindergarten, Mat,” you tease quietly. He slaps your ass gently and you giggle, curling up closer to him.

“So mean to me,” you can hear the pout in his voice. “Definitely not sharing now. Gonna buy my own Comfy.”

——

When Mat comes home from practice three days later, he’s toting another giant bag that he hadn’t left the house with.

You eye it suspiciously and he’s laughing like a lunatic as he pulls out another Comfy, declaring, “we match, Squeaks.”

“Oh my god,” you laugh. You didn’t think he was actually serious about getting his own.

Mat pulls the fabric over his head and does a little twirl for you, holding his arms out. “How do I look?” He asks, striking a dramatic pose, pushing his lips out in an exaggerated duck face.

“Like the hottest oversized fleece hoodie model in the world,” you reply, reaching out to grab the fabric and pull him in for a kiss.

[brawltogethernow]

I would LOVE to hear your aro Hal thoughts if you don’t mind sharing?

[re:] (Sorry in advance there are absolutely no issue citations; I have saved so many pages in random places without labeling them.)

I don't know if I'd even call it having thoughts so much as having...an incomplete collection of Hal...saying things?

And having things said about him?

And he does this very familiar weasel jink when asked certain types of questions.

Like the general direction of authorial intent here is presumably that he's a ~playboy~ who ~can't be tied down~,

but we rarely see him...like...with anybody. He's an informed attribute playboy who's had a handful of onscreen flings that tend to be complete disasters with significantly less chemistry than a poorly measured baking soda volcano, and other than that there's Carol, who he's been failing to marry with high agitation for sixty-five years at this point. Like in cape comics it's standard for your obvious endgame A couple to take twenty or thirty years to get around to that, but sixty is excessive. Like even Alicia Masters and the Thing managed it faster and they kept getting put off because it stressed out too many Marvel writers to contemplate monsterfucking. (And other less comedic factors but this post isn't about that.)

And every time Hal tries to go steady with Carol he acts like he's dying, even though he clearly loves her and holds having her in his life in extremely high priority.

Like he is not enjoying a playboy lifestyle he doesn't want to give up. He has tried very hard to settle down several times, but he always panics and bolts at the last second like someone who's run out of the willpower¹ to keep holding onto an electrified rod--except when he's rescued by deus ex machina.

¹Ha.

And it's also pretty evident that he hates himself for this and doesn't understand why he can't pass this standard life milestone, or why he keeps hurting Carol, his favorite person, trying and failing to do what they think you're supposed to. He very blatantly views his romantic failures as something that let down other people and "improving" as a sacrifice he's supposed to make for them.

When his desires come into it it's primarily in the context of him gaslighting himself about how he totally wants the things he's supposed to that won't disappoint people, definitely definitely for real this time.

As seen above, romantic success for Hal is often conflated with retiring from being Green Lantern to inject cheap drama and insert a built-in inevitable failure, framing him as staying single because he's "married to the job". This barely ever made sense but was already downright comedic by the, I want to say late 70's?, where Carol was in on the secret identity and John and Katma were pulling off extremely successful GL/GL dating in the same book. At this point it's complete nonsense, so writers have been pulling harder on framing Hal as a disorganized man-child with commitment issues who's just sort of arbitrarily rendered undateable by being a committed superhero, something which, although it's a classic source of drama, has not hindered any of DC's other characters to this degree this consistently.

In conclusion: This aro man does not know what aromanticism is despite being one degree of separation from Connor Hawke, which is ruining his life and his ability to have any self esteem. Him and Carol desperately need someone to tell them what queerplatonic relationships are so they can stop doing these wretched I'm-not-touching-you kisses.

#EverybodyDislikedThat

Also he's been dressing up as the aromantic flag since 1959. Okay now I'm done.

[stararch4ngelqueen]

Taking the Wheel

—

Time Written-10:47 p.m

Dick Grayson/fem!reader smut

—

Clink, clack, clink, clack. The sounds of heels faintly echoed across the long since faded parking lot, carelessly crossing through thin spaces in between cars and trucks to throw the irritating bastard off your back.

Since you didn’t had arrive with friends, and the main reason you arrived to the packed Lounge, especially on weekends, quickly failed, you were left to walk a long ways across the vehicular maze to get towards your car.

A long, irritating walk on eroded asphalt, in obnoxiously irritating footwear.

Honestly? You could’ve cared less for the foot ache, attempting to push your pace to get towards your destination, your club mood spoiled over by a new desire of getting in your warm, vacant bed at home. Your attempt at distracting your endlessly rattled mind by going towards one of the hottest clubs in the city proved to be a complete failure.

This was Gotham. You knew better than to believe you were going to enjoy a night out for clubbing, completely ignorant to the possibility of the last man you ever expected to arrive, clad in his goddamn uniform, on the search for you.

The only way you learned it was him throughout all the blaring music and strong strobe light ambiance was the roar of patrons crowding around the hottest man of the hour around the dance floor.

What a stupid plan honestly, especially with the overwhelming presence of the obnoxious vigilante following shortly behind you, wondering if you were just doing this to get a reaction out of him.

“You can stop following me now, Grayson.”

It was strangely empty tonight, how he managed to shake off the crowds to go after you alone was a question you could’ve cared less to understand or answer.

"You're walking at night? Alone? You realize you live in Gotham, right?”

You only continued walking, holding yourself with your clutch purse tucked under your shirt, your heels scraping along stray parking lot gravel.

"Aren’t you cold?" Dick asks, trying to hide his worry about you being in that dress in this sixty five degree night.

He was right, watching your head shake no, despite how you carried yourself.

"Oh, come on." Dick says in assuming defeat, only to surprise you via cutting off your path by hopping up on the nearest challenger hood, abruptly jumping in front of your path.

“You can't just walk off like nothing just happened between us." Dick asserts, meeting your aggravated stare.

“Get out of my way—“

"Look, I'm tired of giving you space. Call me clingy, I don’t care. We need to talk about what happened, right now." The words sound more desperate than he intended, other than stern and demanding.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” You mutter, attempting to continue your walk before he holds a hand out in front of you, preventing you from squeezing past him.

"There’s always something to say,” Dick says, hoping you’d try to look back at him.

You’re clearly hurting more than you’re letting on. He can’t really blame you.

You’re no party girl, but you are a girl he hurt. Throwing yourself back out into the dating pool was a typical response, even he’s done it, but he can’t let that happen this time. Not with you.

"Let's... let's talk about this somewhere safe, okay?" He asks, looking down at you. You shift your head a bit, giving him an annoyed glare.

“I wanna go home, okay?” You nearly spat back to him, insisting to yourself that you had no patience to deal with him.

Dick doesn't immediately move in response, gazing down at you with sympathy instead of irritation, such a heart throb in his pretty eyes.

He probably practiced this often every morning in the mirror ever since you broke up, keeping you hooked like a mouse with cheese, or a pretty boy who always knew what to say.

“… Okay.”

He offers his hand out, awaiting your keys in his open palm.

“At least let me drive you home.” He offers, remaining stagnant until he received the only answer he expected. It’ll make him feel a whole lot better knowing you weren’t in the worst place in Gotham right now.

You could only huff through your nose before rummaging through your purse, pulling out your keys.

“Fine,” you mutter, dropping the item into his quickly closing hand. “Just home. That’s it.”

“That’s it,” Dick confirms with a hand raised before stepping off to the side, allowing you to walk ahead of him. “Promise.”

The car was warm, the heater constantly blowing warm air against your exposed back, nearly bumping back against your leather steering wheel.

The driver’s seat had long since been reclined, the material lightly squeaking in response to your sweaty bodies shuffling against each other. Lips battling in between teeth and tongue for dominance he willingly gave you, giving you the impression of control.

His body completely hidden by the suit, while you were still in your backless, black sequin party dress.

Sure, the car was private and warm, the alley was dark, the only light coming from the tiny radio screen, faintly reflecting off the various tiny black sequins of your dress, now pulled down from your torso, decorating your waist like a belt of dying stars.

You remembered the way his gloved hands impatiently unclipped the seatbelt so he could pull you across to his lap after an unprecedented, filthy make-out. The way he had purposely massaged the insides of your thighs caused electricity to shoot through you, needing you as close as physically possible, your short dress riding up precariously over your thighs.

"I should have done this sooner," Dick grunts against your painted lips while pinching your nipples in his thumbs, your nails rasping down the smooth material of his Nightwing suit, pulling it off his shoulders.

“D’you think someone will see us like this…?”

"No one's gonna be looking," Dick gasps out, his tone confident while dripping with cocky arrogance. "And if they do... who the hell cares."

Dick could barely focus on what was happening outside the car as it was.

For some reason, that thought made this all the more exciting. Not that the thought of being seen with a beautiful woman in Nightwing’s lap ever seemed like a bad thing.

“You looked amazing in this dress..." he runs a hand along the curve of your hip.

"But you look a lot better without it."

You’d physically cringe if you weren’t so damn aroused. Only someone like him could pull off cheesy one liners about eighty six percent of the time.

"So do something about it,” you whisper, nipping his bottom lip in your teeth, nearly contemplating on drawing blood once he chuckled.

"With pleasure, Princess.”

Wrapping an arm around your waist, he lifted you slightly with such ease, allowing him to pull his hard cock from the torturous material that suffocated him.

It would’ve been a much quicker process to undress if he randomly decided to arrive in that god awful disco suit, but it was far too late to complain now.

Prep was limited to the pleasant view of Dick stuffing three fingers into your warm hole, smirking at your hiss before raising them to his mouth, making a show of gathering his own spit while tasting you, before giving the tip of his red, angry cock a few quick strokes.

His fingers hooked your thin, messy panties to the side, hiding his mused smile from your gaze upon hearing your terribly hidden whimper as you felt the soft, blunt tip poking at your opening. A large gasp of air quickly invaded and evaded your lungs as you pushed down on him, feeling him splitting you open inch by torturously thick inch.

His own lust begged the rest of his consciousness to push further into you, aching to stuff the rest of himself inside your wet, greedy cunt. Luckily, you listened to your own thoughts, sinking yourself the rest of the way until you were properly seated, your bare thighs resounding against his with limited time to adjust.

"Holy-" He finds himself whining out, nearly crumbling apart from your silky, sweet cunt gripping him like a damn vice. Incidentally, his grip on your thong tightened after an involuntary thrust, forcing the weak band to snap apart.

The man could’ve cared less, carelessly tossing the ruined garment before gripping your hips with both hands, fingers hooking along your dress as an additional anchor to feverishly fuck you, hearing your breathing shift into quick, eager moans.

He wanted to take control so bad, but he was losing it before he even began.

The moans he emitted were heavenly, the muscles in his throat constricting as his head tilts back against the rest. He groans out your name in a delightful sigh, his fingers digging into your plush ass.

Lipstick prints littered his neck, eyes squeeze shut behind his domino mask.

“God, I've missed you,” the vigilante whimpers out, admiring your silvery necklace clink along the valley of your perfect, juicy tits bouncing erratically close to his chest, accompanied by the jingle of your matching bangles as you sunk your nails deep into the muscles along his back.

Dick's heavy lidded eyes gazed at your flushed face, your cheeks tinted pink with heavy, orgasmic blush. Your mascara stained lashes littered with cloudy black tears, bits of dappled glitter in the corners of your eyes, your signature touch, remaining poised along your perfect face. The picture he always looked forward to taking after every successful date night.

"Do you feel how much I've missed you?" Dick grumbles against your shoulder, his voice breathless, despite his best efforts to control his emotions. “Feel how hard, how deep, just fucking into this pussy? That’s all you baby.” The seemingly endless cooes against your neck render endless shivers down your spine, garnering the exact reactions he wanted from you; straining against the tight clench of your eager cunt.

"Oh-God. Fuuuck yes, missed you so much, princess,” Dick whispers, his tone filled with lust and excitement. He teetered on the edge of begging you to bite him again, to mark his neck up however with as many nips as you please, eager to see such raw evidence of your teeth marks in the morning.

“Mph— take it, baby. F-fucking take it all.”

You could only moan in response to his many words against his neck, your painted eyes nearly fluttering closed as you persist on your relentless pace. He was enjoying this a little too much, as much as you were, if not more.

Amidst the mind numbing euphoria of fucking his ex girlfriend in her own car, calloused hands full of black sequins and exposed skin, even he was calling himself an idiot in his own mind as he whimpers a lot louder than he intended within your shared ecstasy.

He was a damn idiot, thinking only about how much he’s hated being in a relationship with anyone except you. How much you’ve grown to become his favorite person; the one woman he needs every damn night. Every second of the damn day.

And if he wants to prove it by having you ride his cock in the seat of a car parked in a secluded alleyway, so be it. He’ll spoil you with a white plush bed caked in rose petals once after you agree to get back together with him.

"Ba-Baby..." Dick croaks through his stutter, his voice cracking slightly as he watches you come to an abrupt halt to his dismay.

A weak, pathetic grunt spews from his lips as you roll your hips, rocking along his lap, his bruised Adam’s apple bobbing after each whimper and whine. "Don’t stop—don’t stop. Shiiit, I’m begging you—“

His words muffle in a quick second as you stuff your ruined, bunched up thong into his mouth, cerulean eyes widening in surprise by boldness.

Many times he’s taken the lead, regardless over where your horny selves ended up. Any recollection of him doing this to you quickly faded once you locked eyes, his brows raised in surprise and submission to your taunt, prideful expression, lipstick smeared lips scowling in annoyance.

Right now, right now you wanted nothing more than to take out your frustrations on him. Even if it was one of the least violent thoughts you had when it came to him, you compensated via heavy scratches and relentless bites on his neck, and now this.

He wouldn’t be whining like such a bastard in a rut without your sweet, creamy pussy downgrading him from an arrogant, cocky, fearless vigilante into a raspy, quivering disciple. Bright, pretty putty in your hands.

Your hands grasped along the back of his head, purposefully frazzling his sweaty, perfect locks of hair as you eagerly chased another kiss. Your hands gripped his hair tighter causing him to take a sharp intake of air in.

You wouldn’t be such a quivering mess without the constant spear of his hard, delicious cock. A victim to this nearly endless cycle of ‘Fuck now, ask questions later.’

‘Or, just fuck some more later.’

You knew this, and you knew he’d give you what you wanted first before you even considered the idea of forgiving him.

“I need you to- fuck, j-just shut up. Shut up a-and keep going, Dick. Keep— Keep going. Just- Just keep fucking me.”

He stares straight ahead at the rich goddess amidst the fogged up windshield in front of him, his hands reinforcing his grasp along your thighs.

Obediently, he picked up the pace, the fat head hitting directly on your sweet spot much rougher and faster with intentions to leave you bruised, hoping you’d allow him to care for you for the rest of the week shortly after.

He moaned much louder against the damp, pheromone laced fabric, swallowing up your sickeningly sweet venom while he pistons his hips, making his soaking wet, twitchy balls constantly smack against your overstretched cunt.

Oh, if only you knew how much you drove Richard Grayson wild, if only you knew.

Hell, what was the argument even about? Neither of you could barely remember anymore.

[xetlynn]

Twilight- Youngest Shadow: Chapter Five, Sick Days

(Alice X Reader X Jasper)

[four] [five] [six]

Since it’s getting warmer students around me are wearing shorter clothing even though it’s barely sixty degrees.

And collectively we all sit outside for lunch today, but of course it’s the one day I got sick. Plus on our big game day and due to my fever that keeps growing I’m going to have to leave school early and miss out on maybe being in the newspaper.

“He’s not here.” Jessica says, startling me as everything makes me jumpy from how shitty I feel. “Whenever the weather is nice the Cullens disappear.”

“They just ditch?” Bella asks, not understanding.

“No, Dr, and Mrs Cullen yank em out for hiking and camping and stuff. I tried the idea out on my parents, no even close.” Jessica sighs. Bella takes it all in and I cough earning a look from Jessica who was sitting on the ground. I just put my head down.

“I’m going to the prom with Eric! I just asked him, I took control!” Angela jumps on the table in between Bella and I, hugging my sister as I lift my head back up to smile. “That’s amazing,” my voice is hoarse and I cough as it strains my throat.

“Oh, [Name] are you okay?”

“She’s running a fever and her throat is bothering her.” Bella explains for me that and I’m internally grateful for it. “I’m sorry.” Angela says, rubbing my back then talking to Bella again.

She ends up keeping a hand on my back which feels nice. I repeatedly keep shivering from occasional breezes.

“Are you sure you have to go out of town?” Angela asks Bella, “it’s a family thing, [Name] is staying though.” I put my thumbs up to confirm that.

“Oh my god, we need to hit the stores in Port Angeles before the dresses get cleaned out.” Jessica gasps,

“Port Angeles?” Bella asks, “can I go with you guys?”

My face scrunches even though they can’t see it, Bella? Dress shopping? If only I wasn’t sick I would love to see this.

“Thank god, we need your opinion.” Angela says.

I end up leaving right after lunch, sneaking past school staff to get to my motorcycle I luckily got back from Jacob yesterday. I tried calling my dad but it just rang through, I’m guessing something is going on to where he can’t answer.

I take my helmet out of Bella’s truck bed and roughly tug it on my head. I lazily try to put my leg over the bike, almost falling so I hold on to the truck. Giving myself a minute as I feel dizzy. A horn honks, scaring me to the point where I hear my heart beat thump in my chest.

“[Name]! What are you doing?”

Alice? Wasn’t she supposed to be hiking or some shit? I go to talk but my tongue feels too big for my mouth. I take a deep breath. “I don’t feel good, I’m trying to get home.” I try to say as loud as I can, even then doesn’t feel loud enough.

“Want me to take you home?” She goes to reach over and I shake my head. “I gotta get my bike home somehow.” I take a few steps closer to her car. “I’ll have Jasper bring it over.” She smiles, I tilt my head, squinting as I looked at her.

Get into her car? Or drive home myself?

“Where do I put my keys?” I jingle them too close to my face. “Hide them on Bella’s truck tire, closest to the bike.” She instructs me and I drag my feet back over to my bike, doing as told. I then take my helmet off, putting it on the bike for Jasper.

I climb into her car as if it were a hill. Accidentally slamming the door behind me. “Sorry, thank you.”

My body faces her, I watch as she drives, wearing sunglasses. She glances at me and sadly smiles. “You should’ve stayed home.”

“I know.” I mumble,

After moments pass it felt like milliseconds and we’re already at my house. “Alright, we should get you inside and you need to lay down.” She unbuckles herself, going around the car and opening my door as I am pretty slow with my movements. “My body is aching.” I try to laugh at myself but I just end up in a coughing fit.

She puts a hand on my waist and she walks me to the door, making me feel more fragile than I actually am. “There’s a um house key under the uh mat.” I tell her and she bends down to grab it.

Opening the door I trip inside. We go over to the living room and i plop down, accidentally bringing her with me. I feel how cold she really is and I shiver from the touch. She giggles and stands back up.

“Let me call Jasper and I’ll find you something small to eat and medicine.” She boops my nose, leaving me to be alone as she heads towards the kitchen.

It didn’t take long for her to come back with crackers and a few pills laid next to me on the arm of the couch. “Jasper should be here soon. Do you want to watch something?” Alice sits next to me and I shrug. “I’ll get you sick. You should go enjoy time with your family.” I take a cracker from its wrapping and bite it. She smiles, shaking her head. “It’s quite alright, it’s nothing I haven’t done already. I’ll stay until your dad or sister gets back.” She informs me and if I wasn’t so sick I would be bombarding with questions.

I hear an engine rev outside and I jump unnoticeably from the noise. Alice stands up and I look down at lol the crumbs I have on my shirt.

The front door opens and I see Jasper putting my helmet and keys down. “Here you should take the medicine.” Alice tells me.

“How do I know you’re not drugging me?” I rebuttals and she scoffs with a smirk laid upon her lips. “What would I gain from that?” She teases, handing me a water bottle. “I don’t know, you could rob me.” I hum, looking at her through half lidded eyes.

“Sweetheart, I could’ve already did that by now.”

I shrug, stretching my arms and sitting up. “What’s the medicine?” I simply ask. “Ibuprofen. That’s it. I couldn’t find cold medicine or anything.” She tells me, I nod, expecting that from Charlie.

“Why are you guys helping me?” I look between the both of them.

“We want to help a friend.” Alice grins, i squint my eyes at her response.

“Seriously, we will leave if that’s what you wish.” Jasper finally speaks up. My eyes follow to him. “What if that is what I wish?” I say in a snarky tone.

“Then we will listen. We don’t want to over stay our welcome.” He winks and I’m caught off guard.

“I just want to sleep. I have too many questions that I don’t feel like will be answered.” I go to stand up and they try to help but I smack their hands away. “I got it. I barely know you two I don’t get this.” I aggressively motion between the three of us.

“What do you mean, [Name]?” Alice asks, both of them wear a worried expression. “Why can’t you guys go to the Quiluete beach? Or or.. why when it’s sunny your parents just decide to take you out of school?” My throat starts hurting worse from before, the strain from me yelling doesn’t help. I almost go into another coughing fit but luckily the feeling goes away but I am definitely feeling a shortness of breath.

“[Name], you should take a nap and when you wake up, if you feel better we will answer everything you want to know.” Alice assures me.

I huff, wanting to scream from how confused I feel.

“I want you both to… to leave!” I get extremely dizzy just like before, my knees giving out, Jasper immediately helps me. Grabbing onto my arms as I hold onto his. “You need to go to sleep.” He whispers, “your skin, it’s so cold.” I tell him, he presses his lips together, glancing at Alice.

He sets me back down on the couch and I lay down. “I don’t want to wake up to you guys here.” I mutter, loud enough for them to hear though.

My eyes open to darkness, and blankets over me. I feel around and I’m in my bed. I hear whispers next to me, weight on my bed beside me. It feels like my fever has also just disappeared.

“You’re up.” A voice says softly. I jerk up in response. “Why are you two still here!?” I sternly question them, getting up to my knees on the bed, backing away from both of them.

“You’re still upset?” Alice frowns and I tilt my head. “Duh, I’m still upset! I told you both two leave, you said if I told you to leave you would. Um so seems like the problem can easily be solved.” I remind them.

“We did leave, we came back when we realized nobody would make sure you were going to be okay for a while, darling.” Jasper tells me and I sit there for a moment. I shake my head. “Don’t give me a lame ass excuse. Just explain everything I want to know then leave.” I straight up tell them, tired of this game I feel like I’m in.

“I feel like you know everything already.” Alice points out. I take a deep breath.

“Why won’t you just say it?”

“To protect you.” Jasper steps closer and this time I don’t flinch away. “Maybe I don’t need nor want your protection.” I cross my arms.

“Why me? None of this makes sense.” I tiredly laugh, I feel like I’m going insane.

“You’re our person, [Name]. You’re like a metal and we’re your personal magnets. A missing piece you never knew you needed. You’re just stubborn.” Jasper sits down on the bed, pulling Alice with him. Both take my hands and for some reason they aren’t cold anymore…

And then I really wake up from what felt like a nightmare. “[Name]! You home!?” Bella calls and I look around, confused about what I just experienced. Pinching myself underneath my blanket. It’s real. And with this being real. They really did bring me to my bedroom.

“What’s going on?” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. “Dad wanted me to check in on you. I don’t know if you heard.” She comes up to my bed, sitting down next to me. “What happened?”

“One of his buddy’s, Waylon passed away. Attacked by an animal.” She tells me and my eyes widen. Not expecting that of all things.

She hands me a pepper spray. “Dad also wanted me to give you that.”

I furrow my eyebrows in response and she chuckles dryly. “He gave me one too, twins.” She shows me hers and I smile.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s okay as anyone could be in his position.” She shrugs and I nod, that makes sense. “Did you happen to pass by Alice or Jasper at all… today?”

Her body tensed from the question.

“Not.. Alice or Jasper. Why?” She adjusts herself better to face me.

“They took me home earlier, gave me medicine.” I explain and Bella shoots me a weird look.

“They were here?” I nod

“How was dress shopping?” I change the subject not wanting to think about the dream I had.

“Eh, I bumped into Edward.” And I smirk.

“Stop it.” She rolls her eyes.

Then it was silence between us. And as she goes to stand up I grab her wrist. “Wait, i um have a question.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you feel something.. off about the Cullens?” I bite the inside of my mouth, waiting for her answer.

“You feel it too?” She whispers,

“You heard about the Quiluete story?” I question.

“Jacob told me the other day.” She nods.

“Okay, I’m not the only one then.” I sigh, taking her hand. “I had a weird dream. I just I need to find out what all of this means.” I exclaim.

“That’s how I feel. I bought a um book. From the library down in Port Angeles.” She reaches down and I didn’t even know but she placed a book bag down there before getting on my bed.

She comes back up with a heavy old looking book.

“Sleepover?”

“I’m still sick, Bells.”

“I don’t care, scoot.” I do as told and we lean against the wall, I grab my laptop bed we use that light as a resource to look through the book.

Pages of masked creatures, menacing looking.

We then turn to the another page, this time it was a white mask with black eyes and a row of sharp teeth. “The cold one.” It read.

I quickly sign in to my laptop, searching that up, immediately getting beer pop ups on my screen. I irritatedly close them. “Look.” Bella points on the screen, it was a link to “The Cold One: Apotamkin.” I click on it.

Pictures begin to load of a seductive Apotamkin with his ice blue skin, devouring victims in tapestries, engravings. The creatures that are horrific portrayed to be beautiful.

Demons attacking villages; perfectly sculpted predators luring innocent women.

“All of this is gruesome murder and sexual innuendos.” I whisper.

Words at the bottom say:

Speed, strength, cold skinned, immortal… blood drinker…

I close my eyes for a brief second. Thinking about how Edward moved fast when Bella was in the accident, how he stopped a whole van. I never really questioned it before but now… I don’t know. How Alice knew where my house was… I never told her. How they all look young and are cold to the touch.

Another picture shows and it’s a man biting a white neck.

“It’s not possible.” Bella shared a look a with me, both of us struggling to make sense of it all.

Chapter five!!!

Also I’m going to start doing short Imagines! So if you want to request anything feel free!

[kaijuno]

Anita Blair was the first guide dog handler in El Paso, Texas, when she graduated from The Seeing Eye in March 1940 with Fawn, a German shepherd. The photo is a black and white photo of Anita being guided by Fawn across a bustling city street in the early 1940s.

Just a month later, Anita and Fawn were crossing a street in El Paso when a car nearly hit her. “Fawn, the fawn-colored German shepherd, with perfect timing checked her mistress’s pace, so that the car sped past without the driver being aware that the young woman could not see,” the El Paso Times reported on April 19, 1940.

Fawn was at her side when she graduated from the Texas College of Mines and Metallurgy – now known as the University of Texas at El Paso, or UTEP – with a bachelor’s degree in 1944. She later earned a master’s degree from Texas State College for Women, now Texas Woman’s University, in Denton.

In 1946, Anita and Fawn were again in the news during a tragic fire at the 23-story Hotel LaSalle in Chicago. According to the June 6, 1946, issue of the El Paso Times, Anita was awakened by screams. “When I opened the door the smoke was so heavy I could taste it,” Anita told the newspaper. “I closed the door but did not want to get Fawn excited. Because of her I remained calm – and probably because of me she did the same.”

Fawn led Anita out the window and down the fire escape – 11 stories down – while the fire raged. Sixty-one people were killed in the fire.

In 1952, Anita became the first El Paso woman – and the first blind woman in any state – to be elected as a state representative. During her time in office, Anita fought for funding for the State School for the Deaf, teacher pay raises, and a bill that allowed women to serve on juries.

Anita returned to The Seeing Eye five more times to be matched with successor Seeing Eye dogs. Her last was Beryl, a black Labrador retriever, in 1990. Anita died in 2010 at the age of 93, and in recognition of her service as a state legislator, is buried in the Texas State Cemetery in Austin.

[renova-writes]

lost in the pages. part 1

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 1,350

warnings: none

a/n: I haven't written in forever so please forgive me. I'm trying to get back into it and I started this fit a while ago so I figured I'd finally post the first few chapters of it! I hope you like it!

masterlist

You had your nose fully engrossed in your book, ignoring the lunch you had set out to eat on the table next to you. You had been itching to read your latest story- a crime thriller- all morning, making the minutes agonizing, and once you finally took your lunch break the book was the first thing you thought about. 

Just as the story started to pick up, your coworker David ran into the break room. “Hey, sorry to interrupt, Betty needs you up at the front. Some guy showed up all serious and she had to take a meeting with him.” 

“What about you? I’m on lunch right now. Why can’t you get the front desk?”

“I got story time in five minutes. Unless you want to read ‘Cat In The Hat’?”

“No, thanks. I’ll take the front.” Children stressed you out, the way they could never sit still and pay attention. You were grateful for David and his endless patience.

The library you worked at in downtown Manhattan saw a fair amount of traffic. Unfortunately, everyone always seemed to come in right after you took your lunch break. There was a decent amount of books for one of New York’s oldest private libraries and only three full time employees. Betty, the head librarian, was about sixty years old and a kind old soul. She had been a librarian at this branch her entire life and defended her books with such ferocity that she had been given the nickname ‘the book witch’ by the snot-nosed little kids that mixed up the shelving in the children’s section and ‘old hag’ by the meaner ones . You swore that you saw her hit a teenager over the head with a book when he and his friends were eating in the library. David was an oddball. He was technically in charge of the technology, but the branch had only a handful of computers and, for the most part, relied on paper records to keep track of its books. In the two years you had been working with David, you never once saw him read a book unless he had to. He was a character, to say the least. 

You had been working at the library for the past two and a half years. Growing up you loved to read and went to college at NYU, studying Classic Literature before graduating a year early and deciding to get your degree in Master’s in Library and Information Science and become a librarian. You found your job to be incredibly rewarding but also very stressful. You liked helping people find new books and seeing them get excited about books. However, you were constantly hounded by mounds of paperwork and phone calls and constant organization. During your first week, you had made the mistake of re-organizing the disheveled back room and had apparently done such a good job that Betty decided to put you in charge of all things ‘organized’ and gave you control of the library’s extensive records. You assumed that you had managed it fairly well. Housing thousands of books and newspaper records whilst still using the Dewey Decimal system, it had been a nightmare to digitize everything. The project had occupied a few months of your time but at the end of it, nobody complained and all files were straightforward and easy to find. It was all smooth sailing. 

While sitting at the front desk that afternoon you longed for the book that you were forced to abandon in the break room. Your felt stomach start to complain about the ignored lunch and you were about to go back to grab your sandwich during a rare dead-period when Betty walked over with someone.

 The man next to Betty had messy dark brown hair and a neatly shaped goatee. He wore an old Black Sabbath t-shirt and shaded sunglasses and walked with such confidence and swagger that he was easily recognizable. Tony freaking Stark. 

‘What the hell is he doing here?’ you wondered to yourself. 

“Ah, Mr. Stark, this is who I was talking about. She’s the best librarian and archivist I have ever worked with.” Betty smiled through her rectangle glasses. 

“Thank you,” you beamed, slightly flustered by the compliment, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stark.”

“The pleasure’s all mine. All my prayers have been answered. You are really going to save my ass.” 

Though you had heard that Stark had a unique and slightly confusing way of talking, you were not expecting this. How could you help him? He was a genius. “How exactly am I going to do that, Mr. Stark.”

“Call me Tony. I have a slight problem that I could use your help with.” He began, “Back when we were just starting out a few years ago, after the New York alien invasion disaster, we were supposed to log everything and do debriefs and paperwork and all that stuff but we didn’t exactly know what to do with all of it so it kind of all just got piled up in filing cabinets and boxes. That wasn’t that big of a problem but now we’re supposed to share our records with the UN and they’re a disaster. None of us have any idea how to do it- not that we have time to- so that’s where you come in.” 

“So you want me to organize it all for you?” 

“All of it, by March 26th.” Your eyes widened. That was only three weeks away. Who knows how bad it was? Still, it was Tony Stark and he would probably be willing to pay pretty well. 

“Just as long as Betty and David will be able to manage without me-” you began, but Betty interrupted your only excuse. 

“We’ll be fine, dear.” She smiled, and you could tell that she was trying to encourage you to take the job. The library would survive despite the massive increase in work that she and David would have to endure. 

You looked from her to Stark, who was leaning against the desk and smiling also, then back to Betty. You felt bad about leaving Betty and the library but the opportunity to work with Stark was too alluring. “Okay, okay. I’m in.”

“Okay great! That was easier than I thought it would be.” Tony said, clapping his hands and standing up straight. “I’ll see you at 9 tomorrow, Happy will give you more info, here’s my card,” his mouth was moving faster than you expected and words were being thrown out that you didn’t understand. Who was Happy? Did he want to meet you at the Avenger’s Tower? Before you had even realized what you just got yourself into, Tony Stark was out the door.

You breathed out, muttering a curse word that you hoped Betty didn’t hear. You stood up from the desk and she walked over to you. Clasping her hands around yours she smiled again, “Congratulations, I am so proud of you, dear.” 

“No fucking way, Tony Stark wants you to come organize the Avenger’s records!?” David asked for the millionth time while the two of you were sorting the book returns. 

“I swear to god, David, it was him.” You were starting to get annoyed. David seemed more excited about your job than you were. “I have no idea how bad it is. I only have three weeks to get everything in order.”

“Oh, shit, you might be screwed then. How long did it take for you to get this branch in order?”

“Two, three months. But I also had other stuff to do, it wasn’t like my main job.” 

“You’re gonna be fine. You’re smart and capable and it can’t be that bad. Plus just remember how much he’s probably gonna pay you.” 

“Yeah,” you began but a buzz in your pocket distracted you. You pulled it out to find a text from an unknown number “Hey, I bet this is him with the info, I’ll be right back.” 

This is Happy. 

Avengers tower, 9 o’clock, front entrance. 

Don’t be late. I will meet you in the lobby. 

[cowpokeomens]

Pairing: Joakim "Jolly" Karlsson x Reader

Word Count: 436

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff, nothing more!

something short n soft to help you sleep <3 anyways my dm's are always open to talk abt Hozier hehe goodnight friends!

You understand how the weather works, loosely. You understand enough to be able to predict that February would be even colder than December, that the chances of snow increase dramatically during the second month of the year due to- what? El Niño? God? Whoever, whatever. It gets cold. 

Which makes it all the more insulting that you had really thought setting your thermostat to sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit would be sufficient enough to keep your body warm through the night and into the morning. 

You awaken because your feet are blocks of ice, and you’re absolutely certain that if you leave them out from the covers a second longer, they’ll fall off due to frostbite. Sensing warmth nearby, your body burrows further into the mountain of covers and pillows, until your face collides with something smooth, soft, and delightfully toasty.

“Your nose is a fucking icicle.” A disembodied voice calls from above your den of warmth. 

Shimmying impossibly closer, you hum, “You’re so warm.” There’s a sigh, then your wall of heat is removed temporarily as your partner turns over to face you. Pleased with this new angle, you immediately attach yourself to his chest, feet coming up to rest between his legs.

 He jumps at the contact, skin impossibly hotter than your poor, frozen feet. “Motherfuck- Do you have a pulse? No, I’m being so serious, stop laughing, I think you’re hypothermic-”

You let out another pleased hum, wiggling your toes as you crack an eye open to look up at him. Long hair is barely tied back into a low ponytail, beard scruffy even by his standards. His chest is bare, displaying a myriad of tattoos that are so familiar they might as well be your own. Dark eyes meet yours, and the tenderness there has you melting in more ways than one. 

“Good morning, Joakim.” You rasp, giving him the tiniest smile. 

A set of lips presses against your forehead, the gentlest kiss. The movement betrays his faux-exasperated tone as he says, “Good morning, baby.” Hand coming up to pet the back of your head slowly, he pulls you further into his chest.

“We need to turn up the heater.” You mumble into him, already drifting off again. 

“Can’t. If you get out of bed, you’ll freeze and die; If I get out of bed, you’ll freeze and die.” He reasons, still rubbing at your scalp soothingly.

You barely nod an affirmative. “True, you’re so smart.”

Humming in agreement, he settles back into bed, pulling you with him, the both of you content to fight off the cold for just a few more hours.

[steviewashere]

Let Me Make You Soup, Let Me Show You That I Care

(also on ao3)

wc: 4,149, Steddie Tags: Post Vecna, Post Canon, Post Season 4, Sick Steve Harrington, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting (Though Not Extreme, For I am Emetophobic), Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve's Sucky ass Parents

(Also, I hope y'all don't mind me cross-posting some of my favorite one shots that I've put up on ao3. Figured I could push them to a bigger audience, especially those who don't use ao3).

--------

Steve gets sick often. Small colds, allergies, the dreaded flu. Maybe it doesn't help him that he's had so many concussions and injuries on top of that too. Left with debilitating migraines and aching sides and muscles that become overexerted too fast.

Safe to say, his immune system is now a pile of steaming dog shit.

He's become good at attempting to "take care" of himself. With his parents being absent nearly all the time, much of the recovery process and gentle care was left to Steve. His hands don't have the same soft and slim quality as his mother's did, though. Even if she doesn't make the effort to shove his hair from his sweaty forehead or massage vapor-rub onto his chest or squeeze his shoulders as he dry-heaves into the toilet. He can miss that.

It's also safe to say that Steve Harrington, best babysitter and lesbian protector, is absolutely terrible at asking for help. His idea is, Got myself into this mess, I can get myself out. His other idea is, I don't want to burden anybody; I've been that too many times.

He suspects that's why his parents aren't there now to tuck him into bed and check his temperature and read him a bedtime story. Even though, now, he's a nineteen year old "man." More like a bruised child trapped inside the buff body of an even more injured adult, left to his own devices and decisions.

Steve is miserable today. Woke up with a knocking headache, an itch at the bottom of his throat, tingly fingers, shivering limbs, and the need to massage his abdomen to elicit the vomit to come up sooner.

It's barely nine in the morning. Just cracked his eyes open. Which, are heavy with crust and too much sleep, yet not enough.

It's barely nine in the morning and all Steve wants to do is lay stiff on his mattress, a trusty tried and true trashcan on the floor, curtains closed, a heavy duvet draped over his legs, and the A/C set to sixty-eight degrees. That's what he does. Doesn't have the appetite for breakfast or water or Tylenol. He doesn't have the energy to lay on a towel on the bathroom floor, body curled around the base of the toilet bowl. And, he doesn't have the confidence to plead with somebody over the phone to "Take care of me, just this once and I'll repay you."

He's done that before to Tommy. The bastard never showed and Steve sobbed so hard at the thought of being left alone, that he hurled right onto the beige carpet of his bedroom. That's why the desk is stuffed into the corner. To cover what he couldn't even take care of.

Steve has decided to lay in bed today. Has already used the trashcan. Kicked off the duvet then whined then brought it back to his sweat drenched t-shirt hem, then said fuck this and ripped the shirt off his body.

The silk sheets against his rapidly heating body feels nice. Like laying on the kitchen floor, Steve surmises. And that makes him think of soup.

A hot bowl of chicken noodle soup. Something he's made himself countless times before. A recipe that his mom never perfected. It's just Campbell's, the instructions are on the label, yet it was never made correctly.

She'd do that. When her motherly instincts were at an all-time high. That had to be when he was probably five? Six? His mom would make a bowl of soup so warm and soothing that she would have to warn him about touching the ceramic. She would bring him a glass of orange juice and say, ever soft and comforting, "It'll help you. Mommy promises."

The juice would sting his throat and he would cough so hard she would start to worry about doing the Heimlich maneuver.

That's what his mother's "sick care" turned into. A glass of orange juice that only hurt, never helped, just made him think about swallowing glass.

Soup turned into a heat-until-lukewarm situation. Juice wasn't bought for him. His parents elected to buy "fancy juice" instead. Another descriptor for Mommy's self-healing alcohol problem, Steve began to substitute. He remembers the last time she ever made him anything or gave a shit about his weakened body.

Steve was eleven years old.

He eventually learned where to buy the Campbell's stuff. From Mevald's. Now he keeps a hefty supply in the back of his family's pantry. Ready for a day like this.

A day where at eleven, before noon, Steve has a sudden mouth watering appetite for measly chicken noodle soup.

He hefts his body into an upright position, feet planted onto the carpet, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the mattress, a quick glance thrown at the trashcan, and a heavy breath burrowed into the stale air. Right before he scoots to stand, he hears the telltale sound of Eddie knocking on his front door. A simple three pattern.

The rapping startles Steve slightly. He forgot that Eddie was supposed to come over. I'll have to send him away, he thinks solemnly.

"Coming!" Steve croaks to the bathroom floor. With whatever strength the knocking has given him, he tucks the trashcan under his right arm, creeps to the top of the stairs, and ever so carefully floats down them.

The can is set off to the side before he opens the door.

In the glow of the daylight, energized and cheery, is Eddie Munson. Wrapped in a leather jacket, hair tied up into a bun, jeans replaced with jorts, and a grin the size of the moon.

"Hey Stevie," he drawls as his lithe frame leans against the doorjamb.

"Hey man, listen..." Steve begins before being interrupted.

"Whoa, what's going on with you?" Eddie shoves into the house. His grin is set into a small frown and his eyes are glazed with concern instead of the excited energy equal to a golden retriever. "Did you get enough sleep last night? You could've called me if you had a nightmare."

That's something him and Eddie do. When one has a god awful nightmare about floating bodies and squelching flesh and sterile hospital walls, they call each other. Sometimes to just hear that the other is alive. Other times for a trip to one another's house. The phone calls could be Eddie recapping a campaign storyline or Steve bemoaning over a wretched, hag of an old woman that demanded a refund on an R rated movie her grandson finagled her into renting. Or just breathing. Steve's fond of the soft puffs of air that signal Eddie finally relaxed enough to go back to sleep.

"No, weirdly enough I slept way longer than I was supposed to. I'm just sick today. But, I'm fine. Or at least I will be, got a good grasp on this. Y'know, trashcan, soft bed, canned soup. Was actually coming down here to send you back home," Steve rushes out. He's out of breath and feels lightheaded. The headache has turned into a pulsating mess and his stomach churns violently. Before he can warn Eddie again to go out the front door and leave him be, Steve finds himself hunched over his trashcan at the bottom of the stairs, trembling with the force of his grip. One hand on the edge of said bin. The other, wrapping tendrils of hair around his fingers and pulling with enough force to surely rip out some of his luxurious hair. Which, really, is a sweaty disgusting mop today.

He feels the hand in his hair loosen. A smaller, slightly cold hand replacing it. But this time, the fingers work carefully to sweep back any loose strands. Another hand joins the mix. This one squeezes at his right shoulder.

Eddie is behind him, whispering and shushing, "You're alright. I got you, let it out." His cold skin feels amazing over Steve's damp forehead. And equally, his touches are soothing.

Steve coughs once, twice, spits the same amount, and then leans against Eddie with a heavy sigh. "Thanks," he mutters. He shutters at being oddly exposed. Now that he's realized his torso is bare and he probably looks as awful as he feels and now all of his guts are in a bin in front of him.

The bin gets shoved over to the left and Steve starts to get up from the hardwood floor. Eddie lifts him up and leans him against his side. "How about this? I'll make you something mild, get some water into you, and divvy up a couple Tylenol tablets. Your skin is hot and not in the sexy way," he chuckles.

They make their way to the living room. Steve is deposited onto the couch with a cushion shoved behind his back and the can placed appropriately at his feet, within arm's reach. Eddie adjusts his hair again, this time with the tie from his own hair, and leaves to the kitchen.

Steve is dazed. Hot all over. Itchy in some places. Runny nose, aching stomach, watering eyes, and throat so itchy he wants to dig his fingernails into the skin on his neck. This predicament almost makes him embarrassed, more ashamed than anything. He gets his ass handed to him annually and has to have people take care of him during the concussions, until he's given the okay to go home and grovel in silence. And he puts himself in situations he can't get himself out of. He's tired of it, he realizes. Feels the need to apologize to Eddie, make him cookies or something, promise to never make him do anything like this ever again.

When said man comes back into the room with three extra-strength Tylenol in his palm and a cold glass of tap water, Steve wants to cry. It's not until Eddie is setting everything down to pet at his hair and shush him again doe he notice, he is crying.

"Sorry," Steve's voice rasps. He takes a gasping breath before choking out another nasty, wet sob.

"Nothing to be sorry for. It's what your body has to do," Eddie coos.

"No, I'm sorry you have to take care of me," he breathes. That's tally number two for decisions Steve is making today. Some miserable, lonely, somewhat pathetic decisions.

Then, Eddie pulls back. His eyes are the size of saucers. And that small frown from earlier has turned into a deep-set, terribly worrying downturn. "You don't have to apologize for that. Not at all. You need help, I'm here for you. It's what we do, okay?" he murmurs. Steve cries some more at that. Choking on his tears, practically. Enough for Eddie to say, "Hey, breathe with me. I don't want you to make yourself sick again."

So they sit for a few minutes. Breathing. Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie's mouth, watching him count. And Eddie stares at his eyes. Trying to piece together all the little details about this version of Steve. The one not picking fights and towering over unlucky underclassmen and spitting venom instead of backing away when he's supposed to. This Steve that looks like a small, terrified, lonely little boy. Who feels the need to apologize for being a human being. Somebody that makes sure everybody is better off and happy and swooned over before taking an assessment of his own body, the injuries stitched into his side, and the possibility that someone also wants to make sure he's doing alright.

God, who is Steve Harrington, Eddie questions to himself.

Once the tears have subsided and breathing has been placed under control, Steve feels exhausted. Eddie seems to notice because he suggests, "Why don't you lay down for a while? Maybe snooze some while I make soup?"

Steve nods with slight hesitancy. "Can I—" he stutters, "Can I lay down in my room?" To Eddie, this is the quietest he's ever heard his friend. And that doesn't sit right with him. A man—bulky and toned, loud and sassy, bark with no bite—now sitting with his shoulders slumped, skin blotched in various shades of pink and red, breathing ragged, and looking at Eddie with terribly timid eyes. He's just a little boy, some part of Eddie whispers.

"Yeah man. 'Course you can. How 'bout you get yourself to bed, I'll follow behind with your can, give you your medicine, and leave the door open just in case you need something?" The nod Eddie gets back is so energetic, it's as if Steve wasn't sick to begin with. That part of him that's been whispering and wondering is now aching. All he wanted was to be looked after.

Where are your parents, Eddie wants to ask aloud. Who was here to take care of you, Eddie wants to dig.

In mere moments, Steve is tucked back into bed. The curtains are drawn to be almost completely closed. His door is left unlocked and gaping. There are soft snuffles drifting through the house. And Eddie finds himself in front of the Harrington's fancy electric stove.

Before he came back downstairs to cook, Steve whispered something about there being Campbell's in the pantry. "If you want to heat it up on the stove, that's what my mama did when I was really little. It's what I do now."

Eddie glances at the cans and makes a decision for Steve, He deserves better than a piss poor attempt. Homemade it is.

When he was little, Wayne used to make soup on sick days. Still does. During the recovery time when Eddie's sides were still sore with stitches and itchy with stretch, Wayne would bring him a bowl of soup and a tall glass of orange juice on a little tray. He makes a mean bowl of tomato. "Something my mamaw taught me and now I can show you," he had told Eddie.

As much of a bare wasteland as Steve's kitchen is—What does he eat, Eddie wonders—he manages to find all the ingredients necessary. After a couple cupboards are ripped open and some miscellaneous drawers sifted through, he finds himself stirring a simmering metal pot of something he hopes Steve can keep down.

Eddie wants to chastise Steve for even thinking about being sick alone. What a misery sentence. Was probably going to call Robin and say something about, "You don't need to worry. It's not bad. I'll just be out of work for a couple days." Then he would've trekked back upstairs, slow like molasses, and locked the door behind him. Would've laid in bed shivering and crying and barfing. Probably would have passed out by the time he was finally hungry.

Steve even apologized earlier for being taken care of. As if he was a burden. Made himself smaller and tighter and quieter, that's for sure. So Eddie won't do any form of chastising. That'd only make him disappear on himself more.

As the soup is being dished up with plain toast and a cup is being filled with pulpy orange juice, Eddie hears Steve startle awake upstairs. Goes from snoring almost as loud as Wayne in the winter to dry heaving, hard.

Eddie sets the made tray down onto the counter. He makes his way back to the front door and chucks his shoes to the side and hangs up his jacket. Then, tumbles upstairs just as Steve is breathing raspy again.

One. Two. Three knocks on the open bedroom door. And in the blink of an eye, Eddie is over at Steve's side. He's crying again. Nothing like the nauseous sobs from earlier, but sniffles and silent watery blinks.

Steve's hair is pushed back again. "What's goin' on Stevie? What happened?"

"N-nothing," he spits frantically into the air. Like a kid trying to hide a lollipop behind their back. A teenager caught with a lit cigarette in hand. The family dog with a sneaker in it's mouth being told to drop it.

"Okay. Okay, I won't push. But I brought you some soup and orange juice. It's not the best because there's so much pulp in it, but it'll do for now. Oh, and—" Eddie sings. He digs around in his jorts pockets for a small container. As he brandishes it just in Steve's line of sight, he says, "Found some vapor-rub in the medicine cabinet downstairs. Now it is a few months out of date, but that just means more will need to be appl—honey, what's goin' on?" he questions softly.

Steve's sniffles have turned into thin-lipped, eyes glazed and bloodshot, muffled sobs. He has a streak of snot dripping down on his upper lip and his chest keeps stuttering. Eventually, he chokes out, "You brought the soup to me."

And what a statement.

The sentence slaps Eddie across the face, causing his head to rear back. It confuses him, that's what it does. Obviously I brought him soup, what the fuck, he asks himself incredulously.

"Wha—of course. That's what you do when somebody is sick. You help 'em out, bring soup or crackers or whatever and make sure they're better," Eddie supplies as he wipes away the sweat and snot with his banana. There's a brief moment where the only sound is Steve crying. The room is dim and he seems more comfortable than when the door was initially answered.

Eddie thinks back to the apologizing. The making himself smaller and quieter. His hesitancy about wanting to sleep in his own bed. How his mom used to make soup. And the statement, "Got a good grasp on this." Pieces start to click, sirens sound off, door number three has opened and behind it is a shiny new car.

A horrifying realization. The easy solution to Eddie's childlike curiosity over where Steve's parents are. And that in itself makes him want to hurl into the trashcan or pull full force at his hair or sob.

His parents aren't here and haven't been in a long while, Eddie accuses.

"Oh, Stevie." He pets again at his drenched hair. "I'm not going anywhere, alright? You don't have to worry about that with me. Let me do what I need to do, but I'll be right here if you need anything."

"Okay," Steve whispers.

Within just a couple minutes, Eddie has Steve propped back up on a mountain of pillows. Some from the hall closet, the stale bedroom of his parents, and the ones from his own bed. He's changed the bag in the can with a call of, "It's alright, no big deal," after Steve's cry that Eddie didn't need to do that. A bedside lamp has been turned on. An ice cold wet rag has been situated over his neck. There's a thick layer of vapor-rub in his chest hair.

Then came the aforementioned lunch. It smells divine. As if God himself started a soup kitchen in the Harrington's desolate house. What's even better is that it's definitely not chicken noodle.

"I don't remember there being any cans of tomato in the pantry," Steve notes.

"Oh, well. I thought you deserved better than that crap. Made something Wayne usually serves up. Family recipe," he sings again.

"Oh," Steve breathes. His eyes feel wet again, but he fights every part of him that says to cry. He's done enough of that. "Y'know, you didn't have to," he says quietly.

Eddie makes the wounded sound of a shot dog. He finishes setting up the tray on the stiff mattress. Then, situates himself to sit on Steve's left, rubbing down his bare back. "I wanted to. That's all that matters. Now eat up before it gets cold."

And he does just that. The bowl is hot to the touch. Its contents still fresh from being boiled. Even the gulps of orange juice don't burn as bad as when he was little. Steve feels five years old again. He's anticipating the late afternoon lunch from his mom where she'll show him vapor-rub and a spoonful of Pepto-Bismol. In the living room, she's going to lay down, with him on top, and they'll watch reruns of his favorite cartoons. The curtains are closed and she hums lullabies as he drifts off to sleep.

Eddie rubs his back and hums songs and kisses his forehead gently. Which, Steve hasn't been given that amount of affection in a long while. And he honestly doesn't mind.

There's something that's been sitting between the two of them, a thing the size of a ten pound medicine ball. A word shaped like love and comfort. The space where Eddie shares stories about Uncle Wayne and his hibernation snoring when the temperatures drop and how he acquired every single mug on their wall. And in response, Steve listens and drips a couple droplets of how his mom would read Goodnight Moon and kiss him on his cheek or on summer days where they'd splash each other in the shallow depth of the pool. Before it became a graveyard. Or the loosely sketched outline of a mom and her child. His dad wasn't as close, but he'd play catch when Steve was still learning about baseball or share facts about his car that intrigued little eight year old Steve in a way no sport has ever done before. How he acquired the bowling pin from the one time his parents took him out for his birthday. The car painting being something his dad did in his spare time, not bought from some general store in the next town over.

Even in his sick state, Steve thinks about pecking Eddie on the lips. Wonders how smooth they are. If he uses chapstick. What flavor it could be. His mind supplies days in the future where they make soup for each other and shout about how excellent Hellfire was or Lucas' basketball game had been. Mornings shaped by soft snores and gentle touches and steaming cups of coffee. Nights wrapped around each other, cooing sweet nothings when the nightmares become bloody again, and sex that's slow and drawn out. Or the quiet moments where Steve needs a shoulder to cry on. And open arms so that Eddie is encased in comfort, even after everything.

At his final spoonful and dip of toasted crust, Steve whispers, "I love you." As treacherous as his mouth has been in the past, this final decision isn't as daunting as the rest from earlier today. Some part of Steve knew that it would come to a head and the words would spill from his lips like the soup on his chin.

Eddie hums beside him. He kisses Steve one. Two. Three times on the forehead. Then he sets the tray aside with all the empty dishes and the vapor-rub with three finger divots. He strips down to his boxers and a simple t-shirt. And he tucks Steve in as he scoots on top of the duvet to hold him.

"I love you, too," he responds. "And I'll be here when you get up. So get some rest and the next time you're awake, I'll go get some new orange juice and more ingredients for tomato soup and a container of unexpired Vick's."

Steve drifts off to sleep with his body curled around Eddie's side.

In the morning, the curtains are open and soft sunlight streaks in the bedroom. Eddie has left the house to do a quick grocery run, leaving behind a note of "Just lay back and relax. I brought the phone upstairs if you want to keep yourself entertained."

He calls Robin to muse aloud how excellent Eddie is. Their dance around each other now concluded over a simple bowl of soup. How nice it is to finally get the care he wish he had when his mom started to go away. Him kissing a guy before she could kiss a girl and her shriek off, "The next time I see you, I'm gonna give you the nastiest, biggest wet willy this world has ever seen. Trust in it, Steve Harrington."

The threat isn't an empty one, but it makes Steve chuckle anyway. Even though he still feels that encroaching violent twist of his stomach and a cough that could send him flat on his ass.

And when the phone call ends and Eddie is back inside with soup being made on the stove? Steve feels like maybe it's alright to rely on his true family when the time comes. He makes a promise to himself too that he'll learn how to make the best goddamned chicken noodle soup this world has ever tasted. All so that he can dote over Eddie the same. Make sure that he really knows just how much Steve loves him.

"I love you," Eddie breaths into his tussled hair later on the couch, where they're watching cartoons.

"Love you, too," Steve slurs as his body becomes heavier with sleep.

[formosusiniquis]

intrada (sugar plum holly and her cavalier)

Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson; Steve Harrington & Holly Wheeler; Past Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler WC: 5708 | G | Tags/Themes: ballet, references to The Nutcracker, pre-relationship steddie, good babysitter Steve Harrington AO3

It was supposed to be a date that would merge their interests, something that had seemed classy enough for Nancy and athletic enough that Steve thought it would keep his interest. Supposed to be, in that when Steve had gotten the tickets -- begged his mom first for her and his dad’s season ticket seats and then for help finding a good seat when she said she wasn’t about to waste a sixty dollar ticket on a date -- he wasn’t even sure if it was the kind of thing Nancy would like. A year and a half into their relationship and he was only just realizing how surface level their conversations were, either talking about work or treating every conversation like an interview and parceling out information like they were afraid to reveal too much about themselves. So he was really working off of a jewelry box he vaguely remembered from her bedroom when he bought tickets for a ballet that wouldn’t even happen for another five months.

He wanted to have them when she got to Indianapolis, something to look forward to for their first Christmas together in the city. The Nutcracker, a classic supposedly but if anyone would know its cultural significance he figured it would be Nance.

And Steve isn’t an idiot, okay. He knows that Nancy isn’t exactly thrilled to be in Indianapolis, knows that she’s not happy to be at her safety school and not Emerson. Imagines having to wait to see if she made it up the waitlist all summer wasn’t the greatest experience; and he has to imagine because any time he wanted to talk to her about it she blew him off to focus on alternatives and next steps.

That’s why he does it. Hopes that having something to look forward to at the end of her first semester will help. Hopes that this is the first of many Christmases together, maybe a tradition that they can keep up. Going to the ballet together every year until eventually they’re bringing their daughter along with them. Maybe it’s too early to think about kids, but this is the kind of future he prefers to imagine over future careers and what he’s going to do with the degree he’s stumbling his way through. So he thinks about Nancy with pinned back curls in a nice dress humming along to songs they hear every year.

It was supposed to be that. Until it turns out that their relationship really couldn’t withstand being in the same city as one another. Until he’s forced to confront the hindsight that they never really talked about anything significant in the year they were doing long distance. Until Nancy tells him that she’s transferring next semester, and she isn’t interested in doing long distance; that she isn’t interested in continuing their relationship at all.

So Steve resigns himself to just being out the money for the two tickets. It’s not like he’s going to go to a ballet by himself, and it seems shitty to bring another girl to something that he imagined becoming a staple of his romantic future with Nancy. It’s not the first time Steve has cut his losses. (But he’ll die before he tells his mom she was right about not giving him her good seats.)

He honestly kind of forgets about the whole thing. Finals week has just ended. He’s pretty sure he flunked the one actual business course he took this semester to keep his dad happy, and he’s trying to figure out if he can change his major without screwing his whole life up. He’s ready to have a few weeks off. 

Then Karen Wheeler calls.

Karen is a nice lady, though if he’s honest he’s not that upset that she isn’t going to be his future mother-in-law. She’s a little… flighty, as his mother would say with a backhanded smile. He privately thinks she sometimes forgets that she has three kids, losing track of one or the other at any given time. So maybe he shouldn’t be too surprised when she calls him two months after her daughter broke his heart begging him to take Holly to the ballet.

“Nancy mentioned it off hand months ago, and Holly hasn’t stopped talking about it since. I know it’s a big ask,” she had said in a tone that made it very clear she didn’t entirely care and would think poorly of him if he answered the wrong way, “but if you still have those tickets it would mean the world if you could take Holly.” He hadn’t missed the emphasis on the you either. Clearly Karen had no interest in making the trip to Indianapolis and he hadn’t needed to ask about Ted.

He didn't think of himself as a pushover, but he did think of little, blonde, six year old Holly: too quiet and too shy for her age. Fighting to be seen by a negligent dad and a mom who loves her children, but cares about appearances just enough to be blind. And he finds himself saying, “It’s no trouble, Mrs. Wheeler, but could you meet me somewhere halfway?”

It’s not until they’re settled into their seats -- on the floor but in the back, a booth behind them occupied by a pretty boy in a headset that Steve refuses to look at for too long -- that he realizes that he has no idea what this show is even about. Holly has been quiet since he picked her up, the least surprising thing about this trip right above Mike glaring at him from the passenger seat of Karen’s car as he moved Holly’s booster seat, but she’s studiously flipping through the little booklet the usher handed them on their way to their seats.

“Thank you for bringing me, Steve. I’m sorry Nancy didn’t want to come.” It is somehow simultaneously the longest and worst thing Holly has ever said to him.

“I’d rather see it with you, Holly Jolly.”

He’s saved from having to find anything else to say by the lights around them dimming, a prerecorded voice letting them know that any photography is forbidden and to expect a fifteen minute intermission, a bright and bouncing song picks up once the talking stops. He relaxes in his seat a little, relieved to get a few minutes before he’s expected to entertain a six year old that he’s spent more time with today than he had the entire time he and Nancy had dated.

Now Steve, contrary to what he very much knows is the popular opinion, isn’t just a jock. He knows there’s no talking in ballet. He’s even been to one before this, when he was still a cute novelty in his suit and bowtie accompanying his parents to the theater. What he is, according to his old nanny, every teacher he’s ever had, and about half of his exes, is a selective listener. 

It’s not his fault though that his brain instinctively cues into different sounds. The buzz of the light above him louder -- and more interesting -- than a lesson on factorials. The sound of someone’s relationship imploding hard to tune out no matter how interested he is in his own conversation. So of course the sound of someone talking cuts straight through classical music.

“Someone remind David he needs to smile at his partner, he looks like he’s dreaming of a murder suicide.”

And it wasn’t hard to find exactly who the voice behind him was talking about. The only frowning face at this Victorian party who was glaring daggers at the magician who was bringing in new dancers.

“Well he should know better than to sleep around the cast shouldn’t he, Birdie?”

A practiced reader of body language, Steve could almost see, underneath the choreography, the traces of impropriety. David’s undisguised glare. The wistful way the woman in blue tracked him around the stage. The woman in pink who mooned at the woman in blue. It made him wonder what kind of things were going on backstage.

He expects that to be in. He doesn’t really do theater much, too many memories of pinched arms and snarling trips home, but he does remember the one rule is no talking. But it doesn’t stop, barely slows.

“If Mark sets himself on fire doing this stupid firepaper magic shit do we get to go home early?

“Sure, Robbie Bobby, I’ll swap out for the Rat King last show of the run. Jay can do my job and I’ll do his.

“Five bucks someone slips on the snow as they exit.”

He wants to know if that stranger wins the bet but the curtain closes and Holly is shy and asking Steve where the bathroom is. So instead of working up the nerve to turn and talk to the man behind him, he’s smiling his best mom-charming smile and asking the first woman with kids he finds to take his guest into the girl’s room.

By the time she’s out of line, and Steve buys her the doll and the novelty sucker she’d been pretending she wasn’t looking at, they slip back into their seats as the lights dim again. No chance to make his own witty jokes or observations, break the ice and show off some of the Harrington charm.

The first dance goes by with little fanfare and Steve’s almost disappointed. Holly is wiggling excitedly in her seat next to him, clutching her own little nutcracker, and he’s not even paying attention to the stupid show that’s got her so excited because he’s too focused on a snarky stranger he’d only even looked at once.

“Jeezus christ, is Tom stuffing his dance belt? That’s some Bowie level shit happening up there.”

He had almost given up, so it figures the guy decides to speak up once Steve’s attention started to shift back to the stage. He nearly chokes on his own tongue, eyes darting straight down to the issue in question. Holly, the sweetest kid he’s ever met, pats his back softly, hesitantly, like she’s only seen the gesture before. “There’s a water fountain by the bathroom,” she tells him in a library whisper, “I can stay here and not move.”

“I’m okay Hols,” he lies, ignoring the itchy, squeezing feeling at the back of his throat and forcing the cough away.

It’s easy to do when there's something else to focus on, “No, Lizzie, I’m not going to shut up. No one cares if I’m occupying the channel.” The stranger seems to be gearing himself up for a monologue, “I’m not going to miss my cue, I am the cue. Robin’s not going to miss her cue  because it’s to music. Her cue doesn’t exist without me and she knows all of these songs and what note her cue goes with because it’s the eighth fucking time we’ve done it this week. If you or props have something you’ve got to say clearly you can get a word in edgewise.”

A few numbers go by after that, quiet except for the occasional professional, “Light cue, go.”

And then a song he actually sort of recognizes starts. A pretty strawberry blonde with a dainty smile tip toes and spins across the stage to plucked strings. Holly is enchanted, perched at the edge of her seat she reaches a hand over to clutch at Steve’s sleeve. A ‘tell me someone in the world is experiencing this moment with me’ sort of gesture. Awestruck and world rocked, stars in her eyes. Any resentment, any hard feelings that might have still lingered at babysitting evaporated. He got to be the person that let Holly experience this. A moment just for her, no family to take second place for.

The dancer on stage spins, clearing the floor in a series of tight, controlled rotations. Her arms guiding each step, swinging out and pulling her in, the driving force of her momentum. She’s moving fast, it’s an impressive display. Something shoots off in the opposite direction of that controlled turn, almost distracting in its break from that clean motion.

“Tell Props Chris just lost an earring.

“Fine, tell Wardrobe then.

“I’m not being a creep, I know she’s your girlfriend, Birdie. I merely observed her earring launching across the stage like an arrow from an elven bow.”

It’s like catching half of an Abbott and Costello act, like who’s on first being done through a telephone. It’s a strange sort of connection, listening in on a conversation that isn’t meant for him. He thinks for a sad second that he hasn’t ever had a friendship like this.

The show is wrapping up, dancers from scenes past making their way through for quick appearances. Holly is vibrating in her seat. Dancers in intricate costumes glide across the stage to bow toward the petite dancer in the nightgown and the strawberry blonde, Chris, beside her. A few moments later it's finished, the lights rising up around them and he shifts his primary focus back to Holly. 

In the middle of the room, they had the best view of the stage and the longest wait to leave. Steve tries to be subtle as he shifts Holly in front of him, afraid of losing her if she's out of his eyeline. He doesn't want to baby her by making her hold his hand. She's wiggling in place, but she keeps herself small. Careful not to bump into the people slowly moving out of the aisle in front of them. 

“Hols,” he starts to whisper, not wanting to embarrass her before he asks if she needs to hit the bathroom again.

But she grabs his sleeve in a child's iron grip,  "Steve, I want to meet the princess."

It turns out, it's hard to find a way to tell an excited kid that there aren't meet and greets after a show like this. Pleading blue eyes and a nervous smile looking up at him, desperate but scared to ask for too much. The least he can do is try.

The guy behind them is still there. 

The back of their line, Steve isn't holding anyone up by taking a minute to look. He's lithe, all in black. Hair pulled up in a half-assed bun, a headset tangled in the curls. He's wrapping up a thick cord, Steve couldn't guess why, but it draws focus to a toned arm that he's curling it around.

“Hey man,” the booth is a little bit above them, forcing Steve to rise up on the tips of his own toes to make sure he's visible, “I know you're working but I wanted to ask. The girl at the end- I, uh, I overheard you say she's your friend's girlfriend is there anyway you could convince her to come meet us.”

The guy startled a bit, probably surprised at being addressed. If he’s embarrassed at being overheard it barely shows a soft flush that could be from the warmth of the room. "The girl at the end?”

"The princess,” Holly shouts, bouncing up and down to try to see over the lip that blocks her view of the booth.

A change falls over the guy, his smile softens and eyes widen. He carefully drapes himself across the board of buttons and sliders to look Holly in the eyes. "Oh she's even better than a princess, she's a fairy. The sugar plum fairy. Is this your first time seeing the show with your dad?”

“Steve's not my dad.” She tells him with a little giggle, no doubt comparing Steve and Ted in her brain.

“Holly is my ex-girlfriend’s little sister.” He places his emphasis carefully.

“There’s a lot happening in that sentence.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, my Lady Holly, I bet I could convince Chrissy to meet a fan.” He promises with a flourish, “As long as your companion doesn't care that her faithful company will definitely be there the whole time.”

“Are you part of the group?” Steve asks, confident enough in his read of the situation to lay on a bit of charm. Letting his eyes trail down the sprawl of the guy's back. A thrill of victory at the little nod he gets back. “Then I won't mind at all.”

“Rockin’ Robin, tell me you still have your headset on?” He directs into his headset, “Great, remember that favor you and Chris owe me? I've got a fair princess who would like to meet our dear Sugar Plum Fairy.”

There's a lengthy pause. Even without the music playing the response is too quiet to be made out through his headset. “I don't see how that's relevant.” He hisses, “and she didn't ask to see an awful hag so you don't really even need to be there.”

His face clears after a second, looking to Steve like he wants them both to pretend that the earlier conversation hadn't been overheard. “Go through that door at the end of the front row right beside the stage.” The auditorium has cleared out enough he's got a clear view of the door the guy points to. “You'll end up in a hallway with a locked door at the end, wait there.”

“And if someone asks us why we're waiting there?” Steve asks, “I can tell them..?”

“Eddie, I'm- I Eddie Munson told you to wait there, if someone stops you before I get there.”

It's hard not to grin now that he has a name, Eddie, so he doesn’t bother. He puts on his best smile, the boyish and winsome one that always flusters whoever it's directed at, at least a little. Eddie is no exception looking back down at his work quickly. Steve takes a little pity, turning his attention back down to Holly.

She's twisting in place, hands clasped in front of her, as she stares off into space. He feels bad immediately, too familiar with what it's like to be a kid forced to entertain yourself while adults talk above your head.“C’mon, Holly Jolly, let's go wait for your fairy.” 

She takes his hand the second it's offered, swinging it back and forth, humming one of the songs from the show. “Steve, do you think she's a fairy like Tinkerbell or a fairy princess like Barbie?”

“I don't know Hols, what do you think?”

“Tinkerbell is kinda mean to Wendy, but she can do magic and fly. But Barbie is really nice so if she were a fairy she'd be a fairy princess and have a crown and help people.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes! And this fairy looked nice when she was dancing, but it didn't look like she had a crown. Can you be a fairy princess without a crown?”

Holly was buzzing, bouncing in place, clearly over whatever earlier nerves she'd had about talking to him. With her back to the door that they were told to wait by, she’s started listing all the different jobs Barbie has had and why they should make a fairy princess doll -- Karen’s homemade Barbie clothes, he learns, are not as well made as the hand me downs from Erica and Mrs. Sinclair, so she needs the real thing. Holly misses the way the door creaks open, the woman from onstage inching her way out of the half opened exit. 

Chrissy presses a finger to her lips, happy to help her surprise Holly, Steve keeps listening to her talk about why there should be a Barbie movie. He only nearly ruins the surprise when the dancer pushes down on the front of her saucer like skirt and it smacks her in the back as it flies up, letting her exit the back room.

Focused on her story, Holly doesn’t notice as the woman crouches down beside her. Not until she says, “This must be the princess I was told about.”

The screech she lets out is so joyful he almost doesn’t mind that his ears are ringing. Steve finds his smile mirrored on a freckle-faced girl dressed in the same all black as Eddie who is sliding out the door now as well. She sidles up to Steve, letting Holly have her moment with the fairy uninterrupted. “And you must be the prince charming.”

“Shut up, shut up,” Eddie pants, coming to a bent over rest beside Steve, “whatever she’s saying ignore it. Fuck.”

“You jogged like twenty feet,” the girl says, clearly unimpressed.

“Sorry Nancy Reagan, I say yes every time.”

“There are children present, have some class, Munson.”

The child in question could be on another planet, that’s how much she’s aware of their existence, Steve thinks.

“I have class every Monday, Wednesday, Friday; Saturdays are fair game.”

“Oh! That’s why you look so familiar,” the girl says, she’s looking at Steve now but he’s not really sure why. “We were in the same Communications and Public Speaking class, Prince Charming. Steve, right?”

He did have that class last semester, the only one technically tied to the business major his dad wanted him to have that he actually passed. “I, yes- sorry I don’t. I spent most of that class zoned out waiting for my turn to speak.”

“No, yeah, I figured. You sat a row in front of me and always looked shocked when you got called on, then you’d brush your bagel crumbs all over the floor when you’d go to speak.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, not really sure what to say to that especially not when it’s being said right in front of a guy he was kind of into.

“Birdie holds the strangest grudges in the history of the world, take it as a sign of respect, Big Boy. She hated me for half of our music theory class because my handwriting didn’t look like it matched my general demeanor.”

“No, I hated you because you always smell like weed and never do the homework but somehow are still the professor’s favorite. And I still hate you for all of those things, but your unfortunate personality grew like mold on my girl- I mean grew on,” her face takes on a look of panic as she pivots her word choice. It’s confusing, at first, until he realizes he’s the source of panic. A familiar joke made with a friend, forgetting the new, possibly untrustworthy stranger until too late.

The siren song of new friends and a possible date is alluring, but with Holly in the room he does have to be careful of what gets back to her parents. He remembers Ted’s political alignments and gossip tends to reach his parents faster than he can. So he does his best at assurance, “Chrissy, right, she seems cool. It was nice of you guys to do this, Holly is probably only a little bit more into fairies than I am.”

Eddie sputters beside him, hard to tell if it’s a good sign or if Steve has just royally fucked up his chances at anything; but if it means easing Robin’s fears of queerbashing he’ll ruin his chance for a date every time.

“Into fairies,” Robin asks, nodding over to Chrissy, who’s showing Holly how she balances on the tips of her toes, “or…”

“I’m light in my loafers, or half, light in one-”

“Ex-girlfriend,” Eddie supplies.

“Right.”

“Worst way anyone has ever described being bisexual,” Robin says. 

“Sounds like a challenge,” Eddie says.

“It was not.”

“I really appreciate this,” Steve says again to avoid the argument. Chrissy is helping Holly spin around on the toes of her patent leather mary janes, she’s giggling as Chrissy holds her pointed finger helping her twirl and twirl. “How’d you all get involved in all this? You’re still in school.”

“They always need a little help around the holidays, normally the theater kids get first dibs but there’s only like five tech kids and they’re all working the school show so the music department gets next go.” Robin explains.

“Chis is a prodigy so she put in a word for us specifically,” Eddie adds. Before he leers and leans deep into Steve’s space, it’s not an unwelcome move. “Unless that was you fishing for friends, Big Boy. Trying to figure out if you’ll see us on campus?”

“Oh,” Robin exclaims, like the thought had never occurred to her. “Are you finished with your gen eds? Wait, what's your major? Eddie, show off your party trick.”

He isn’t a total loser, so he doesn’t fidget or blush as Eddie runs his heady brown eyes up and down the length of him, taking him in. “Business and Marketing,” he declares after a second, but he doesn’t sound sold on it.

“I’ve been thinking about changing it,” Steve isn’t sure if he’s admitting Eddie’s right or just trying out what it sounds like to admit that he’s sick of being everything he’s supposed to be instead of what he likes. “I took Children’s Psychology for the whatever requirement and it was a million times more interesting than Intro to Econ.”

It feels like it’s going well. When Nancy broke things off Steve had resigned himself to finishing out college without any real friends, dating around and hoping for something that stuck. Here with these people, he can feel something starting. He wants to take that feeling and capitalize on it, follow through on something so another good thing doesn’t slip away from him.

That’s not the kind of luck that he has though. 

“Steve,” Holly buzzes, grabbing his hand with no hesitation, “Fairy Chrissy said that I can be a dancer too! Can Santa bring me shoes like hers?”

Christmas is a week away, if Stever were guessing, he’d say the Wheelers have had Holly’s presents picked out and put away for most of the month. “I don’t know, Hols, Christmas is pretty close and the North Pole is pretty far. Do you think the mailman would have time to get all the way up there?”

Her shoulders slump, making Steve immediately feel like the worst person in the universe for crushing her dreams. “He's watching though, so I bet he saw you ask right now,” he does his best to smile, hoping it's comforting since it feels tight-lipped and desperate.

“Yeah!” She brightens, starts to hum along to the song just a little off pitch, getting more excited as she goes until she's murmuring, “Knows if you've been bad or good.”

“Hey Holly Jolly, why don't you tell Fairy Chrissy bye and thank you. We don't wanna be late to meet your mom.”

She's still singing but she nods, turning and shuffling back to Chrissy, still a few steps away.

“Would she know where to get those, Chrissy, the shoes that Holly would need?” He asks Eddie and Robin in a whisper, hoping Holly is distracted enough by her goodbyes that she won't hear.

“Are you..?” Eddie asks, a blush staining the tops of his exposed ears. “Ex-girlfriend?” 

The emphasis catches his attention and, yeah, he can see how that looks. “Her parents aren't going to drive up to the city before Christmas, but the town over does lessons.” Barriers to entry, that's what his marketing classes called it, maybe he did learn something. He wants to make it as easy as possible for Holly to get what she wants. “She's a good kid, she should get what she wants for Christmas.”

That blush spreads, bleeding down from his ears across his cheeks. “You're a good dude.”

“Steve, I said bye. Do we have to leave now?” Holly asks.

“Let me say bye too, Hols, and we'll grab a treat before we meet your Mom.”

There's a pen tucked behind Robin's ear that he snags before he can second guess what he's about to do. Grabbing her arm first, he scrawls his number across it. “I've got a place off campus, no roommates if you ever want someplace to hangout or to study,” he tells her. 

He grabs Eddie's hand next, rubbing his thumb along the palm and slowly writing the same number on his arm too. Keeping a hold of his hand for as long as he can. “I've got a place off campus, no roommates, if you ever want to come by and do something, have dinner?” He'll start there, let his interest be noted, and hope that Eddie is the type to like guys who dive in head first heedless of the water below. 

Steve can already imagine a future where he's sneaking into the booth with Eddie. Watching shows he's never heard of before with a warm commentary murmured into his ear. Gossip and behind the scenes rumor, distracting him from a plot that's less important than the company. Maybe next year, after double dates and a growing closeness, he'll be able to sneak Holly backstage and she can meet other dancers too.

Maybe next year, he'll be convincing Eddie, and the girls he hopes will be his new friends, to drive down to Hawkins with him to watch Holly do jumps and spins of her own in their small town showcase. Eddie was good with Holly, Steve hopes it isn't a fluke, he's always wanted kids.

He's probably getting ahead of himself. Falling into the same trap he'd built with Nancy that had gotten him here in the first place. The romantic in him wants to spin this all as fate, it could be true after all. 

Steve takes Holly's hand, they both wave goodbye, and leave the empty arts center. The winter sky is lit up by a full moon, fat snowflakes slowly float down to the ground beside them as they head back to his car, and for the first time since Nancy broke up with him he feels good about the future.

It's a long drive back to the McDonalds where he's meeting Karen, with Holly already dozing in the back seat, it's time that he can sit and be happy. Regardless of whether there's a message blinking on his machine to welcome him back home or not; what was supposed to be a relationship compromise ended up being the most fun he's had in weeks. So maybe Chrissy will tell him where to get Holly's shoes, maybe Robin will invite him for coffee or swing by to compare classes, and -- if he's really lucky -- maybe Eddie will invite himself over for dinner.

But, as he hums along to the waltz whose melody lingers in the back of his mind, the possibilities are something to look forward to.

[cowgurrrl]

Old Friends Die Hard

Pairing: rockstar!joel miller x actress!reader

Author’s note: WOAH WOAH WOAH (ps fic named after this baller song)

Summary: You go back to work. Decisions are made. But everything’s fine, right? Right? [3.6k]

Warnings: arguing, drama conflama, language, the tiniest bit of spice, PTSD symptoms, I think that’s it??

You leave Joel's the day after movie night with the girls. You watched A Knight's Tale and giggled with them about how cute Heath Ledger is, tucked under Joel's arm as the city sparkled just in the distance. Blankets from around the world covered the four of you as you laid on the couch in one giant heap. Joel covered Ellie's eyes when William and Jocelyn kissed while Sarah squealed excitedly. Then, you slept with your back to Joel, and he drove you home in the morning. 

He apologized after your argument and spending time on different sides of the house, processing your feelings. He said he didn't mean it, that he was sorry, that he was just tired. You apologized, too, and that was that. It was supposed to be that easy. But things feel different now. You tell yourself it's just the terror that flies through your body whenever you hear tires squeal down the road or the concussion that still makes light hurt your eyes. You tell yourself you're still adjusting to letting him take care of you. You tell yourself it's nothing because it has to be nothing, but you've been home for a few days now and had little to no contact with Joel. 

Ellie and Sarah, however, constantly text you, asking you about outfits and homework questions. They send you TikToks they think are funny and will even shoot you songs they're listening to. You respond as often as possible between looking for a new car and reviewing the scenes you're supposed to reshoot. Sarah begs you to come back over, and you respond, "Soon, sweet girl ❤️." You don't know if Joel is aware of how often you talk to his daughters, but if he has a problem with it, he doesn't make it known.

On the day of reshoots, Joel picks you up from your house before the sun is even up, a cup of coffee waiting for you in the cupholder when you climb in. He's wearing square glasses you've never seen before and a plain grey hoodie. He looks exceptionally cozy in the frigid (sixty-three-degree) California dusk, and you smile as you kiss him. His beard scratches your face, and he tastes like coffee, and it feels familiar and safe. 

"You okay?" He asks, and you nod. He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering on your jaw, and glances over the bumpy scar left behind now that your stitches are out, taking a deep breath. "Are we okay?" His voice is unsure and a little shaky. You bite the inside of your cheek and kiss his wrist.

"We're working toward being okay," you say. He purses his lips a little like that's not the answer he wanted. "Bringing me coffee at five in the morning is, like, at least five points for you." You add, and he chuckles, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"I got you the biggest one they had."

"I see that." You smile as you look at the huge coffee. There's probably an ungodly amount of espresso in it, and you're sure you'll need two more to get through the day. 

"Y'know, you don't have to go through with this, right?" He asks, the tiniest sliver of hope that you'll get back in bed poking through, and you nod. You don't trust yourself to say anything, not wanting to cause another fight, so you just kiss him again and settle back into your seat. He idles in front of your house for another five seconds before changing gears. He drives slowly and with a hand on your thigh, rubbing soothing circles into your leggings when your chest tightens at intersections. You get to set about ten minutes late because of how careful he was driving, but nobody questions it because Ryan rolls up shortly after you and Joel do. 

All morning, Joel follows you around like a puppy. When you're whisked away to hair and makeup, he shakes Jenna and Alexa's hands and sits on the other side of you and Ryan. He asks them how long they've been working as stylists and what they like about it. He even jokes about taking over when Jenna complains about her hairdresser-induced carpal tunnel, and they eat it up. Before you can leave the trailer, all made up to resemble your character, Alexa grabs you and whispers, "he's perfect," in your ear, and you laugh. On the walk to set, Joel grabs your hand and swings it like a little kid, and you're all smiles and whispered jokes until you get to the sound stage, where a PA stops you. 

"Sorry, sir, we're a closed set today." He says to Joel, and you give him a confused look. You can feel Joel already getting annoyed, so you hold up a hand to let him know you have it handled, and he backs down. So, he has learned something, you think to yourself.

"Why is it a closed set? All the scenes we're filming today don't call for that." 

"Director changed her mind. We're shooting the cabin scene first thing today, thus, a closed set." 

"What's the cabin scene?" Joel asks, and you gape at him, half-hoping that the PA is joking. But, sure enough, when you glance into the stage, there's the set for the room in the cabin, and your intimacy coordinator, Tanya, is talking with Emily, the director. You slowly turn your back to the PA and put gentle hands on Joel's chest.

"You should wait in my trailer until we finish this scene." You say quietly, and Joel gives you a look.

"Why? What's the cabin scene?"

You giggle as you and Ryan stumble into the cabin, drunken blushes painted on both your cheeks. He kisses you the second the door closes behind him, his hands wandering in the choreographed pattern you practiced for months. Your hands land on his wrists and slowly pull them away before you break the kiss, turn, and walk toward the kitchen.

"'M hungry," you whine, Ryan closely following behind you to wrap his arms around your waist and kiss your neck. "You're distracting."

"Good." He says, spinning you so your chests are pressed together, and he's kissing you again. He grabs at the backs of your thighs and carries you to sit on the counter. Then, it all happens in a perfectly rehearsed sequence. You can't feel anything through your three layers of protection on either side, but you wouldn't be able to tell based on the shaky, exaggerated moans leaving both of you and the jerking of Ryan's hips. The scene goes on for another minute before Emily finally calls cuts, and you and Ryan dissolve into a fit of giggles, your hands still on his shoulders as you sit on the counter.

"We have the weirdest fucking job." He says as he kisses your cheek and hugs you tightly. You laugh and rub his back, squeezing him.

"Oh, God, I know." You say. Tanya comes over to check in with both of you and make sure everything went as planned, even offering some alternative actions, which you both listen to intently. You avoid Joel's lingering eyes from the corner the whole time you're talking with her. It's all fake. You don't feel anything. You know that better than anyone, but it still feels weird pretending to have sex with someone else while your boyfriend is not even a hundred yards away. It doesn't help that you're pretending to have sex with one of your best friends. 

Emily, thankfully, breaks for lunch which you both desperately need after running that scene so many goddamn times. At one point, you thought she was just calling for more takes to fuck with you because you ran it so much. As Ryan helps you hop down from the counter for, hopefully, the last time, he glances between you and Joel's looming figure.

"Joel really decided to make a set visit on the worst day, huh?" He says, and you nod.

"I tried to get him to wait in my trailer, but he'd already decided. Not my fault," you say as Joel starts walking over. "Speak of the devil." Ryan turns and shakes hands with Joel before quickly making himself scarce. You know Joel would never say or do anything to Ryan for doing his job, but watching him be scared of Joel is a little funny. You smile and wrap your arms around Joel's neck once he's close enough.

"Hey there, handsome," you say, and he raises his eyebrows before resting his hands on your waist, not caring about who might see. You try to kiss him, but he dodges your lips dramatically. "Joel!"

"I can't believe you're tryna make Ryan and me spit sisters." He says, and you laugh. 

"I can't believe you didn't know you and Ryan have been spit sisters," you say, kissing him firmly. A PA passive-aggressively bumps you with a prop, and you turn to see them taking the set apart. 

"Oh, thank God, you're done with that scene," Joel breathes. You grab his hand and pull him away from the giant moving set pieces. Together, you start walking back to your trailer, occasionally stopping to say hello to someone you haven't seen since you wrapped all your scenes. You wait until you're out of earshot of any eavesdroppers to press into Joel's side.

"Were you jealous, Miller?" You tease, and Joel smirks, shaking his head as he thinks. You disappear between the massive trailers at base camp, and Joel crowds you against your trailer. 

"What if I was?" He asks in a low voice, his hands already teasing the hemline of your skirt. He shifts so his knee is pressing against you, and it takes everything in you to not gasp. With the emergency with Ellie, the car accident, and the fight afterward, it's been a hot second since he's had his hands on you. Based on his uneven breathing and the way his hard cock is lightly poking you, you'd say he thinks the same.

"I would tell you not to be," you whisper, raking your nails down his neck to make him shiver. "Nobody fucks me as good as you do. 'M all yours, Joel." As soon as the words leave your mouth, he kisses you roughly and blindly reaches for the door handle. You have half a mind to laugh about him suddenly not caring about who you've been kissing, but your thoughts are interrupted when he picks you up and carries you into the trailer. It's a miracle he doesn't trip, but the second he can, he lays you down on the couch and reaches under your skirt.

"You have thirty minutes." You manage to get out as you tug at the neck of his shirt.

"I only need twenty." His fingers barely graze the lace of your underwear when someone clears their throat behind you, making you jump away from each other. You turn and find Melanie sitting at the small dining table in the kitchenette, her hands folded in front of her. 

"Mel! What are you doing here?" You ask as you and Joel scramble to get it together. You smooth your skirt down and push him off you so you can stand, feeling a lot like a horny teenager who just got caught by their parents.

"I thought I'd stop in and see how things were going. I didn't know you'd have..." She looks at Joel. "Visitors."

"Joel was just, um..." 

"I was just gonna stop by catering. D'you want anythin'?" He asks, and you shake your head.

"No, I'm okay."

"Okay."

"Okay." You repeat, for some fucking reason, and Joel stands there for another beat before finally walking out the door and probably dying of embarrassment. You sigh and run a hand through your hair as you look at her. Her eyebrows are pinched— or as pinched as they can look with Botox— and she shifts in her seat.

"Were you two going to-"

'Why are you here, Mel?" You cut her off, not ready or willing to even think about trying to explain that to her.

"Right," she starts, getting right down to business like the goddamn professional she is. "So, I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

"Bad news."

"Bad news is I don't have any auditions lined up for you." She says like she didn't just drop a bomb on your entire world. Your ears ring, and you blink at her like you didn't hear her correctly.

"What?"

"I tried rescheduling some so you could recover, but nobody wanted to work with me!"

"Did you tell them I was in a car accident?"

"Of course I did, but these studios are on tight schedules. By the time you would've fully recovered, they needed to be getting actors to film locations." She says, and you sigh, pacing the carpet. "But, I'm poking around. I'll find something."

"Is this when you give me the good news?"

"Good news is, Joel's team is really happy with how this is all turning out, and they agreed to terminate the contract earlier than expected. You're free to go on with your life after the premiere." She's almost giddy with the information, but you can't catch your breath. For some reason, you laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"That's it? That's your good news?" You ask, and she stands. 

"I thought you'd be happier," she says. "Honey, you'll go on to do great things without him. You don't need to keep carting him around. You'll be so much better off without him in your life."

"What if I don't want that?"

"What?" She asks, and you put your hands on your hips, gearing for a fight.

"What if I want him to stay in my life? What, then?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why?"

"Because that wasn't a part of the contract."

"Bullshit," you spit. "Legally, you can't dictate my relationships outside of this singular contract, and once it's up, I'm free to make my own decisions again, right?"

"Right." She answers through gritted teeth. That picture-perfect attitude is slowly breaking; you can't fight how good that makes you feel.

"So, why don't you think it's a good idea for me to keep seeing him? Is it because I stopped responding to your every beck and call? Or because I'm actually happy and care about someone other than myself, and that threatens my career?"

"I don't think it's a good idea because he's a divorced father of two with a shitty reputation. Do you really think he's gonna keep being the charming guy you see now? He's just doing it for the cameras."

"He stayed overnight in the hospital with me. He let me stay in his house. He let me meet his kids. None of that was for the cameras. Plus, you weren't even there."

"Contrary to popular belief, my world does not revolve around you." Maybe it's how she says it with her familiar venom or because you finally realize how awful she is to you, but you feel the dam of molten anger break in your chest. 

"I could've died, Mel! Ryan and I could've died, and you wanted to know about my fucking schedule! You didn't even ask what hospital I was in or if I was okay! We've known each other for four fucking years, and you can't even ask me how I'm doing?! Do you realize how shitty that is?"

"You wouldn't be anyone without me. We both know that." She snaps, and you scoff, turning away from her. "Look, why don't we just take a breather and come back to this later, okay?" She grabs her bag and makes for the door, but you shake your head.

"You're right," you stop her. "I probably wouldn't be where I am now if it wasn't for you. I needed someone ruthless to get me started, and you were that person, and I'm grateful for everything you did. But we're done. Once we get through these reshoots, I'm gonna start looking for another manager, and we are gonna go our separate ways." She looks over you like a snake looking at its prey, and you clench your jaw. 

"You're firing me?" She asks, and you nod. "You're firing me because you fell in love with Joel fucking Miller? He will leave you in six months for the next shiny young actress who comes his way, and you're firing me?"

"Yep." 

"You're dumber than I thought you were."

"Goodbye, Melanie." You say, and she scoffs. She stands there for another second before walking to the door in a huff, her heels furiously moving against the carpet.

"I hope he's worth it." She calls over her shoulder before slamming the door behind her, rattling the entire trailer. You let out an unsteady exhale and feel your molars buzzing as your head spins from what just happened. You shake out your hands and sit down on the couch. 

"Me too." You mumble. You've never been in Hollywood without representation. You don't know what comes next. You don't even know if you care enough to worry about it right now. You barely have time to think about anything else or even take another breath before the door opens again. You stand shakily, ready to pretend to be ruthless like her if she came back to yell at you, but you just see Joel with his phone next to his ear.

"Hey, somethin' came up, and I need to go. Can you come over for dinner?" He asks frantically. You struggle to keep up with what he's saying but nod anyways.

"I'll ask Ryan to drop me off."

"Okay, I'll see you later." He says as he pecks your lips and disappears as fast as he appeared. Then, you're standing in the middle of your trailer, feeling like you could throw up, and you're alone. The ache in your core has been replaced with motion sickness, and you slowly sit on the floor. 

Did Joel hear you and Melanie arguing? Did he see her leave? Did anybody else see or hear anything? The contract is up. You have no jobs lined up once you're done with Hyde. You have no manager. You just have Ryan, Carolina, Joel, and the girls. Four years of busting your ass, and you might've (probably) just fucked it all up. The scar from the car accident pulses with pain, and you wonder if your brain is pushing its way out of your skull in an attempt to save itself. You pull your knees to your chest and push your hair out of your face, resting your elbows on your knees.

"What the fuck just happened?" You ask yourself. "I have to talk to Joel."

You're exhausted when Ryan drops you off at Joel's. You got all the reshoots done in one day, which is virtually unheard of, but thankfully, Emily just needed a few scenes done, and she knew exactly what she wanted to change. Still, you were there from before the sun came up until after the sun went down. Oh, and you single-handedly doomed your career, but it's fine. Everything's gonna be fine. You really just want to hug Joel. You imagine you'll probably collapse against his chest and cry and barely be able to get the words out. He'll help you figure out what's next. Maybe you'll watch another movie with the girls. That'd be nice. But, right now, you need to cry and maybe have a huge glass of wine. 

You don't knock on Joel's door. You just open and walk through the door, shrugging off your jacket like it's your own place. Something delicious is cooking in the kitchen and the smell wafts throughout the house. Maybe pasta? You can hear low music playing and the girls giggling as they no doubt push their dad around for space on the stovetop. You smile and feel your shoulders drop and your jaw unclench for the first time since you argued with Mel. Everything's gonna be fine.

You turn the corner to see into the living room and the kitchen and find Ellie and Sarah laughing with a woman you've never seen before. She's tall with beautiful dark skin and brown coily hair. Your heart stops in your chest, and the expansive house is suddenly all too small.

"Alright, I couldn't find pesto, but I did find," Joel says as he exits the garage with a can in his hand, stopping in his tracks when he sees you. He looks shocked and says your name like he forgot the syllables. Ellie, Sarah, and the mystery woman look up from their food, and Sarah lights up, repeating your name excitedly.

"I'm so happy you're here! This is my mom, Angela!"

[ragingbookdragon]

Even If I Knew, The Day We Met You'd Be The Reason This Heart Breaks, I'd Love You Anyway

It’s a bit cliché to label them fire and ice, but in all reality, it’s true. To Simon’s cold and calculating, she’s hot and impulsive. And Simon’s no fool. A girl like that will send him to an early grave, but God if he isn’t already a dead man walking. It’s a long time before he finally drops his walls enough to let her inside, mostly because she’s always worming in places she shouldn’t be, asking questions she doesn’t need to know the answers to. That degree in psychology really starts to make sense when she needles him with the ones that instead of him glowering at her and snapping back, he falls silent and broods—he doesn’t brood but she swears he does.

She contradicts Simon’s frosty exterior with an inferno of life, and he begins to wonder if maybe he is too afraid of caring that he doesn’t let himself love. Which is why her words are so jarring as they come across his face, a verbal slap that has him reeling harder than any hit he’s ever taken.

“Simon, I can go on a mission by myself. I’m not a child.”

“I’m know. But I still don’t want you to go.”

“Okay, but you’re not my direct superior. So, I’m going.”

“Well, considering the fact that even if you’re a lieutenant commander. you’re in the 141. And if I recall, I am Price’s second in command.”

“You don’t get to control what I do just because you fuck me.”

It startles him, the way she bites that out and he shakes his head, a little disbelieving that she would say that—especially the way she did. “I’m not trying to control you, love,” he stresses. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

And then it happens. Her eyes slant in a way he’s never seen before and he never wants to see again, a frigid sneer crossing her face as she barks an ice-cold laugh. “Keep me safe? You couldn’t even keep your own fucking family safe.”

And that has Simon faltering a step back, throat tightening, heart beating so loud and so hard that it might come out of his chest.

“You fucked around with the wrong people, and you got all of them killed. Your own family. Your own fucking nephew.” Her laughter is dark. “You couldn’t keep anybody safe. What makes you think you can save me, you fucking failure?”

This isn’t his love. This isn’t her. He doesn’t like this version. She’s supposed to be hot; he’s supposed to be cold. She isn’t supposed to be cruel like this. He’s the cruel edged sword, she’s the fiery voice of reason.

Simon doesn’t even remember what they’re fighting about. And frankly, he doesn’t want to remember. But her laughter burns his ears, aches something in his body, he reaches for her, world suddenly tumbling in on itself and her cruelty is the last thing he hears.

He shoots up, heart hammering in his chest, throat tight as he sucks in a deep breath, sweat running down his temples and in a sheen on his chest. Simon takes a moment to assess that he’s in his room, he’s had a nightmare—a fucking nightmare of his girlfriend. His eyes draw down to his side and before he can even curse, her eyes are fluttering open, a sleepy-haze in them and he knows before she even says it.

“You okay?”

“‘m fine,” he mutters, reaching up to wipe his forehead. “Just hot.”

She stares at him, the sleep beginning to clear as she retorts, “It’s sixty-five in here and you’re covered in a sheet.” Her hand comes up to rub the sleep from her eyes and he grunts at her. “Just hot my ass.”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Simon doesn’t fight when she sits up beside him and leans into his arm. “Bad dream?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna—”

“No.”

She pouts. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“Because I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Her gaze is sharp, and he sees the inferno he loves building in them but uncharacteristically, she ceases needling and lays back down, and Simon thinks for a moment he’s in the clear before she grabs the back of his hair and yanks hard enough that he knows a smirk is on her face when he bites back that certain grunt low in his throat. He falls back, rolling onto her, head on her chest.

Her hands are cool from the temperature of the room, but he feels relief as she rubs his back and soothes everything away.

“You know I’m always here, Si.”

“Mhm.”

“I know you don’t like to talk about things that haunt your dreams but I’m always open to listen—without doctoring you to death.”

“I know.”

“Simon, I know I’m not everything I could be for you, but I love you, and I’ll follow you till the end. I’m in for the long ride.”

Simon looks up at her, a lifetime of exhaustion in his gaze, but a softness in the gruff of his voice as he admits, “Love, you’re the best thing I got.” She blinks and he lets out a long, deep sigh, repeating more to himself, “You’re the best I’ve got.”

Her hands become softer than he’s ever felt, and she brushes her fingers over his face, all had jaw and cheekbones. “Go back to sleep, Si,” she murmurs, her voice a halo of protection over him and their bed. “I’ll guard your dreams for you.”

[astrojulia]

Explaining the Aspects

A very important part of everything in astrology (predictive astrology, natal charts, synastry…) is knowing how aspects work.

There are two ways to explain each one of them, the more formal one which is what you see in books and the one with analogies. I like to do both because it's hard to make something stick in my head, LOL. So let's go.

What is an aspect?

Okay, so now let's finally talk about what all these astrological aspects really mean. Basically, the aspects are like the different vibes and energies that flow between the planets, which represent different parts of your personality. So, depending on which planets are in aspect with each other, you might feel more stressed out or more at peace in different areas of your life.

It's kind of like a map of your inner world, and the different angles and shapes that the planets form can either create a sense of harmony or tension. The way that these energies interact can really affect your personality and how you feel day-to-day. So, if you've got a lot of planets aspecting with each other, you might feel those influences more strongly than if they were just hanging out on their own.

There are several aspects, but the ones I use and the ones that are most seen are: Conjunction, Sextile, Square, Trine and Opposition. What about the others you may say, well, I don't work with them, so I am not going to dive in about something I am horrible not good at.

Conjunction

Basically, a conjunction happens when two planets are in the exact same spot on your astrological chart - we're talking zero degrees here, people. Typically, people say that an orb of eight degrees on either side is what counts for a conjunction, so there's about a sixteen-degree arc where these planets can be hanging out together.

When planets are conjunct, it means that the parts of your personality that these planets represent are getting super cozy with each other. The quality of this connection really depends on which planets are involved - if it's two inner planets, you're probably looking at a pretty chill and harmonious situation. But if it's a mix of different kinds of planets (like mental and emotional), you might get some tension going on.

If the Sun is involved in a conjunction, it's going to make the planet it's conjuncting even more powerful. And if the Moon is involved, it's going to bring out the subconscious influence of that planet in your psyche.

Now, when we start talking about outer planets, things can get a little tricky. Depending on how your psyche is set up, a conjunction between outer planets can either be super harmonious or super stressful. And let's be real, most people find the energies of outer planets to be pretty difficult to deal with.

Even calculated points like the Ascendant and Midheaven can get in on the conjunction party, and they tend to take on the flavor of whatever planet they're conjuncting. So, if you've got a planet conjuncting your Ascendant, that planet's influence is going to be even more magnified in your personality.

In other words, conjunction is when two planets will work on the same issue in their company, and depending on the planets the work environment will be good or bad.

Sextile

The sextile is like two planets giving each other a friendly high-five from a distance of sixty (60) degrees apart. It creates a hexagram and a Star of David shape on the astrological chart. Basically, if two planets are within twelve (12) degrees of each other, they're sextiling. It's considered a good vibe kind of aspect, like the universe is giving you a little helping hand. It's all about opportunities and being able to make the most of them.

When planets are sextiling, it's like they're saying, "Hey, let me help you out, bro!" or "Yo, I've got a great idea, let's work together!" They complement each other and bring out the best in one another. For example, when a fiery planet is sextiling an airy planet, it's like they're two peas in a pod. Similarly, when an earthy planet is sextiling a watery planet, they just get each other.

But, like everything in life, there can be downsides to the sextile. If you ignore the opportunities presented by the sextile, you might miss out on some great stuff. If you pursue them too hard, you could end up stepping on other people's toes. If things come too easily to you, you might start taking them for granted. And if you're not careful, you might let greed and selfishness get in the way of your personal growth. So, remember to stay humble and grateful, and take advantage of the good vibes when they come your way!

In other words, the planets support each other here: it’s a collaboration no matter the company sector they work for. If one is making a mistake, the other will rectify it and not complain; if something is wrong it will provide support and not critique. For example, if your Pluto is in sextile to Jupiter, you will feel quite powerful while you’re feeling lucky, but if you play too much, you will recall that you need to be more serious and reserved.

Square

It's what happens when two planets are 90 degrees apart from each other. Usually, there's an orb of about 8 degrees in either direction, so the square can happen for about 16 degrees total. This divides the circle into quarters and makes a square shape within it.

The thing about the square is that it's all about conflict and confrontation. It's like two cars crashing into each other or one car smashing into the side of another. The right angle means there's a lot of resistance and neither planet can easily budge the other. So, it's not exactly a happy-go-lucky kind of aspect - it's considered a tough one.

Basically, the square represents different parts of your mind that are fighting with each other. And if you're not dealing with those inner struggles, you might end up projecting them outward and causing conflicts with others. The planets involved in a square are usually in elements that don't mix well, like Earth and Fire, Fire and Water, Water and Air, or Air and Earth. So, it's hard to find common ground and make peace.

But hey, don't despair! Even though squares are traditionally seen as bad news, some astrologers think they can be good for you. The tension and conflict represented by the square can help you grow and develop. It forces you to overcome obstacles and learn how to deal with difficult situations. So, even though it might not be easy, it could be just what you need to become a stronger, better version of yourself. And, honestly, a chart without any squares might mean you're not being challenged enough to really reach your full potential.

In other words, when the planets are subtracting each other. They go to the desktop and refuse to look each other in the eyes. They will not cooperate when it comes to working together. So if you have Jupiter in the 10th house and Mars in the 1st house, when talking about career you can see your Mars as your eternal front neighbor who sells exactly the same thing as you, you can help each other… but it will need A LOT of maturity.

Trine

Hey, so the trine is formed when two planets are separated by 120 degrees. It's considered a chill and harmonious aspect, and can be represented by an equilateral triangle within the horoscope circle. Basically, everything is balanced and the vibes are good. The energy between the planets flows easily and functions associated with those planets tend to work well together.

If you have a trine in your chart, you might find yourself feeling happy and content with its trine subject. However, there are some risks associated with the trine. If one or both of the planets are difficult for you to work with, the trine can actually amplify that difficulty. Also, because everything seems so easy, you might become too complacent or unprepared for life's challenges.

On the upside, the trine can help raise your consciousness and connect you with your spiritual side. There's also something called a grand trine, which is even more awesome because it involves three planets in trine with one another, creating a circular flow of harmonious energy. All in all, the trine is a pretty sweet aspect in astrology.

In other words, the planets add up and it can be both useful and dangerous. A trine in earth house (2nd,6th and 10th), might generate an obsession with these themes, making the native anxious, as well give the native skills that can make it shine in several fields.

Opposition

So, basically, when two planets are opposite each other at a distance of 180 degrees, it's called an opposition. This means that the functions represented by those planets work in opposite directions and can often lead to conflict. However, the conflict associated with an opposition is generally more easily resolvable than that associated with a square.

The key to resolving the conflict of an opposition is to realize that the duality between the two functions is just an illusion. Both sides of the opposition actually share common qualities and complement each other. By finding this common ground, opposition can be transformed into cooperation and harmony, leading to strength and wholeness.

However, if the conflict is left unresolved, it can lead to confusion, dilemma, and ongoing conflict. To protect itself from the discomfort of the conflict, the ego may adopt one of three defense mechanisms: siding with one end of the opposition, suppressing one side of the opposition, or projecting the qualities of one of the opposed functions onto someone or something else.

Eventually, though, the subconscious mind will create circumstances that force the ego to confront the conflict of the opposition. So it's better to face the conflict head-on and work towards finding common ground and cooperation rather than avoiding it altogether.

In other words, the planets will argue A LOT, but remember that not every discussion is bad, there’s discussions that’re for improvement, like debates.. but this is always an exhaustive process. When you use energy from your Moon that’s in opposition to your Mercury, both your emotional and rational will get tired because the two worked, even on opposite sides.

Sources

[15] SERVANTOFTHEFATES. Disponível em: https://servantofthefates.tumblr.com/. Acesso em: 29 de mar. de 2023.

Art: Spin@書籍発売！

[7] GARGATHOLIL. Depth Astrology: An Astrological Handbook - Volume 1: Introduction. Smashwords Edition, 2014.

[qqueenofhades]

Enjoy your time out of the office and vacation! Since you’re taking prompts, how about Kastle? I always think about reconciliations and reunions during the winter holidays. It doesn’t have to be explicitly romantic and I’d love it if it was at least a little messy. But I miss Karen and Frank so much, I’ll take anything.

The house is dark, the heating is on the fritz again so it's barely cracking sixty-five degrees in here, and despite the glow of the tree lights, it doesn't feel particularly warm or festive. Karen makes a note to call the repairman in the morning, though the sudden cold snap across New York means that they're likely to be booked solid, and pulls on the extra sweater hanging over the back of the kitchen chair. She thinks everything is ready for tomorrow, when they'll head over to Foggy and Marci's place for Christmas dinner, but if it isn't, she can't be bothered. She doesn't feel especially possessed by holiday spirit, and can't imagine that she will. At least keeping busy for other reasons has stopped her from thinking about it, but still.

Karen sits on the couch, rubbing her tired eyes and thinking that she should go up to bed, not least since she's going to be woken disagreeably early. But then, just as she's about to do so, there's a creak on the front steps as if someone is climbing them, she sits up and tenses -- it's been a long time since open trouble, but she's never quite lost the instinct -- and then, after what feels like forever, a knock on the front door. Why a knock? She isn't expecting anyone. Is this a trap? Her gun is locked in the safe upstairs; she can't leave it lying around for obvious reasons. She wishes that paranoia wasn't her first instinct even on Christmas Eve -- the night of welcoming in strangers, all that -- but she can't help it. She waits tensely, pretending she's not home, to see if they'll try to break in. Nothing.

Karen sighs, reminds herself to call a therapist along with the repairman, and goes to the front door. Unhooks the deadbolt, pulls it open a crack, and then --

Her hindbrain catches up to the realization faster than her conscious mind, like the white blaze in the very instant before a lightning strike. She goes stiff all over, and then she jerks the door open. "What the fuck," she hisses, "are you doing here?"

Frank Castle looks back at her with a very Frank Castle expression, a black beanie crunched low on his head and an old parka zipped up to the chin, grazed with two or three days of unshaven stubble. Karen can't tell if the dark stains on it are blood, but the wise individual would wager so. "Hey," he says gruffly, after a long pause. "Karen."

No, no, no. Karen rubs her fingers under her eyes, contemplates whether to strangle him or just slam the door in his face. Tempting though it is to leave him to freeze to death on her porch, she finally decides otherwise. "Fine," she snaps. "Come in. But you'd better be quick about it. And you aren't staying."

Frank opens his mouth, decides he can't dispute that, and steps over the threshold, his heavy boots clumping on the wooden floorboards. He glances around the house, raises an eyebrow. "Nice place."

"Shut up," Karen says again, short and tight, arms folded over her midriff like armor. "Say what you came to say, then get out."

There's another crackling pause. Frank looks wrong-footed -- which, good, he can't just think he can turn up out of the blue whenever he needs her help in one of his demented murder crusades, then vanish again. At last, he spreads his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey. I'm not comin' to make trouble, Karen. Swear. I just -- I was back in town, and I heard that you'd moved here, and I -- I was gonna see if, you know." He pauses. Shuffles. "You needed anything."

The barely-working central heat suggests that maybe he could, in fact, do something, but Karen isn't going to ask that of him. She doesn't want his pity or his charity or whatever years-too-late realization he's finally had about her, about them. "I'm fine."

"Karen -- " Frank hisses in frustration, takes another step. "I'm sorry, all right? I'm sorry for being a fuckup, for what's happened. You were right, as usual. I want -- " He stops, chokes. "I want -- "

"You want what?" Karen's voice rises. She can't help it. "What do you want, Frank? Because you've had plenty of chances, and -- "

"Jesus Christ, Karen -- "

They're forgetting themselves, they're making too much noise, and then in the living room hallway, there's another voice, small and tremulous. "Mommy," it says. "Mommy, what's wrong?"

Taken totally off guard, Karen and Frank spin around at the same moment, thus to behold the small, tousled four-year-old girl in her pajamas. Karen briefly goes very still. Then she flashes over and scoops her up. "Katie. Katie, it's fine. Go back to bed. Mommy just has to deal with this. You don't -- you don't need to see this, all right?"

Katherine Francesca Page looks unconvinced. She stares over Karen's shoulder at Frank, and Frank, staring back, looks as if all the breath has been driven out of his body. After all, the resemblance is unmistakable: the smaller and daintier version of his own crag of a nose, the fine brown hair, the stubborn set of the chin. He is staggered, shaken, stripped down to nothing, and Karen wants to enjoy it, but she's still too bitter. Frank looks wildly between them, can barely seem to breathe or form a thought, stand up or remember his name. "Karen -- " he starts at last, a hoarse stammer. "Karen -- "

"Go back to bed, Katie," Karen orders her daughter, puts her down and turns her sharply back toward the stairs. "Now."

Katie backs up, stares fearfully at this big strange scruffy man come in out of the cold on Christmas Eve and arguing angrily with her mother, and then runs for it. When she's sure that Katie's gone, Karen turns vengefully back to Frank, who's halfway sat, halfway-collapsed on the couch, rubbing both hands over his face. "Jesus Christ," he manages, choked. "Jesus Christ, you didn't -- you never told -- "

"No, I didn't." Karen's voice comes out like a whip. "If you weren't going to stay for me, then I certainly wasn't going to make you stay for her. What was it you said -- you and Maria dated for three months, she got pregnant with Lisa, you proposed the same day? I wasn't doing that. I wasn't going to try to hold onto you the same way. I asked you for me, and you turned me down. When I realized that I was -- that I was going to -- it was too late. You were already gone."

Frank is white as a sheet. He still can't muster a single word. Karen wants to feel bad for him, but she doesn't, not yet. At last, she points at the door. "Go."

"Karen. Jesus Christ. Fucking -- fucking hell, Karen -- "

"You decide." Karen marches to the door, holds it open against the swirling chill. "You decide what you want, Frank. And then don't come back here until you do. Got it?"

He looks at her, wild and raw, ragged and yearning. She almost cracks, but still doesn't. He opens his mouth. He shuts it.

"Her name's Katherine," Karen says, very softly. "Katie."

Frank looks at her again. His eyes flick up the stairs, as if it's taking all his wherewithal not to run up there right now. But at last, he obeys, and nods as if his head is something stiff and clumsy, unfired clay. "All right," he says, barely more than a whisper. "I, uh. I'll go. Merry Christmas, Karen."

Karen looks back at him, fierce and vengeful as a valkyrie, not wanting to break down, not wanting it -- because if she opens her mouth, she'll invite him to come back yet again, and this time, stupid and shallow and useless as it might be, she can almost delude herself that he'll stay. She just nods in turn. "Merry Christmas, Frank."

[danrenouf]

Colby always gets new programming for the rookies. Not, like, full-on, complete wipe and reinstall, but tweaks. Patches. Each rookie has distinct needs that require different responses and impulses. He’s used to it by now. It’s not like it hurts, anyway - his pain sensors only register physical damage.

With Sid coming in, though, the process of adjusting his programming is more extensive than usual. This rookie’s in the NHL, for one. Different pressure there versus Wilkes-Barre, or juniors.

He’s in the lab for weeks prior to the start of training camp, though. They don’t power him down while they’re talking about the process, so he knows why he’s been there for so long. Generational talent, they say. Face of the franchise. Other things, too, like. People-pleaser and sensitive kid.

Bots don’t ever get that kind of recognition, of course. It makes sense. The league tightly controls what bots can do on the ice, how well they can perform. Colby doesn’t have feelings about it. They’re a few years away from being able to program feelings. But he can turn data-points over, can prod at them with an approximation of curiosity, of empathy. Assess his own array of reactions to a sensitive kid.

He meets Sid at training camp, and the kid seems about as normal as a rookie can be, at least with the amount of attention he’s getting, which must mean the adjustments they made to Colby’s programming were successful. It’s not difficult to anticipate Sid’s responses or reactions. That comes later.

“There’s no way.” Sid is sprawled on his bed, laughing. Laughter means he’s relaxed and comfortable, which will equate to better rest. Better rest tonight will equate to better performance tomorrow.

Colby tosses the empty water bottle in his hand and catches it. “Sure it is. I’m going to bank this off the corner,” he points to the doorway corner of their cramped hotel room, “then the TV, and into the garbage can.” He’ll have to be very precise with the velocity and spin on the bottle, but there’s a more than sixty-percent probability he can make the shot.

Sid laughs again, getting pink in the face. “Okay, hot shot. Do your worst.”

Colby lingers on Sid’s face for a moment. There’s something there that catches him, makes it hard for him to select the right reaction. He winks, though, and turns around. He makes the shot.

“No fucking way.” Sid gets off the bed, bodies Colby out of the way for his own turn.

Colby leans against the wall and watches Sid evaluate his options. Competitive index. Strong driver of motivations. “You gonna pick something, there? Or are we going to stand here all night?” Friendship index. Strong driver of self-worth.

Sid points to the far corner. “Off the ceiling, off the desk, into the can,” he says. Statistically, the odds are very favorable for making the shot. Ninety-percent or more, as long as Sid doesn’t flub.

“Okay, hot shot.” Colby elbows him, which typically elicits a favorable response. “Do your worst.”

Sid’s focused now. Eyes tracing the path the bottle will take, hand tilting the bottle back and forth. Each brand of water is different, bottles having varying shapes and weights. He throws the bottle. It bounces off the ceiling, off the desk, and into the garbage can. A five degree angle change could have made it all go differently, but as it is, Sid whoops and throws his arms in the air, right in Colby’s face. “Eat that, buddy.”

Colby doesn’t need to eat. He must make a face, because Sid’s laughing at him, now. Sid’s face is very close, and the pink in his cheeks has turned into two deep spots over his cheek bones that would likely be hot to the touch, if Colby put his fingers there.

Sid blinks and starts to lean closer. Colby doesn’t have a reaction, models colliding and breaking. His culture and media database tells him him that there’s a high probability that Sid is going to kiss him, now, the way his eyelids have slipped shut again and he’s leaning up with his face angled at the right way to touch their mouths together.

The kiss is brief. There’s pressure against his mouth, and then the pressure is gone. Sid pulls back and looks at him. “Was that okay?” he asks.

Colby stands there, whirring through possible responses. He wasn’t programmed for this possibility, all of his code flexing to find a solution. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t—”

Sid’s backing away, though, hands pressed to his mouth. “I’m so sorry, Army. I forgot - I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. That’s stupid.” Colby knows how to react to this, how to pull Sid out of distress and back into comfortable territory. “Your breath wasn’t that bad.”

“It won’t happen again, I promise.”

It doesn’t need to not happen again. It was just pressure on his mouth. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t cause damage to his body or his software. “It could, if you wanted to,” Colby says.

Sid stares at him. Colby can’t identify the emotion in his face. “I think we probably shouldn’t.”

“Okay,” Colby says, easy. He throws himself down on his own bed and turns on the TV. “Think Ellen is on right now?”

Sid laughs, though it’s not quite normal. “Guess I’m about to find out.”

It takes Sid longer than usual to fall asleep that night. Anyone else, a human being, would have believed Sid’s performance. Things are never quite the same after that.

for @ticklefighthockey - just a lil variation on a theme