#its like empty bottles and cans and clutter

[domesticated-whores]

lord give me the strength to put up with a cishet man that's seemingly not been in a serious relationship for at least 5 years--

[misctf]

Hunting for City Boys

“Ah reckon they went this way!”

Scott could hear the heavy footsteps and thick southern drawl of his pursuers. His back was pressed against a tree and he did his best to control his breathing. How the fuck did it get this out of hand? It started with the damn car. Of all the places for their car to break down, it had to be in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere. No internet signal, no GPS, nothing. Prior to leaving, Scott asked Will to make sure the car was ready to go. And Will reassured him that his father’s fancy BMW was more than ready to handle the drive across the state. Of course, Will insisted they take a shortcut to make better time.  And for what? To get to the cabin before the rest of their frat bros? In hindsight, it wasn’t worth it.

“Oh, Ah see ’im! There he is!”

Scott felt his heart sink. Did they really see him? No... not him. Will. Scott heard Will cry out in pain, followed by a thud.

“Nice shot, Clay. Y’all wanna keep lookin’ fer the other fella?”

“Ah reckon we ought to git this one back to the house. The other fella won’t git too far.” Clay said, “Besides, we don’t want ’im wakin’ up before we get home.”

Scott could hear the engines of their four-wheelers rev up. And soon enough, they peeled away through the thick forest and back to wherever they came from. When Scott peered around the tree, he realized he was alone.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Scott cursed, “This can’t be happening.”

He checked his phone again. No signal. He ran a hand through his matted light brown hair. The chase had left him worse for wear. His jeans were torn from running through the forest, while dirt and small cuts covered his hands. Even his white sweater was stained with mud. He quickly removed it, revealing a tight-fitting t-shirt that hugged his lean body nicely. He sighed. It would only be a matter of time before they started searching for him again. Those two fuckers. They came out of nowhere, driving on their stupid four wheeler. At first, Scott thought they were going to help them. It would’ve been clear to anyone that the two privileged, preppy frat guys had no idea what they were doing with the car. And despite Will being a straight As engineering major, his knowledge on car maintenance was lacking. As was Scott’s. Wasn’t like they ever really needed to learn anyway. But it was too late to worry about that now. Scott needed to figure how to get out of this mess.

“If they have a house,” Scott thought, “They might have a phone, or a car, or some way to get out of here.” He took a deep breath. He could follow the tracks of the four-wheeler back. But what happened if he got there and there were more of them? He sighed. He’d take the risk.

_______

Scott wasn’t sure how long he walked until he arrived at his destination. He spent some time hiding behind trees and bushes as his pursuers resumed their search for him. But somehow, he made it to the house undetected. Unlike the mansion his family occupied, this house (if Scott could even call it that) wasn’t much to look at. The home sits on a gravel path that winds through overgrown weeds and brambles, leading to a weathered structure that looks like it's been standing for decades. Its wooden siding is chipped and peeling, with patches of faded paint barely clinging to the surface. Scattered furniture and empty beer bottles littered the overgrown grass of the front yard.

“In and out. Find Will, find a phone, and bounce.” Scott whispered, his heart pounding in his chest. To the best of his knowledge, those fuckers were still patrolling the forest.

With a rush of adrenaline, Scott stealthily approached the front door. When he got inside, he gagged. The living room is a cluttered space with a mix of mismatched, well-worn furniture. An old plaid sofa, sagging in the middle, sits opposite a heavy wooden coffee table covered in a layer of grime and strewn with empty beer cans and fast-food wrappers. The walls are adorned with faded hunting trophies and old, family photos, framed in crooked, mismatched frames. A faint, smoky odor permeates the air, hinting at years of cigarettes smoked indoors, mingling with the pervasive smell of old wood and dust.

“Fucking pig sty.” Scott mumbled, maneuvering through the old home, “Come on, there has to be a phone or something.” But his search wasn’t all too successful, “Y’all can’t be serious, what kinda folks don’t got a phone?” Scott froze at the sound of the drawl leaving his lips “What the fuck?” He whispered, his voice returning to normal, “Shit, I’m losing it. Focus Scott.”

But there was no phone. Or car keys. Or even a radio. He took a deep breath, gagging more as the stale air filled his lungs.

“Alright, so I ain’t gonna be able to reach nobody. But where on Earth is Will?” This time, Scott barely registered the southern drawl that infected his words. Instead, he found himself focused on the basement stairwell. He gulped, “Maybe Will’s down there.” He whispered.

Scott started down the stairs. The smell that permeated his nose was more intense than the one upstairs. It caused the young man’s eyes to water and he felt like he needed to turn around to get fresh air. But Scott knew he needed to be quick. Find Will, get out of there. Head back the way they came until the got cell service. But his train of thought was shattered when he made it to the bottom of the stairwell.

“Will?” Scott asked, gazing at the figure restrained to the chair, “Oh god, Will?”

“Scott, that you?” The man said in a thick country accent, “Scott, come on now, you really gotta help me out here. Please, I’m beggin’ ya!”  

The man in the chair had very few similarities to Will. Or at least to the Will that Scott knew. Where Will’s toned abdominals once were, a small beer belly was jutting out. His stubble had darkened, while his dark locks had been shaved away and covered with a ball cap. His body hair was more obvious now, leaving him lightly dusted from head to toe.

“Will, good Lord, what in the world did they do to ya?” Scott’s mind raced when he realized he was once again speaking in a southern accent, “I cain't, for the life of me, stop talkin' like this! What in tarnation’s goin' on?” Scott’s hand shot to cover his mouth, but when he made contact with his newly grown stubble, he jumped.

“It’s happenin’ to you too, ain’t it? I reckon it is.” Will mused, “It’s the smell, I tell ya. Gets in your head and messes with ya a bit.”

Scott’s eyes widened in terror. And for the first time, he started to really understand his situation. As he looked down at his own body, he could see his stomach starting to push out into a small gut. Simultaneously, small hairs started to poke out from under his collar.

“No, that just ain’t possible.” Scott whispered in disbelief, “Will, we gotta get outta here, and right quick.” He ran over to his friend and began undoing the binds around his hands. All the while, Scott tried to ignore the itchiness of his new beard.

“I tried to put up a fight too, Scott. I reckon I did. But after spendin’ some time down here, I just went on and accepted it.” Will continued. Scott watched as his friend’s eyes dulled, “Ain’t no need for fancy degrees or gettin’ all dressed up. Just a good ol' nice, simple life."

“Will, listen here, you need to focus now.” Scott said, undoing the final bind, “There’s gotta be a way to fix this.” But Will shook his head and without a second thought, tackled Scott to the ground. Scott looked up at his friend in terror, trying to wriggle out from beneath his firm grasp, “Will! Lemme go, gosh darnit!”

“Well what do we have here?” Scott’s heart sank as he heard the voice of their pursuers flood the room, “Billy! What’re you doin’ strattlin’... Scott?” Clay shook his head, “Naw Scott ain’t a good name for a good ol’ southern boy, ain’t it?” He grinned, “We’ll think of somethin’ but go on now and finish the job, Billy!”

Scott’s eyes widened in terror as Billy nodded. And before Scott could stop it, he found his face in Billy’s rank armpit. The bush of moist pit hair tickled Scott’s nose, and the intensity of Billy’s country B.O. filled his nostrils. He wanted to yell out and beg them to stop, but when he opened his mouth, he only breathed in more of Billy’s stench. For poor Scott, it soon became unbearable. And as the laughter of his captors filled the air, Scott’s world went black.

_________

“We ain’t got all day, Billy!” Scott shouted from the driver’s side, “Git in the darn truck already.”

“Aww Cletus, I’m sure sorry. I went back for the gin.” Billy said, jumping into the passenger seat, “We got a long ride ahead of us.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Scott- now Cletus groaned, “Just don’t be tellin’ me about no new shortcuts. I ain’t too keen on goin’ through anything like this again.” He looked over at Billy, who was chugging the bottle of gin. He sighed, “I can’t stay mad at you though.” Sure, his upper class life was gone. And he could barely string together an intelligent sentence. His vocabulary was oversimplified and any education past the eighth grade was absent from his mind. Certainly, folks from his prior social circles wouldn’t tolerate his cigarette smoking, beer chugging, and crude jokes. Cletus sighed. His life as Scott was over, “Well, Billy, you ready?” His hand slowly wrapped around Billy’s cock and he gave it a few tugs. Billy moaned and bucked his hips, only for Cletus to stop, “I knew that’d get your attention. Besides, you got plenty more of that comin’, y’know. Especially if we go along with what Clay’s sayin’.”

Billy nodded, lifting his arm and taking a deep whiff, “Y’all think they’ll recognize us?” Cletus shook his head. There was no way their former frat bros would recognize them.

“Soon enough, they won’t even recognize their ownselves.” Cletus replied, taking a whiff of his own pits, “Now c’mon. We got a long drive ahead of us.”

[pinkrelish]

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

rockstar!eddie x assistant!fem!reader

✶Tossed to the wolves of touring lifestyle, you'd had enough of Corroded Coffin's backstage antics one night after a show, and try to escape to the bus for fresh air. Eddie follows.✶

NSFW — 18+ drug/alcohol mention/use, eddie spits whiskey in reader's mouth, sexual themes, crude jokes, enemies to lovers vibes, secret soulmates au

[wc: 8.8k]

↳ standalone gift oneshot for the i will wait series written by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness

The methodical chaos—the mechanical creep of soundscape under the drums punching through your body, building to something bigger—ended forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds ago, and like the suspended chords he loved so dearly, you were left with a sense of foreboding.

Stage lights dimmed off. You were on the clock. Showtime.

Babysitter. Handler. Assistant who knew better than to offer him water.

Nerves holstered your shoulders. Unease twisted your stomach. Your ears rang, your teeth ached. Your jaw clenched in throbs off tempo from your heartbeat running wild on the adrenaline feeding the racing pulse hammering in your chest.

The concert was over, but the noise never stopped.

Inside the venue’s backstage room, abrasive bursts of laughter collapsed in excited chatter after an individual cocked back an object, and threw it.

The true night began.

A mostly empty beer bottle smacked its intended target in an echoey clang, and fell in a spray of foam. Fine. You could handle that. Then someone grabbed a plastic chair with metal legs, hoisted it over their shoulder, and chucked it, stumbling after the trajectory in the sloppy way drug-encouraged drunkenness would imply. A cacophony of too-loud cheering was caught on tape by a sound engineer’s personal Sony camcorder, flattening himself against the wall to capture the reaction to the CRT TV dropping from its shelf in the corner, stage live feed long since dead. On its fateful descent, it clipped the edge of an EXIT sign, which now dangled by its chord like a pinata, becoming the next target.

The beige brick room dampened outside interference and amplified the rest, living between yours ears alongside the snappy demands, rude remarks, and crude jokes. Spoken down to, disregarded like caked dirt between boot treads. Anxieties buzzing, looming a presence at the back of your mind, always. On edge.

Shouts, thuds, broken glass. People had the sense to duck, and cower. A side table was lifted, and heaved in a barbaric yell. Beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. Chair legs ripped off, slick from the boozy bubbles coating the floor, and hurled at the red blinking sign. A lamp from another room. An ugly trash can. A hairdryer. The telephone you used to make a phone call thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds ago; ripped from the wall with its receiver, and added to the clutter of projectiles. A bucket of melted ice, nailed head-on, splashing two dots of cold water on your cheek.

Expendable bottles were gone, but the riot didn’t stop. Another case was ripped into. Hard liquor traded hands. White powder stung noses, earning bloodshot eyes. Rewards. Rowdy shoving. Boys will be boys behavior.

An unopened Pabst whizzed past your head, slammed like a bullet into the mirror on the opposite wall, launching itself in a jet of built-up pressure across the room, ending its route at the toe of your heeled shoes seemingly just to ruin your wool-blend Express pencil skirt with hoppy liquid.

Eddie kicked the can away.

He circled his thumb and forefinger up the sides of his nose, and sniffed hard. “Want some?” he asked as he leaned on the wall with you, posture lax and open in all the ways your crossed arms weren’t. You cut your glare to the clear bottle he offered you. His grip obscured most of it, but you could see a worrying amount of whiskey had already been drunk when it crested the sides between his middle and ring finger.

Remembering to answer, you shook your head. The amber liquid sloshed with his tut, “Suit yourself,” and two deep gulps bobbed his throat.

You weren’t opposed to drinking when around him, but you learned your inebriated lesson four stops ago when the bill from the hotel totaled a stomach dropping amount, and as much as alcohol made it easier to tolerate Eddie in particular, your sluggish tongue slurring over an authoritative reminder of the early start to the morning to make it to the next city on time only fueled his defiant attitude. Pink puckered skin marked the stitches he snipped out of his upper arm with a pair of nail scissors after he and Gareth decided to smash the Hilton’s wine glasses for fun, and was surprised when a sliver of glass bit him back. Under his stringy bangs was an angry red scab from yesterday’s mic throttle to his forehead at the end of a verse, screaming his voice to the point of cracking with emotion. Other self-destructive tendencies coated his knuckles in dried blood.

It was a lot to deal with.

Today’s toll was one ruined guitar, a broken bass after the fretboard was stabbed into an amp, a bent hi-hat stand, and a completely deboned keyboard; keys removed thoroughly by the sole of someone’s boot scraping them clean off in the midst of performance. Blowing off steam, Eddie called it. Boys will be boys, one of the returning tour managers shrugged at you.

So far, it was one of the lighter days of tour—

You flinched.

A loud pop flickered through the room. One of two fluorescent lights shattered, and the tube swung down from the ceiling, becoming the next victim to a corner store ham sandwich being thrown at it.

Staying as small as possible, the emotional support water bottle in your hand crinkled as you hiked your fists further up your biceps, eyeing the camera man in the corner. Your employer tilted his head at the sight too, admiring, perhaps, the scene of two guys puffing on cigars. They stood behind two young women dressed in short jean skirts and hot pink tops, leering over their shoulders as the camcorder zoomed in on the obvious body parts a crowd of men would be interested in. The cigars bounced in their mouths as they spoke an unheard instruction in the chaos surrounding you, and the halter tops came off, breasts dropping to the tune of their girlish giggles. The men cupped their palms around the assets, and bounced them as if they were weighing fruit. From their gross laughs, it appeared they were rating the groupies, and the ladies were just happy to be on camera, pouting their lips and arching their backs.

You drew a line from their tits to Eddie’s gaze, hating the sick kick of anticipation knotting your stomach, aware you shouldn’t care for an entire phonebook’s list of reasons if he was watching them with interest. But with clarity, you realized he wasn’t paying them attention at all. His lazy smile was aimed over the rim of his bottle, full lips moving in a goad to the mass of crew members clogging the doorway.

More property ready to be damaged entered over their heads. A couch. An entire fucking couch was carried, stood on its end, and lobbed at the sign, breaking loose a length of red and yellow wires. But it still held strong. Tenacious thing.

Two grown men wrestled beside you. Their sleeveless shirts tangled, riding up to show purpled bruises on their backs—one from a mic stand thrown at him, the other from who fucking knows what. At least Gareth’s was in the shape of a crescent moon.

You shifted closer to Eddie to get away from their kicking feet, and relaxed the frustration from your brows before he commented on it. He, likewise, was bumped into by his friends, but his stature didn’t waver. That’s just how it was. Your bodies were near enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his hot skin, but the moment his sticky elbow made contact with your nice blouse—forever marking it with oily sweat—he earned an apology from Jeff who fell into him, meanwhile you were increasingly worried about receiving a tennis shoe to the ankle.

Exhaling an overdue sigh, you glanced sideways at Eddie to gauge if this was an appropriate time to remind him he should shower and get ready to greet the fans waiting outside the venue, but your breath crumbled to a groan. An eager grin cracked his face, almost manic if it weren’t for his heavy-lidded brown eyes. An idea.

He stepped forward. Everything that wasn’t his tight lips on the bottle of whiskey was ignored; downing what he could in a long swallow, and shaking off his pinched features as it burned past his gritted teeth. He raised the rest over his head, and aimed. Perfectly. The sign smacked the wall from the force behind his pitch, spinning wildly on its cord, slinging the front EXIT display clean off, and dropping lower from the ceiling, ready to sever ties. Shouts for its demise pounded your headache. Many palms clapped the back of Corroded Coffin’s frontman. He held out his hand to his audience, and a fresh bottle of whiskey was produced into his grasp.

Intuitively, employees shuffled to avoid his uncoordinated steps backwards, but you didn’t have the luxury of options, thus he misjudged the distance to the wall and ran into it, and you.

Your poor toes were the first to scream out, stuck under his heavy heel. His elbow jutted into your stomach, digging the sharp corner of your laminated backstage pass into your sternum. Even better, his shoulder mashed your nose, and you didn’t twist your head in time to keep your mouth from coming in contact with his bare tricep, getting a lick of stale salt on your inner lip, and a whiff of boy scent assaulting your nose after his deodorant stopped working hours ago. Too much of his weight depended on you to keep him upright, so you grunted out, “Fucking—Eddie,” and pushed him when others wouldn’t. Laying your hands on him in annoyance when no one else dared. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway.

Eddie followed his stumble through, and spun around. “Whoops!” he said to you in a smile—a viciously sincere thing, betraying his status over you with a genuine shine to his heavy eyes. So innocent behind his sleepy blink, long lashes fluttering, fine lines creasing at the droopy corners from the happy grin teasing his dimple into coming out, freckled nose bathed in hues of pinky red darker than the places he chewed on his bottom lip. He appeared so earnest, so charming despite his current condition, that when his dilated pupils swallowed the rim of bitter coffee brown, you lapsed in staying alert, becoming enamored by his ability to steal the noise from the room when his gaze swept your expression in a slow study. Tender, almost. If he were anyone else.

That’s why it hurt more when the comradery in his features were a trick of the light, and you were reminded of your position as his paid bitch killjoy.

The uncorked bottle of whiskey made itself known under your nose. “Want some?” he asked with kindness he did not possess, easing into a higher register to lift the question to you. Knowing. Mocking.

You swatted his hand away, and answered flatly, “No.”

It was coming. You didn’t have to be looking at him to see his face slide into dull neutrality, dry mouth and wicked tip of his tongue swiping over the back of his teeth. The displeasure was felt. Living, breathing. Fracturing your resolve like the second lamp thrown against the wall.

“Y’sure? You look like you could use a drink to loosen that stick up your ass, and have a little fun.”

Maybe it was the fact Eddie’s day started with him bitching at you for waking him up, when yours started hours earlier, rebooking his hotel rooms after being banned from the chain after last week’s incident. Maybe it was his snide tone when he demanded coffee, and you glanced at the lobby’s carafe on instinct, only to be immediately humiliated in front of the interviewer who was sitting opposite him, festering an indignant response under your skin all day. You weren’t even intending it to be for him, you weren’t stupid enough to serve him such pedestrian coffee, you were thinking about getting it for yourself. Stupid fuckhead. Maybe it was the hours you spent oscillating between enjoying the travel to new places you’d never been, and wondering if the price of him getting this riled up whenever he pleases was worth it. Maybe it was the nauseous haze flogging the room from the cigars. Maybe it was the channeled aggression from the three guys who flipped over the fold out tables for no reason, sending plastic cups of backwash tequila across the floor. Maybe it was the collateral damage the venue was going to seek. Maybe it was the three days of disaster challenging your professionalism. Or maybe it was Eddie’s next comment which pushed you over the edge.

“If alcohol doesn’t do it for you, there’s prob’ly some guy who hasn’t left the parking lot yet, maybe he can loosen you up.” And to further imbue disrespect behind his comment, he leaned in and feathered the low dip of his raspy voice over the shell of your ear, speaking so quietly the syllables had trouble catching, “But if you fuck ‘im on the bus, I wanna watch.”

The sign snapped and crashed onto the heap of damp valuables, inciting a louder celebration from those participating.

You dropped your water bottle where you stood, and skimmed past Eddie on your way out. A firm departure with seething eyes aimed straight ahead. Chin strong, moving past him with a message. “Go to hell.”

And your backbone faltered when the mass of roadies blocked your exit. Security guards with big bodies jumped, rejoicing. Lanky lighting techs downed their beers and threw them over the small crowd with no aim. Your shoulders collapsed, tucking your arms to yourself. Avoiding elbows, meaty arms with enough muscle to floor you, testosterone laced boys will be boys behavior with a heavy dose of uppers. A wall of men who ignored your plea spoken so loud in your voice which did not carry.

But they obeyed the tattooed arm beside you. Minded the obnoxious rings when rapping on a man’s arm. Heard the hoarse voice commanding them all into a single file line for you to squeeze by, “Give her some room,” and their big bodies were already hugging the other side of the hallway with a laughed apology—to him, not you.

You shuffled out as dignified as possible, knees stiff and weight focused on the balls of your feet to avoid slipping on the tile. It was embarrassing enough as is being trailed with a bottle at your back—a far cry from a heroic palm guiding you forward—and his need to overtake you in a single stride. Eddie shot his other hand out and pointed down an unoccupied corridor, in essence blocking you from leaving. Not that you had much fight left in you to argue after being awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds. You followed the lead he set for you.

Scarce lighting shone down on the two double doors leading outside, leaving the alcove he chose cast in a darkness your eyes had to adjust to. Musty warm air from the arena swept your face. A cleaning crew attacked the stands, creaking along the seating tiers. Sweeping, chucking empty cups. The pressure on the small of your back drove you to an open area near the instact and working EXIT sign allowing you to discern the back of the stadium, and his face.

Eddie’s features were glazed in a gentle omen of red.

There were thousands of scenarios churning in your mind at the situation of being stuck alone in a dark corner with a drunken man, but his slight smirk put you at ease, ironically.

The source of the painful knots between your shoulders spoke, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He then had the gall to crowd you to the dusty drywall, and rest his arm atop your head, caging you there. Treating you as a nuisance. An insect. A little bee. A bug caught in his sticky trap. Gazing down at you with reptilian cold pupils behind his happily hooded eyes, substances battling in his body. Dangerous to no one but himself.

You squinted. “No?” The questioning lilt wasn’t intentional, but you had no idea what he was getting at.

He cocked his hip out with a dramatic sigh, and dropped his head forward to stare at you through his lashes, mouth hung loose. Waiting, waiting, waiting; acting as if he were the pinnacle of patience when you refused to play into his game, making you the bad guy. But worry not, he upheld the onus to inform you, his assistant, in a tone wallowing from the dregs of flat boredom with an edge of irritation and touch of patronization for having to spell it out for you, “I’m hungry.”

A polite, professional sneer lifted your upper lip. “Okay? Food should be here soon. I called it in a half hour ago.” About when the band came off stage, and Harry gave his honest opinion on their sloppy performance, while Eddie gave notes to the sound tech about Jeff’s mic not picking him up during Down In It. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

“What’d you order?”

Apprehension tensed through your back, perceived by his forearm mussing up your hair as the instinctual emotion stood you taller, defiant; knowing why his glinty grin taunted a show of teeth.

Pizza on Fridays. Texmex on Saturdays. Chinese on Sundays. That’s how it was every weekend. The consistency ensured you didn’t mishear him earlier when he requested his usual lo mein. “You asked for Chinese food,” you stated evenly, strongly. One step ahead of him.

“Mm.” Eddie scrunched his nose as he pretended to think it over. “Not feeling it today. I want pizza,” he said, the last word suffocated inside the bottle lifted to his lips, taking a long draw as your exhausted brain snapped to condescending him.

“So eat a cheese wonton and use your imagination.”

Utter elation gleamed in the steady eye pinning you in the crimson gloom, head tipped back to drink and drink and drink, cheeks sunken from sucking in liquor, pursing his lips around the glass rim from the smile he tried to suppress after succeeding in getting a rise out of you.

Your blood could only simmer for so long. Rolls of pent up anger, of festering disdain at his ability to find any opportunity to get under your skin, of fatigue from being ‘on’ for nearly twenty-four hours, stone in your gut from the constant passing glances when you were seen with Eddie; it all met its limit. You just wanted to leave. Your path to the hallway was blocked by the smooth contour of his bicep. Ducking under would mean an introduction to his armpit, and you weren’t thrilled by the idea of flattening yourself to the wall to slip by the untamed forest of black wiry hair. It would also be an admission of defeat, even further affirming your role as his spineless assistant to boss around. You could choose the other way and go around him, avoiding him all together, but there was no pride in that, either.

“Can you move your arm?” you asked, giving him the option despite better judgment when sudden pin pricks of uh-oh spiked your senses when he lowered the bottle.

A glistening line of whiskey traced his puckish smirk. Never menacing, but never a good sign. For a long moment the ghosts of the arena haunted the space in distant noises. Caresses of other humans around. Feedback other than the clutch on your heartbeat, and his troubled exhale into a strong inhale through his nose. Big breath filling his chest. Held. You took note of Eddie’s dimpled chin and the beads of water building at his lash line, and finally, he moved.

A sticky circle stamped the soft underside of your jaw, sliding his spit along your skin as he used the rim of the glass bottle of whiskey to lift your chin up, up. Stretching your neck, tipping your head back to the relaxed length of muscle along his forearm. Barely time to register the cherry-red halo striking the ends of his frizzy curls, or the ramping excitement overriding his already ruined impulse control.

Shy, you severed the intense eye contact when his face drew near.

Blank black soundless vortex rushing in your ears.

Drip, drip, drop.

Tiny splashes, one after the other, thumped on the locket of your lips. Mouth softly shut from the pressure under your chin. Tapping, tapping. Beat, by beat. Two, three, four, before your confusion determined what the sensation was, and the astringent scent cut its way to your sensitive nose.

You froze. Body clenching tight, fists sweating, nervous saliva pooling under your tongue too difficult to swallow. Jaw clamped shut and rejecting the liquid pooling at your lips, flooding it to the corners of your mouth, tickling the peach fuzz at the edges in tall walls of surface tension until, at last, they swelled, broke, and crashed. Thin streams flowed down either side of your neck, absorbed by your white blouse’s collar and trickling to the top of your bra cups, skirting to your cleavage. Brain overloaded. Clocked out. Warring with disgust, shock, and disappointment at the pathetic way you curled your fingers in some frustrated gesture at his actions, but ultimately, wrenched his tank top into your grip, and submitted.

You parted your lips, and Eddie poured.

Liquor, warmed from his mouth, filled yours. Burning, burning; drowning under the surge of spirits setting a blazing trail to your stomach, piquing a noise from you which would only draw the attention from those curious as to who the couple was fucking in the dark corner of the arena. You blocked the deluge from choking you with your fat tongue; rising onto your tiptoes while bending at your weak knees in the same involuntary whine as you tensed and squirmed—conflicted. Twisted your hands into the top of his shirt where the ribbed knit stuck to his chest, fabric damp with sweat and cool to the touch. You lurched him forward without thinking, locked in a panic. He complied. Easily.

Body to body, lazy weight on composed. Rubber soled boots dragging along the outside of your simple heels in a stuttered slide. Nudging the introduction of his bare legs against your skin; his hairy shins and the scraggly strings from the ripped hem of his shorts brushing the sides of your knees. Feeling his heavy arm flex as the front of his hips met you in the same stunted bursts as his steps, going from the man who frowned when you approached him, to the one who pressed himself between your thighs, causing the bulk behind his zipper to rock against you as he found his footing and stood tall, keeping his mouth aimed above yours, forgiving what spilt over your cheek in his stupor.

Dried salt and earthen dirt, embroidered texture of the fabric scraps he sewed onto his tank top rubbed your knuckles. The smooth pads of your thumbs landed above the neck hole as you centered yourself, tracing the duality of chilly perspiration on the heated skin of his sleek pecs, feeling the layer of muscle shifting underneath. Notes of oakwood barrels stroked your tongue before the sour punch of rye stung water to your shut eyes. You peeked through the wetness. Just to see.

His powerful lungs exhaled at a trained rate he could sustain in time with the runnel leaving his gently puckered lips paused above your own. Bangs stuck to his forehead. Sleepy faraway gaze. Calm, serene against the circumstances which had you questioning why you weren’t spitting the liquor back in his face. The scrunch of concentration between his brows was your last blurry sight before you were desperate for darkness again, letting your eyelids fall closed, lashes marrying.

Toofulltoofulltoofull.

The difference in your mouth size was apparent. Whiskey primed the inside of your cheeks, filling their fleshy stretch, stressing the brim of what you could hold. He’d only begun to dribble what had run hot and thick over his tongue when you untwisted your achy fingers from his shirt and served three warning taps in the vicinity of his heart. Feathery prods, like silk over the sparse hair growing in the valley between his pecs.

But, due to unforeseen circumstances, he forgot to stop.

Either you wormed yourself into stretching taller against the wall, or he leaned down. Perhaps both were true. Maybe you went rigid from the impending threat of irreversible stains on your new Liz Claiborne blouse, and maybe he shifted when the nuances of your hips slid against his own, dragging upward and reminding him of the cradle he had you in.

Richly flushed from booze, the tip of his nose thawed your thoughts as it grazed past your own, mashing a hint of tenderness you rarely witnessed from him to your cheek. By accident, of course, like the wet mid of his hair skimming the edge of your jaw where the bottle remained notched to your chin; amber glass a stark contrast from the plush give of his bottom lip flirting across yours.

Dry chapped against chapsticked satin.

The unintentional touch happened so fast, too quick to explore.

Mmm! Another antsy noise from you which rang sweet when amplified by the empty pit of coiled wires in the stadium. Mouth overfull. Stomach gripped, lungs clenching for unhindered breath. Realty checking in.

You put strength behind your forearms on his chest, shoving him and whirling your face away, keeling over what room he gave you to struggle through the largest gulp of your life, losing some of the liquor in the process, as evident by the splash on the concrete floor. Beyond brave, you drank it down, coughing, sputtering, and shuddering through the aftertaste for what felt like minutes. Huffing. Heaving. Working through the flood of drool coating your tongue, momentarily resting your dewy forehead on the thick vein drawn down his bicep by the red light, trying not to puke. Your shoulder pressed to his sternum. His heart beat, loud.

You used your sleeve to attack the wet streaks on your chin and cheeks, mopping up your pinched expression as the nausea of chugging his disgusting rye whiskey churned what patience you had for him. “What the—?”

“Hey, try not to waste any,” he commented dryly.

Voice raising, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You picked your head up from the crook of his elbow to pin him with your vehement glare. But the flash of temper at his drunken antics faded to the messy background of emotions when you remained in his pinion. Slotted between him, the wall, and the bottle.

Eddie’s nose bumped the bridge of yours. He pulled back slightly, and lowered the bottle. Still, his voice was one half of a sigh seeking its counterpart over your lax jaw and weak scowl. “Lotta stuff,” he answered. Still, your hands remained bound in his shirt. You couldn’t let go. Why couldn’t you let go? You couldn’t let go as the center of your bottom lip tingled like the buzzing wings of a bumble bee. Why didn’t you spit out the whiskey in his face? It was gross, revolting. Why did you swallow it?

Licks of black pepper and clove stayed on your tongue. Inhales went stale with his tangy scent, acrid and musky after giving his all on stage. His sweat clung to your fingers, mixed with the sheen on your forehead. When he breathed, his belly fought for the space between you, pressing into your stomach. Existing in the proximity you’d never seen the other in before; enabling you to hear the intimate loll of his tongue moving the spit in his mouth before he spoke.

Appearing more sober than before, with a strange amount of alertness in his glassy gaze trained on the minute changes of your features, he said, “You’re going to have a miserable time on tour if you keep being this up tight.” He angled away to sip from the bottle held by its long neck in three of his thick fingers. Rolling his lips inward, his throat bobbed a fierce line in the EXIT sign glow. “I was trying to work that permanent twist out of your panties. Get you to loosen up, have some fun.”

Just like that, the frustration was back. His words, his tone, his lack of apology for being a royal pain in the ass.

“You make me miserable,” you told him. For good measure, you pinched the sensitive underbelly of his tricep in case your voice didn’t carry the anger from the last hour of putting up with his shit.

He mumbled, “Ow,” probably not feeling the pain with how much alcohol was in his system.

Restraining yourself from reacting bigger, you tightened your fists and tried not to shake him. “I can’t relax, because the second I do Corroded Coffin gets stacks of lawsuits rammed up it’s ass, and you and I both know I’m hired damage control,” for you, you didn’t finish, getting too hot in the face to want to stand in your sticky clothes any longer, squishy inner thighs humid from being pressed together by his legs, shoes numbing your ability to feel the floor. “Would it kill you to stick to a schedule? Get cleaned up, meet some fans? Do the normal thing?”

The weight of his body returned, dropping the tension from his shoulders to curve them towards you, forcing your palms flat to his ribs. Another cage.

Unfortunately, his answer was a slow smirk. The bad kind. Sultry, and saccharine; dark like his purposefully narrowed coy eyes. “Kinda like it when you’re angry,” back to mushing his words together. “Lemme guess, you’re not even wearing panties to be twisted. You’re just naturally this…” Bitchy. “Pleasant.”

You pinched his tricep until you knew it hurt, until the roots of your hair tugged at your scalp from his forearm slipping away, and you used the space created to wedge past the areas of him which tempted a flicker of want in your core after a noticeable drag against your hip. “Don’t follow me.”

“C’mon, are you really..?” A pause. “Wait���!”

A productive conversation was a fruitless, futile thing.

You silenced the voice in your head telling you there was genuine remorse in his innate reaction to call for you. As if he were done pretending to be drunker than he was just to push things too far. Like he really cared you were walking away, in essence giving him permission to continue his night how he wanted.

No heavy thudded steps chased after you. The double doors were up ahead. You leaned into opening them past the heavy gust of hot air pushing back, and you stepped out to excited faces falling flat in disappointment when it was just a lady in a blouse and skirt reeking of booze, not a member of their favorite band printed on their bleach-dyed Corroded Coffin t-shirts.

~~~

When the tour bus doors next hissed, it wasn’t a single body stomping vibrations through the overly large vehicle on their way to pore over the details for the next show, it was a steady flow of those who called the beast their home. Most slung themselves in the couches at the front, talking shop around the kitchen table. Some infiltrated the fridge for beer. Another used the bathroom which was too close for comfort, especially in the recycled air blowing through the vents.

A body approached, and you curled your toes in as he passed.

Eddie’s heavy black boots stopped in the aisle of bunks. The soles squeaked as he turned, creaking leather as he sank his weight to one side. Stalling, facing you before he sat heavily on his bed. As he did so, two sharp pops drew his attention. Checking behind him, the privacy curtain was stuck under his ass, and the plastic rings meant to hold it up were snapped into pieces. You avoided putting your gaze on his person as you watched him solve this mystery, and returned to the paragraph you were scrawling in your notebook, moving your pen across the lined page.

Two of the last three days were journaled down, catching up from the hectic weekend, and venting through your emotions by reliving them. Darker ink bloomed where you carved the tip of your pen through your explanation of your hurt feelings and the general flippancy you were subjected to by one person in particular. The roadies and other members of the band got less screen time than the star of the show in your tirades. He knew this, too, looking from across the aisle at your clumped lashes, spying the water spots on the pages when he was standing. He sat forward, much like you, but his thighs were spread with his hands in between them, palm open to whittle a nervous thumb in the cupped center, having the decency to appear ashamed.

Your clothes were folded beside you, undecided if you wanted to trash them or wear them in defiance.

“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked, not quite enunciating due to his uncomfortableness.

Unable to mask it, you blinked rapidly before opening your eyes wide, not withholding the contemptuous sigh released from deep within. You gripped your notebook harder, bending it, rumpling the pages to hide what you etched behind your tight hands. Who the fuck asks if they need to apologize?

Eddie’s washed curls fell forward with his hung head, nodding to himself.

He got up, and left.

Anger scored your face. Draped by your headache was your furrowed brows, flared nostrils, twisted pursed lips zipped up tight from saying anything you’d regret—a lesson he could do with. Your pajamas were the makings of nine heavenly clouds after being dressed in stiff business attire all day, but the blisters on your ankles stung. Your joints throbbed. Your muscles wore sore. Your spine cried every time you moved.

Tomorrow you’d start doing the stretches the stageside crew showed you that kept them limber. You made a note to fit this in your schedule, bypassing the silly daydream of stopping at a bookstore in the next city and reading up on a yoga guide for more pose ideas than what the guitar techs could teach you, aware the chance you’d find time away from your boss to pursue your own self-interests was slim.

Flipping a new page, you dated it in the corner, began your introduction, and started on the third day of spilling your heart out.

Your pen was mighty interrupted.

It’s difficult to say what came first: the mouth watering rush of saliva, or the passionate rumble of your empty stomach yearning for the white takeout box placed in your lap by the bruised hand sporting cuts from punching Gareth’s drum platform during the one of the more self-loathing songs.

A pang of humility gentled his nature.

The four-fold top was open, revealing your favorite noodle dish with extra green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top, plastic fork stabbed through the middle. You lifted the container to swipe the oil stains off your mid-sentence rant, shaking free the beads of condensation collecting on the sides. The cardboard had gone soggy after being nuked in the microwave, burning through to your fingertips, but you held your dinner nestled in your palms, regardless.

It didn’t come with extra green onions or sesame seeds, those would have to be found on the side and added, along with the sauce to keep it from drying out.

Eddie made it exactly how you liked.

Hunched in the minimal space between bunks, you stared at the long stem of a bean sprout sticking out from the swirls of noodles, processing his gesture. Beneath that, your journal was splayed open to a slew of harsh sentences. Lower, directly across from your bare toes was Eddie’s boots. Higher, one of the metal aglets of his laces was stuck behind the leather tongue. Fresh socks clung the bottom of his calves. You listened to him peel back the curtain before sinking to his bunk, and trailed your study over the silvery scars on his knees. Moving up, you spotted a fresh beer in his hand, maybe one or two swigs taken. His elbows rested on his thighs, body folded over, leaning in, mirroring you to some degree.

The harsh overhead lighting brought luster to the bright golds, rich reds, and deep strands of chestnut through his dark hair brushing the shadow of his clavicle over the black shirt clinging to him, hugging the slope of his stooped shoulders.

Finally, you met the depth behind his eyes communicating what he couldn’t.

The apology lasted just long enough for your consideration, and then he lifted the crinkly wrapper tucked between two of his fingers. “You want this?”

You shook your head at the fortune cookie. “You can have it.”

“Nice,” he whispered. The unassuming planes of his cheeks lifted enough to allude to the dimple on his left side, and bracket his mouth in smile lines. He was still drunk, you assumed. A merry blush persisted across his nose, and his eyelids were as sleepy as the bags beneath them. But there was a youthful glee under it all as he tore into the cellophane. A glimpse at someone from long ago; not the rockstar before the start of touring who would pull laughs from you, but further, before the conditions of fame chewed him up, spit him out.

You wondered if Chinese takeout was a rarity in his boyhood, a special treat saved for when he left his hometown on trips to the city.

Eddie flicked the wrapper to the floor—annoyingly—and ducked at an odd angle to lay his upper half into the cozy nook of extra pillows he made you buy on the first night of being on the road. He stowed his beer at the apex of his clenched thighs, fitting the cold bottle snug against the packed seam guiding your eyes to the hill of his zipper, provoking hot blooded thoughts. His shirt rode up as he brought his arms above him, fanning the thick trail of hair out from under the hem, impossibly soft in appearance, auburn tinted, growing less dense on the sides of his belly. He cracked the crisp wafer in half, and you watched his stomach tense on the snap.

Squinting in the dark, Eddie depressed the button on the tiny reading light with his knuckle, and unfurled the paper from half the cookie, scanning the faded red text.

He snorted.

Choosing a mystical-sounding rasp not far from his real one to invoke the guise of a palm reader in a smoky lounge reeking of incense sticks, he read the fortune aloud while waving his other hand about, “You will be successful in love,” he said. His wrist went limp, and he tucked his chin to congratulate you. “Lucky you.”

No amount of plastic forks shoved in your mouth would rid you of the smile tightening your eyes. “Lucky me,” you echoed, full of wryness. The food, amongst other things, worked wonders to lift your mood. You weren’t as much buzzed from the shots sloshing in your stomach as you were queasy, and greasy noodles filled the tumultuous void stupendously.

He stuffed the crunchy cookie in his mouth, and turned the fortune paper over, speaking through the gnash of crumbs, “Your lucky numbers are 35, 26, 56, 10, 32, 52,” he continued.

“Uh-huh.”

The noise across the rest of the bus was at a level you could endure. Shooting the shit at an appropriate volume, or nodding along to the conversation. The driver would give the signal soon, and the boys would, or should, go to their bunks.

While you ate, Eddie stayed laying with his legs off the bed, head crooked against the wall due to the narrow space. He held the fortune above him. Reading it, sometimes. Thumbing the edge other times, or rubbing the texture of the stiff paper across itself. Staring, staring, unblinking from whatever he was thinking as he wrung a hand around his face; eliciting a sense of comfort from the audible stroke of his knuckles scratching over his stubble.

You scraped the bottom of your container, and put aside your notebook to gather your trash, two feet planted to make your way to the kitchen. At the last second, a glint caught your eye, and you bent over to pick up the wrapper Eddie dropped, tossing it in the takeout box, too.

“While you’re down there, be a doll and take off my boots.”

“No.”

His disgruntled groan followed you to the front of the bus.

The guys gave you a mixed reaction of curious glances and uninvolved nods as you stuffed your garbage in the overpacked bin. Jeff in particular made a point to look from you to his best friend’s legs, though you didn’t have much of an answer to whatever he was searching for.

A goodnight wave would have to do, and you were back at your bunk, folding the sheets down in preparation for the dreamless state you wished to be in. You sat on the mattress, eyes closed and spine somewhat neutral. The structure of the bunks were unforgiving, but the small crawl space could feel cozy at times, like a blanket fort made from couch cushions. Except, the house moved throughout the night, and angry honks woke you up on occasion. Not to mention you were a light sleeper from the stress of a car crash, or being dumped onto the floor.

The fortune paper flitted. Regarding you over the imposed suggestion between his legs, he informed you, “It says here the best way to relieve some of that tension you’re always carrying around is by taking a ride on a nice, fat—”

You snatched the beer bottle from between his thighs, big fake hard-on standing tall. He startled from the sensation, darting his eyes from the phantom trace against himself, and hailing you with a sputtered laugh through his cheek-aching smile, denying you the reward of taking him off guard by covering his mouth with his hand.

“I earned this,” you said about the drink.

“Yeah?” he goaded, pleased at your forwardness.

In a valiant attempt to show off, you tipped the mildly hoppy bitter back. Two pulls in, you thought better of it. Not quite a chug, but he lost the war with his grin, pearly teeth shining behind the thumbnail he strummed over the center of his bottom lip, eyes almost closed entirely in a bout of crinkles.

You pulled your lips off the bottle; off his spit and off his drink, off his glass cock, and were emboldened by the confidence of his playful disposition to rib on him openly, like the guys would when his pendulum mood swung to the good side. You lamented in a dramatic sigh,”Maybe my love life will be so successful, I'll get swept off my feet, and be free from the burden of listening to your sloppy guitar plucking all night.”

His expression lurched towards impressed. Overacting with his mouth agape in surprise, lips curled over his teeth, and splaying his hand on his chest. With how he propped himself up on one elbow, his shirt stretched flush against his pecs, accentuating the two round shadows at the ends of the metal bars through his nipples.

Right, you remind yourself, able to forget their existence through most of his wardrobe choices, he has pierced nipples.

Your body ran hot at the memory from two short hours ago where you were inexplicably thrusted into a situation where you could’ve felt the jewelry by accident, pressed against a wall. Now you were able to think through the adrenaline, and acknowledge having another person’s touch on your skin did more harm than good for the loneliness lurking within, calling it to the surface.

The notebook beside your pillow drew your glance.

Eddie stabilized your position in the conversation, not letting your sudden reservation deter him from seeking retribution for your insult. “Think y’drank too much honey, there, Bee. That one stung below the belt.”

The moment it took for you to register the low leech of a tease sneaking its way through his croaky, whiskey-hoarse words was a long one. Longer was his heavy palm falling to demonstrate where exactly your insult hurt him, cupping and grabbing the afflicted area. “You wound me!” he dramatized, demonstrating the limits his fatigue green shorts flattered, cotton fabric scrunching under his grip, then slouching flat on the release. Longer, still, was the distance between the gaudy ring on his middle finger and the tip of his short nails, thick digit landing on the tattered seam splitting him down the middle. Letting go, he rested his hand above his belt.

Everything about him was victorious. Champion eyes glinting rum colored; a shade you’d never seen on him, and almost missed with your observance stuck lower, trapped by his overt flirtations.

His belly rose and fell with a sympathetic hum devised to rattle you.

When sober, the invitation to crude insinuations began and ended with intangibility. A calculated smile to fluster you when caught admiring how his tattoos twisted over the muscles in his upper arms when he leaned on his keyboard, a sentence spoken in the morning before his voice warmed to its comfortable register, a tossed comment in the midst of conversation with his band mates and the effect it had on you shifting uncomfortably just outside the ring of amity—quarantined behind the scope of his single-handed gesture pumping an obvious motion, pretending you were absorbed by the timetable schedule for the band inside your folder, appearing busy and decidedly not desperate to either be included or released from the task of being present, even when hot needles of sweat stressed the lack of consideration for your feelings with each sorry expression cast in your direction. You were his worker bee, paid to wait on him, and his teasing was rarely physical beyond an appropriate knock on your bicep for your attention in the off chance he didn’t snap his fingers at you like a dog. Or a tap on your knee under the kitchen table to get you to stand so he could leave; a light pressure which you could replicate days later with your own knuckles. His daily indifference was born of spite, and his drunken actions were bred of the same annoyance, bottle-deep perspective viewing you as the one who was ruining his night. Assuming he continued to push his tolerance with more drinks after you left the green room, his bold teasing made sense, you supposed, too unrestricted to deny himself the fun of riling you up.

The right thing to do would entail divorcing yourself from this conversation, and bringing up his conduct tomorrow. The wrong thing to do would involve taking another swig of his beer. The right thing to do would require reminding him of his meeting with Murray in the morning, who had a shorter fuse than anyone in the music industry. The wrong thing to do would include lobbing the bottle in his bed. The right thing to do would demand not giggling at Eddie’s poor reflexes when he made a bigger mess of the ale spilling on his blanket.

Eddie seized to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was not up to par. He scrunched his eyes closed at the last second, jolting into a crunch with his chin tucked in an inordinate amount of wrinkles, and hands turned with his palms out, more keen on keeping the bottle from hitting his face than truly catching it. Which was a plausible excuse for his boot kicking your bunk in the process, and overall lack of poise as he brought his hands together after the beer had already bounced off his belly, and rolled where the bed dipped around him.

The wrong thing to do would consist of you running your knuckle along your shameless grin, prodding the flesh against your teeth as he dropped his head back and emptied the bottle onto his softly cradled pink tongue, thank you for sharing the drink, every last boozy drop.

Recognition curved the groove of his mouth.

Boys will be boys behavior.

“Here,” he said, rolling forward with his arm extended. The glass bottle in his hand drew your immediate wilt, but before you advanced too far into your frown, he alleviated your ire with the two fingers pointing at you, fluttering the damp paper between them. “You believe in this sorta shit, don’t you?” Despite the mock, you knew better than to refute his claim, not having the chops to sound convincing. Not that you really had faith in the mass produced slip of paper, but the affirmation that you’d find your soulmate one day produced a sense of ease before bed. Even when the word ‘successful’ was blurred from a drop of beer.

You placed the fortune in your notebook, feeling the ache of an unfinished entry.

At the front of the bus, the driver stamped up the stairs and gave the signal he was going to start moving soon, cuing the subliminal bedtime. The unbelonging technicians left, and the rest of Corroded Coffin stretched from the stiff cushions lining the booth seats around the table. As they picked up after themselves, Eddie untied the top set of his laces, and kicked his boots off, leaving them in the aisle along with the empty beer bottle.

He rolled onto the edge of the mattress to rip back his sheets and shoved his legs under, hesitating from drawing the curtain when he browsed the end of your bunk, where your feet moved under a pile of belongings placed atop your covers. “I’ll send your clothes to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”

Not an apology.

“You mean you’ll send me to the dry cleaners tomorrow,” you corrected, and his face smoothed flat from the accidental snub.

Harry moved between you two. Jeff divided the conversation further. Gareth cleaved whatever rapport you had with Eddie when he snorted at the two of you facing each other in your bunks, cuddled up like a sleepover.

Thinking harder as his peers climbed into their beds, Eddie relaxed onto his forearm supporting his upright posture, and sank into the jut of his shoulder, spinning his hand in the same flippant way the scrunch between his brows appealed to the snark loading in his throat. “I’ll just give you my wallet then, mm?” he offered, gravelly voice dusted with insincerity. “Then you can buy all the white blouses, and black skirts your pretty heart desires.”

Someone snorted again. It sounded like Gareth.

“And, uh,” Eddie endured as the plastic rings tinked across the metal bar, leaving a generous window visible from the top of his shoulders to his wild hair spread about his pillow palace, limp curtain hanging pitifully, “if you’d be so kind, don’t watch me sleep.”

“I won’t,” you said, and it sounded so sad. So soft, and faint, no bite behind it. No zest, no strength. Just confusion, though you understood the events leading to the pendulum swinging the other direction.

You closed your curtain, too.

The tour bus rumbled before sighing its characteristic hiss and chugging forward, pitching its cargo inside. You swayed in your nook. Laying on your back meant you experienced every roll of the tires cutting corners in the parking lot, but you weren’t ready to turn over yet. Your mind was swarming with cluttered thoughts. There were things you could be doing other than peering out at the depressing darkness where the dim ambient light didn’t pierce. You could brush your teeth, stow away your pocketbook before the pens rolled out, pick up the bottle before it tipped over and played pinball down the aisle all night. Your journal entry could be finished, you could sit up and read a book like Eddie, you could do some of those stretches for your hips and back. You could cry, you could count sheep for the next four hours and forty-seven minutes, you could cry some more; wet face wiped raw by the stiff sheets, and mouth buried in the unfeeling comforter to muffle the squeak of air leaving your lungs when you couldn’t suppress the emotions lodged in your throat any longer.

You could do many therapeutic things.

Instead, you pressed your knuckle over the center of your lower lip, replicating the pressure, and thought about the fortune.

[foreingersgod]

Can I request a Caitlin Clark x taller Fem Hockey Player Reader who dresses masculine (Reader is extremely clumsy/looks like she has fawn legs when Reader is on normal ground, but when the reader is on the ice she is a force to be reckoned with)

(And the reader has a short and curly ‘burly touching her shoulders’ artist bob hairstyle)

Plot:

-Reader clumsily ran into Caitlin and managed to spill Caitlin’s coffee/hot tea drink on the reader

Reader is embarrassed and just sorta starts rambling out apologizes (I imagine Robin Buckley style rambling) completely ignoring the hot drink that was spilled on her (the readers used to getting injured by her own fawn legs at this point so it doesn’t even faze her)

Reader offers to buy Caitlin a new drink and Caitlin offers to get the taller girl a new shirt

(After that they began dating)

The reader is extremely vocal in her support of Caitlin and the Basketball team when it’s basketball season

So when it’s time for the readers hockey season to begin Caitlin and the team surprise the reader at game in support of reader — but the team is so used to the readers clumsiness that they are shock at how amazing the reader plays on the ice almost like reader is Jack Frost

Maybe at the end Caitlin tells the reader she loves the taller readers clumsiness and finds It endearing how reader is hard core hockey player on the ice and a clumsy goofball on regular ground but no matter either or the reader is always the softness person for her/caitlin

(Sorry This is long I’m kinda sleepy and I can’t find the energy to simplify this 🫤🫠😭😞🥱🥱😪)

— LadyBatSuperKing 🏳️‍🌈🦇🦸‍♂️👑

She’s a force to be reckoned with . CC

pairing: caitlin clark x reader

synopsis: *refer to request

NOT PROOF READ !!

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

the alarm clock on your bedside table wailed throughout your bedroom. waking up for practice at 5:30 in the morning should be a crime. you were in no mood to lace up your skates and throw on your gear at all today, especially this early. despite your body pleading to stay in bed for 5 more minutes, you forced yourself to get up and get ready for the day.

you fumbled around your bathroom, trying to quickly tame your hair and brush your teeth, knocking down numerous toiletries in the process. you whispered a few curses under your breathe as you knocked over your bottle of hair product, half of its contents emptying into the sink.

eventually, and certainly not without clumsily cluttering half of your apartment, you managed to make your way out of the door and on your way to practice.

you tried to enjoy the early hours of the morning as you meandered down the street, dipping into your favorite coffee shop to wash away the 6:00 am drowsiness. it wasn’t busy like it normally was. only a few business men with their eyes glued to their phones and a completely exhausted college student stood around the shop.

glancing at your phone, you realized that you were going to be late if you didn’t hurry up and order so you made haste to order your drink and leave. grabbing your cup from the barista, you swiftly turned around and headed for the door. before you could even wrap your fingers around the handle, a woman, surprisingly just as tall as you were, pushed the door open. the door pushed right into you, the girl running straight into your chest and spilling your coffee all over the front of your clothes.

“fuck” you cursed, feeling the steaming drink seep through your shirt and onto your skin.

“holy shit, i’m so sorry! i didn’t see you there at all i swear to god!” the girl said, cheeks burning up in embarrassment. she ran over to the counter and returned with several napkins, trying to dab up the coffee that was still dripping onto the floor.

“no no you’re…you’re fine it’s not a biggie” you tried to say, not wanting to make a big deal of it all. you could tell she felt horrible about it and you didn’t want to make her feel any worse, even if she did just destroy one of the only shirts that actually fit your tall figure. “this happens all the time! like don’t even-don’t even worry about it it’s totally cool! i should be sorry, i was totally in your way, completely my fault really!”

“what? no! of course it’s a big deal, i just destroyed your shirt dude” completely unfazed by your rambling. her gaze finally met yours and you could now get a clear look of her face. and damn was she smoking hot. not to mention she was tall enough that she didn’t have to strain her neck to see you like everyone else did. “is there…is there anything i can do? i feel like shit, i shouldn’t have rushed through the door like that without paying attention.”

“you’re really fine, don’t worry about it” you gave her a genuine smile.

“can i at least buy you a new shirt? a new drink?” it came out more like a beg than an offer.

“well,” you shrugged “since this was one of my only shirts that fit, i think a replacement would be very generous, thank you”

“definitely, yea no problem” she stuttered out “um, i’m caitlin, sorry we had to meet in such a shitty situation”

you both laughed “i’m YN, nice to meet you caitlin”

and the rest was history, she bought you a new shirt, you bought you both two cups of coffee, and she offered to walk with you the rest of the way to your practice. before parting ways, you exchanged contacts and made plans to hangout later that night. scorching hot coffee spilling on your shirt was probably the best thing that had happened to you in a long time.

˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗

it had been several months since you met cait at the coffee shop, and now you both were happily dating. you originally thought she wanted to be just friends, aware that your clumsiness and tall figure wasn’t typically something that someone looked for in a woman. but she was very adamant that she loved you for you, finding the beauty and originality in your clumsy nature and being incredibly grateful to have a girlfriend that understands what it’s like to have to duck to fit through some doors. to her, you were funny and original and you both had so much in common, she couldn’t fathom a world in which you stayed friends.

your relationship so far has been absolute bliss. hockey season eventually ended as you started getting to know each other, so there was a lot of night spent watching her practice and even more evenings watching her play. you’ll admit, basketball was never your thing, the rink was the only place you were comfortable, but falling in love with caitlin really made you fall in love with the sport too. you were like her ‘personal cheerleader’ she told you, always shouting her name and repping a #22 jersey. the team became your family at this point and you loved nothing more than supporting them from the stadium seats.

the basketball season eventually came to an end and it was truly a privilege to watch your girlfriend blow everyone away. watching her and her team win, take home titles and awards made you explode with joy. but you were even more excited to share the coming hockey season for the first time with caitlin and the rest of the team.

they all knew you to be the klutz in your relationship, so you were anticipating the looks on their faces when they saw you on the ice.

˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗

“alright, baby, we’ll be watching” caitlin said, rubbing your arm through your jersey and padding. she had met you in the hallway, outside the locker room, to wish you luck one more time before your game started.

“i love so much, thanks for being here” you pulled her in for a kiss.

“i wouldn’t miss it for the world”

she made her way back out to where the team was sitting, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before she left. you could see them laugh and smile with each other and it made you so happy that they were all here to support you.

your coach hollered for you from inside the locker room not long after and you quickly hustled back to lace up. after you were completely geared up, stretched, and given a sturdy team pep talk by coach, you were ready to head out onto the rink.

the announcers called out everyone’s names, including yours, and you could practically feel caitlin’s smile from down there. then before you knew it, the whistle was blown and the game started.

it was going incredibly well. you had your stick poised and ready to to move effortlessly across the ice. every one of your movements was deliberate and precise, you felt as though you were gliding on air. when the puck was hurtled toward you, you reacted with lightning reflexes, intercepting it with a graceful flick of your stick.

this was your moment, you thought, time for everyone to see that you weren’t as clumsy on the ice.

you skated down the rink, charging forward to drive the puck into the opponents goal. you were up against girls almost twice your size. and yet, when everyone was sure that you would slip up when the girls came at you, you slid around them with unwavering speed and focus. you were past them in mere seconds, shocking the crowd. finally, you reached the goal and you took your shot, sending it flying right into the net of the goal.

the crowd erupted with applause, hollering your number and screaming for your team. but you were only focused on finding caitlin and the girls. you spotted her almost immediately, locking eyes, and laughing under your breathe when you saw the looks on all of their faces. their eyes were wide and their mouths hanging open with shock, totally dumbfounded by your change in coordination.

after your astounding goal that put your team ahead of your opponents, the game felt like it was over in seconds. your team was incredibly happy that you had won your first game of the season. you all made your way off the rink and into the locker room again, signing posters and shirts as you walked down the tunnel. everyone was changing into their post-game clothes, congratulating one another, and hugging everyone goodbye until tomorrow’s practice.

you hurriedly pulled your gear off and put on your team hoodie and watching sweats, trying to make it out to see caitlin and girls as fast as you could. sure enough, the second you stepped out those doors, they all stood with posters and flowers, excited to shower you and praise and congratulate you on the game.

“you guys are so sweet, thanks for coming!” you beamed, hugging everyone one by one.

“oh of course!” kate smiled at you.

“wouldn’t miss it,” hannah followed “we wouldn’t want to miss those killer moves! who knew you could move like that you klutz” she nudged your shoulder, playfully.

you all laughed with her, making jokes about how your long legs made you almost invincible out on the rink and how they were all worried you’d slip and fall. but you loved that they all cared about you and were proud of what you accomplished tonight.

after the team was finished catching up with you, they retired for the night and headed their separate ways. of course caitlin stayed behind, ready to walk you to her car and head back to her place to further “celebrate”

“you know i love you, and i think you were fantastic tonight, right?” she said from the drivers side of her car.

“of course, why? is everything ok?”

“yea no, no, everything’s fine” she smiled, glancing between you and the road. “i know me and you and the team…we’ll all joke about your clumsiness sometimes, but…i don’t know i just wanted to make sure you knew that i genuinely love that about you”

“cait” you blushed

“seriously, i love everything about you, from your clumsiness and your rambling, to your precision in your games…i love that you’re just as tall as me, if not more, even if you feel insecure about it. i love that your goofy when it’s just me and you. i’m seriously so in love with everything about you, it’s crazy”

“you’re so sweet to me, caitlin, i love you so much” you reached over the console to hold her hand “more than you know” all she did was smile back at you, rubbing her thumb over yours as you sped down the road to her apartment.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

A/N: again, i’m sorry if there are an inaccuracies with the hockey terminology, but i hope you love it nonetheless! i loved this request, thanks so much anon, enjoy! <3

[planetsano]

gojo comforting reader for feeling like a second choice to friends or family?

this bathroom is a cramped and the air is thick with the scent of perfume and cologne, mingling with the faint aroma of alcohol. dim, flickering lights cast eerie shadows across the tiled walls, giving the room an intimate yet slightly ominous atmosphere. the sink is cluttered with half-empty bottles of hand soap and stacks of paper towels, evidence of the constant stream of partygoers seeking refuge in this small space. a mirror hangs above the sink, its surface smudged and streaked from countless hands reaching out to check their appearance throughout the night.

the sound of muffled music and laughter seeps through the closed door, a constant reminder of the festivities happening just beyond the bathroom walls but the couple who had just locked themselves in weren’t having the same fun.

gojo’s expression softens as he watches your troubled demeanor. “i don’t understand why you’re shutting me out,” he says gently, stepping closer. “can you just please talk to me?”

“satoru, I don’t want to do this with you right now.” you sigh, your voice heavy with frustration, as you avoid his gaze, focusing on the tiles beneath your feet.

satoru leans against the bathroom counter, his expression a mixture of concern and exasperation. “why can’t you just tell me why you’re upset? we just got here and you want to leave? everyone’s looking at me like i’m killing the vibe.”

your shoulders tense at his words, brows furrowing as you look up at him with a mean set of daggers. “this is exactly what i’m talking about.. why should it matter what they think when i’m the one in a relationship with you?”

satoru’s features soften as he reaches out to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your face. “you’re right. I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice laced with remorse. “It’s just… I hate when you shut me out.. get far away from me and I can’t see you anymore. You’re always my priority, you know that..”

You let out a sigh, feeling the tension in your body begin to dissipate at his apology. “thank you,” you say softly, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “let’s just try to enjoy the rest of the party, okay?”

“yeah,” satoru agrees, pulling you into a warm embrace and you lean into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your chest, grounding you in the present. he plants a sweet kiss onto your forehead. “I love you.”

send me a concept you’d like to see & i’ll write a blurb for it!

[melon-fodder]

BLOOM • T. Hiragi

Summary: Over time you fill Hiragi’s heart and home with little pieces of yourself.

Word Count: 1.2k

Note: for @seiwas subtle intimacies milestone collab: and there’s something, this feeling. The premise of this is so sweet. I just had to write something. Naturally, it’s extremely self indulgent and self-ship coded.

It’s raining outside by the time Hiragi gets back home, a paper bag in his hand that he’d had to hide under his jacket to keep breakfast from getting soggy.

Inside, he takes off his boots, putting them neatly on the shoe rack next to a pair of your sneakers that you likely kicked off and left. He straightens those too, shaking his head as he lines the heels up with the edge of the rack.

In the kitchen, Hiragi puts the breakfast pastries on a plate before popping them in the microwave for a short time, glancing around at everything he needs to get done today.

The dishes are clean and put up, but the towel is balled up on the counter rather than hanging off the hook like it should be. The fridge is still nicely stocked and organized the way he likes it, though the bottom shelf is home to 3 half-full cups—drinks you haven’t finished that have been cast off to the graveyard prematurely.

Hiragi removes all of them, pouring them out and rinsing the cups. You’ll pout at him later, and then he’ll remind you that 2 of those cups have been sitting untouched for at least 48 hours.

The microwave beeps, but all Hiragi does is turn it off, wants to keep your breakfast warm for when he finally manages to get you out of bed. The cool temperature in the apartment paired with the patter of rain against the windows leads him to believe that you’ll be asleep for at least another hour. At least.

So, he busies himself—folds the blankets on the couch, picks up the pair of fuzzy socks that have gotten trapped between the cushions, fluffs and straightens the ridiculous and regrettably fucking soft Squishmallow in the corner.

When he sneaks into the bedroom, you remain unmoving under the covers, quilt and weighted blanket pulled up to your chin. Your mouth is partially open, soft snores sticking in the back of your throat, and all Hiragi can do is smile as his chest tightens in a now very familiar way.

He stares for just a few moments longer before slipping into the bathroom, turning on the light only after the door is shut. The counter is home to two of everything: two tooth brushes, two types of toothpaste (“the mint is too spicy,” you told him years ago), two sticks of deodorant, two brands of leave-in conditioner.

Hiragi remembers when the space was mostly empty, when he only had a black shower curtain and a matching mat. Back when the caddy only held his body wash and favored shampoo.

Now, it’s full of different types of soap—organic, for sensitive skin, dermatologist approved lavender honey shit that he hates to love as much as he does. You use shampoo that smells like roses and lemon, and sometimes when you’re away Hiragi holds the bottle to his nose and takes a huge whiff in a pathetic attempt to get stoned off of it.

It used to not be like this. He used to not be like this. Hiragi lived the single life for many years—not in the ‘playboy, bring a new girl home every night’ sort of way, but in the ‘appreciates his own time and space’ sort of way.

His apartment was always clean, the only clutter being the corner in which he kept his guitar rack. There were no blankets on his couch, no stacks of books on the coffee table. His Netflix account was curated to him and him alone.

Now there are medical dramas in his Suggestions and Romantasy novels on the table. There are socks and blankets and toed-off shoes. At least one bra is hanging off the bathroom doorknob at any given time, and sitting on top of Hiragi’s very expensive amp among his very expensive guitars is a stuffed bear, its head big enough to hold the headphones he uses to practice.

There are pieces of you everywhere, and he likes it. He fucking loves it, actually. The apartment is so much more lived in, so much fuller with you in it. Since the very first time he brought you here after your first (long overdue) date, you’ve been slowly shedding pieces of yourself, leaving them for Hiragi to find and hold close to his heart.

That date, the one that somehow feels like yesterday and forever ago at the same time, Hiragi had taken you to get coffee and sweets at a little shop Sako had recommended, then had brought you back here where you had perched yourself in his lap as if you belonged there (you did; you’d belonged there since he first saw you). You’d played with the little hairs at the back of his neck, speaking casually and playfully all while Hiragi tried to keep his insides from imploding.

He tasted your kiss for the first time that evening—your mouth on his, warm and plush, tongue still sweet from the vanilla in your drink. You sighed and hummed and giggled as Hiragi grew more eager, your thighs squeezing where you straddled him, and only after the two of you were well and truly breathless did you tell him that you had a great time and couldn’t wait for your next date.

You accidentally forgot your beanie, the first of many of your belongings to find a home in his space.

After that it was a cardigan, a phone charger, panties, a toothbrush—until the relationship hit the serious stage (as you both knew it would) and suddenly your things were arriving in boxes.

Hiragi’s mostly blank walls now have pictures hanging off of them, some artwork, some of them blown up photos of the two of you. There are aesthetically pleasing rugs and throw pillows on the couch. His fridge has goofy magnets on it as well as the occasional love note you leave for him.

You have permeated the space, claimed it for yourself like you claimed his heart, and Hiragi wouldn’t have it any other way.

Now, freshly showered and mostly dry, Hiragi slips on his boxers and pads back into the bedroom where you are still sound asleep.

He should leave you be. You’ll be up in another hour or so, anyway.

But…

You’re warm under the covers, laying curled on your side, perfect for Hiragi as he wraps himself around you.

Your breathing stutters as he pulls you from whatever dreamland you were in, but you don’t seem all that upset, just smack your lips a couple times and mumble a groggy, “hi, baby…”

“Hey,” he responds, nuzzling into your shoulder as he pulls you tighter against his chest.

Your eyes remain shut, voice still thick with sleep when you ask, “you okay?”

“Yeah, m’fine. Just missed you.”

You let out a tiny laugh before clumsily turning to face him. Cracking one eye open, you remind him, “I’m right here,” then relax into him— “right here and still eepy.”

“Then go back to sleep,” he says, bringing a hand to your head to play with your messy hair.

“Plannin’ on it.”

You turn your face just enough to catch his wrist in a gentle kiss, make a delighted little noise when he reciprocates with his lips on the crown of your head.

It doesn’t take long for you to fall back into a light slumber, and Hiragi reflects for a just little bit longer—all the things he did that led him here, to this room with you in his arms—before he follows after you.

Breakfast can wait. He’s exactly where he wants to be in this moment.

[thesandsofelsweyr]

THE SUS BOY NEXT DOOR

《 PART 2/3 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

After coming back from a terrible blind date your asshole neighbor is the last person you want to see right now. He doesn’t have his signature scowl for you tonight, however. Tonight he seems terrified.

《WORDS》 2,748 《CHAPTERS》 1 2 3

《PAIRING》 Arkhamverse Jason Todd x Female Reader

《TROPES》 Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Neighbors, Pre-Relationship

《WARNINGS》 Aftermath of Torture/Violence (canon typical), Panic Attacks, Scars, Blood and Injury, Swearing

《TAGLIST》 @tild3ath @iiirhiane-g

《NOTES》

This takes place immediately after Jason leaves his failed Batman confrontation and run-in with the Joker from Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 6.

Reader is a true crime addict who enjoys red wine 🍷

This is my first attempt at a reader-insert fic 🙃

Please consider reblogging if you enjoy the read ❤️ (Thanks for all the support you've given my lil story so far!)

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)

You push yourself to your feet and hurry over to his kitchen, flipping on the recessed lighting overhead. The kitchen is as bare and spotless as the other rooms you’ve seen, its countertops clear of the usual clutter you’d expect. No rags nor paper towel roll. No knife block nor coffee maker nor toaster—the appliances are the ones that come standard with the unit. No stacks of unopened mail nor candles nor cookbooks nor a sink full of empty dishes. No signs of life except for the adorable houseplant and some liquid hand soap beside the sink (which is good—you need soap).

You pull open drawers and cabinets, feeling a twinge of guilt for invading his privacy like this but it can’t be helped. Even those are mostly empty, only containing the barest amount of necessities like cups, dishes, and flatware—run-of-the-mill kitchen items that were probably provided with the furnished unit. You do manage to find some clean rags and paper towels (and a coffee maker), but nothing like sandwich bags for the ice. On a whim, you check his freezer and bingo! No food or decapitated heads but plenty of ice packs along with an unopened bottle of vodka. You arch an eyebrow at the curious yet amusing stash. Perhaps coming home injured is a typical Friday night for him.

You turn on the sink faucet then tear off a few sheets of paper towels from the roll, wadding them up and wetting them before adding a few pumps of soap then working up a lather. You can’t get the sight of his bleeding face and swollen neck out of your head. It’s hard to imagine anyone doing that to him against his will. He’s an intimidating guy, to say the least. Over a head taller than you, powerfully built with broad shoulders and thick thighs (and a nice ass). Perhaps he got jumped on his walk home—an all too common occurrence on these crime-ridden streets—and his stubborn pride was too wounded to go to the ER. Or maybe it was a gang thing… some sort of hazing ritual? That could explain the bloody letter on his cheek, too, you suppose. But then you remember his shaking hands and fumbling fingers as he tried and failed to unlock his door, and how he jumped at the sound of your voice. He was scared, you realize, your heart swelling with sudden pity. He was more afraid of you than you were of him. Afraid, and probably hurting, too. That thought makes your heart swell even more. It also leaves you a bit shaken. What in God’s name could frighten him? You can only hope that whatever it is doesn’t plan to make a house call anytime soon.

With the items in hand—ice packs, wet and dry rags, soapy paper towel wads, paper towel roll—you return to his side. He still doesn’t appear to have stirred, which is troubling, you have to admit, but you put it out of your mind for now. You set the items down on the floor beside the corpse-like body before grabbing a throw pillow from his couch. (Yes, a throw pillow. There’s a throw blanket on the couch, too. It’s the strongest evidence yet supporting your furnished unit presumption, since he definitely doesn’t strike you as a throw pillow kind of guy.) You kneel down at his side, then, ever so gently, you slip an arm behind his neck and lift his head enough to pull back his hood and slide the pillow beneath him. Next you take off his cap, revealing a mop of sweat-damp black hair. You sweep the soft locks back from his forehead so that you can place a cold rag against that warm, sweat-slick skin.

That’s when you notice the scars. You’d never been close enough to him to see that his face is absolutely covered in them. Faint white lines that cut through his features: his dark brows, his full lips, his freckle-dusted cheeks, the bent bridge of his nose. The worst one (aside from the J on his cheek, that is) is a deep gash that slashes across his right cheek and his nose, all the way up to his forehead. Another knife wound? Is this guy a masochist with a knife fetish or is there some freak out there who gets off on slicing up this poor guy’s face? Those marks on his neck imply the latter—the more sinister of the two—and that sends a cold chill shuddering up your spine.

Almost magnetically your eyes are drawn back past the (cute) cleft in his chin to those sunken bands of red ringing his throat. A thin line of blood has surfaced along the outer edge of one of the bands, where whatever was used to strangle him had cut into his skin. As you wipe away the blood with one of the soapy paper towel wads you spot several scratches on his neck, and for a moment you wonder if the assailant also used his hands to choke him. But then you feel your own throat constrict as the horrible realization sets in: those are claw marks. Gouges from his own fingernails where he desperately struggled to pry the ligature away and free his windpipe so he could breathe. Defensive wounds where he fought for his life.

You set aside the wet wad, then, driven by some morbid curiosity, you find your fingers returning to his throat. Ever so delicately, as if trying not to wake a sleeping lion, you touch one of the raw indentations in his swollen flesh, tracing it with your fingertip, feeling how the abraded skin had folded inward around whatever had coiled around his neck and tried to choke the life out of him. His throat vibrates gently against your probing fingers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. You lay one of the dry rags across his throat, hiding the hideous damage, then place the ice pack on top, as instructed by the health article you Googled. You do the same for the back of his neck as well.

Now you turn your attention back to his scarred, haggard face. After swiping away the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth you press the soapy paper towel to his cheek, which gradually turns from white to pink as it soaks up the blood seeping from the J carved into his flesh. Once you staunch the bleeding, you lift the towel to replace it with a fresh one, and you get an unimpeded view of what was hiding beneath the cut and the blood, beneath his hat and hood all of those times you passed him in the hallway, all of those times he ducked his head between hunched shoulders to avoid eye contact with you. You pull in a sharp breath. It’s not a J-shaped scar; it’s the letter J branded into his cheek. You can tell by how the skin is puckered around the too-precise curve of the raised letter, by its faint red outline, by how it seems to tug uncomfortably at his cheek.

Your mind rewinds to a few weeks back when you accidentally burned your neck with your curling iron. You’d shrieked like a banshee then thrown the damn thing across your bathroom. The blistered patch of seared skin had throbbed for the rest of the night, and was still sensitive to the touch for the following week. That was the result of hot ceramic glancing against your skin for maybe half a second, if that long. You can’t even begin to imagine how much it would’ve hurt to have held the infernal thing against your neck for long enough to melt a fucking letter into the flesh. And not just any flesh. His cheek; that tender skin right below the orbital bone, less than an inch from his eye. It probably felt like his eyeball was boiling in his eye socket from the immense heat. And the smell! His own flesh barbecuing like meat to be served at a cannibal cook-out…

You don’t want to think about it anymore. You can’t think about it anymore or else you’re gonna be sick. And luckily you don’t have to because a low moan slips from his lips and his lashes begin to flutter. A rush of relief floods through you at the small signs of life, and you absently begin to stroke his soft hair with your hand. Heavy eyelids strain to lift then glassy blue eyes are peeking out from between the slits. You smile down at him, your fingers caringly combing through his tousled hair, easing his way back into consciousness. You expect him to groggily ask where he is or what happened to him.

Instead his eyes snap open, and the romantic portrait you’ve painted inside your mind of this moment is ripped to shreds.

He bolts upright, sending rags and ice packs flying away from him, then that massive wall of muscular torso turns on you. Time seems to somehow speed up and slow down simultaneously as those large, dangerous hands of his are reaching for you, and in that terrible instant you know without a doubt that he means to strangle you. A tiny, panic-stricken sound—the choked cry of ensnared prey—comes from your mouth as you throw up your arms across your face and neck in an comically feeble attempt to defend yourself from certain death, and the thought that flashes through your mind—maybe the last thought you’ll ever have in this lifetime—is that you’ll never have the chance to open that bottle of merlot.

But his hands don’t wrap around your throat; they land on your shoulders, and then you’re sliding, falling backwards from the force of a violent shove, your vision flashing to black as your head bounces off the hardwood floor.

“Ow!” you squeal as a bright burst of pain rings through your skull, leaving you stunned for a split second until your fear takes over, clearing away the haze and stars. You push yourself up on your forearm, blood pounding through your ears as your eyes frantically search for your attacker, heart lurching as you find him.

The guy is scrambling backwards away from you on all fours like some frightened beast, slamming into a floor lamp in his haste to escape. The lamp reels drunkenly, throwing light madly around the room as it whirls, like a waving searchlight at a festival. Then he’s pressed into a corner, able to go no further, yet his hands and heels are gripping the floor for purchase, as if he’s trying to push himself into the walls. As the lamp settles, somehow still upright, its light illuminates the hulking figure backed into the corner behind it, and you notice for the first time that the front of his red hoodie is splattered with an even darker red.

You’re sitting up now, frozen like a deer in headlights, your fight or flight reflexes canceling each other out because you’ve realized that you’re the toothless predator, not the prey, and the guy you’re gaping at with his bloodless face and wild eyes is a cornered animal who’ll do anything to survive. Then, to your horror, that cornered animal seems to remember his claws and reaches for the gun that’s not there, and you thank the universe and every holy entity within it that you disarmed him.

His wide eyes narrow as they lock onto you, and the fear that had filled them only a heartbeat ago has vanished, replaced with a look so cold, so devoid of anything but shadows and darkness, that it turns the blood in your veins to ice. 

“Who are you? What’re you doing in my apartment? What the fuck did you do with my gun?” Some of the wildness returns to his eyes as he shouts at you with a scarred voice, wheezing between each sentence. You shrink back, shocked that the guy can speak louder than a mumble, then your attention is caught by something more unnerving than his shouting, something that clutches at your insides. His eyes… The little hairs on the back of your neck stir again as you study those pale blue irises flecked with green, barely visible beneath his blown-out pupils yet still trained on you like a sniper’s laser sights. There’s something wrong with his eyes… But before you can figure it out he roars: “Answer me!” and you can’t help but jump at the hateful ferocity, his deadly strength palpable in his tone.

Your heart’s in your throat again, and your mind is racing out his door, terrified all 200-something pounds of him are about to pounce on you, so you’re surprised when you not only find your words, but shout them back at him, just as vicious.

“Take it easy! I'm your neighbor, remember? You passed out. I was trying to help you. I thought you were fucking dying!”

You see a flicker of recognition flash over his face before a coughing fit takes him. Then it hits you, like a punch to the gut as you watch him clutching at his blood-splattered chest again as he gasps for a breath. His eyes… they’re red where they should be white. All of the binged episodes of Forensic Files come flooding back to you and you even remember the term for it: petechial hemorrhaging. Burst blood vessels from strangulation. His strangulation.

The rush of pity that wells up in your chest at the awful realization calms your fear enough that you crawl a tiny bit closer to him. “You’re hurt,” you say gently, trying to keep your nerves from shaking your voice. “Your neck…”

You trail off as his eyes snap back to you, pupils still blown wide. You try to hold onto his skittish gaze, praying he won’t notice his gun behind you and lunge, but his eyes fall away to the floor. He raises his free hand to his neck, as slowly as if his wrists were chained to the floor, and touches one of the red furrows there. Then his trembling fingers move to his brand, where fresh beads of blood have surfaced. You hear him mutter something so low and tremulous it’s barely audible, but you think it sounded like… “Plan J”?

“I cleaned it with soap and water,” you reply as he stares blankly at his bloody fingertips. “But it’s deep. You may need stitches. I can bring you some Band-Aids,” you pause, feeling really fucking stupid for suggesting Band-Aids for the guy who’s been strangled and cut and branded. You blurt out the rest: “If you need them… for the time being.”

His eyes have glazed over, as if he’s gone somewhere far away. Somewhere terrible, because his rasping breath quickens and his whole body starts to shake, as though he’s reliving something. His attack? His branding? All of the times that monster of a person cut his face? You desperately want to reach for his hand, to pull him back from whatever hell he’s been sucked into, but you’re too scared to wake that cornered wild animal again.

Finally he snaps out of it, and his eyes close as his hand drops limply to the floor. You watch helplessly as the tension drains from his body and he sags forward, like he’s been crushed by whatever was waiting for him in that flashback.

“You should go,” he mumbles to the floor, barely louder than a whisper.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself agree. As you stand you remind yourself that you can finally have that glass of wine, but the notion isn’t as appealing as it was earlier in the night.

You gather up your phone and bag. You start to ask if you can get him anything before you go but you know his answer so you turn to leave. 

“Thank you.” His small voice cracks like a little boy’s when he speaks, and you know he’s started to cry.

“Yeah, sure,” you say softly as you turn the knob and push open his door. You glance over your shoulder at him one last time. The sight of the broken boy—the boy whose name you still don’t know—huddled in a corner with his knees pulled to his chest, weeping into his hands, wrings your heart out like a wet rag, and you feel your own throat tighten up with tears. You hang your head as you shut the door softly behind you.

[ego-meliorem-esse]

TBH your Francis sounds like he sees Matthew more as a pet rather than a child

I think thats the root of the problem. Not really a pet but rather a status symbol. Look at him he has a child who is a personification who looks like a mini version of him that means he is truly influential and an empire bla bla.

I consider love Arthur has for alfred pretty linear. From year 0 when Al is born he is loved fully. He is loved fully by his father (even if showing it would be less likely than cutting his own limbs off with a shovel) during the civil war, he is loved fully during the great war and the war that followed. He is loved fully today.

Matthew and François have a different love. Or rather, François' love is very non linear. I imagine it has spikes, but also periods of drops. When Mathieu is born François is proud. He loves his son but pride is stronger. Is always is for François. He has his own very kitch life, he is not made to be a father. Especially not to an emotional and sensitive lil babe. Mathieu is forgotten often and when he does ask for his needs to be fulilled, when he asks for any kind of attention form his papa, it comes to him with conditions. Yes, you can have new books imported from Paris but I will choose what you read. Yes, you may spend time with me but its going to be at a ball with hundreds of other aristocrats. Pets? Alright, but only the small and weak dogs that show status. It died during the winter? Oh well, that happens.

After a while Mathieu doesnt ask for anything. He yearns and accepts whatever comes his way in regards of a show of affection from the one who made him. If he gets attention its because he did something right, if he is forgotten, its becouse he isnt adequate.

I like to compare Arthurs and François' love by comparing their homes. Arthurs country mansion where Alfred grew up has signs of Alfred everywhere, in every room. You can tell there is a child living in this house. Not only is there a child living in it, you can tell exactly what type of person that child is, what their interests and hobbies are. One look at the bookshelf and you see what fascinates the boy. When you look at the very desk in Arthurs study, its cluttered with neat and precise handwriting with scribbles and doodles right under. The garden with fantastic and grand flowers has small patches of trampled flora at every point. The room where the child resides is always open, always visible from the staircase.

Françpis' home in the heart of Paris is clean. It smells of parfume and repolished wood. His hallway is cluttered with French history. The partlor is tidy except from vibeantly dyed clothing hanging drom the chairs and sofas. There is a half empty bottle of expensive wine on the table next to neatly placed, yet scattered papers. The only noteworthy contents of those papers is the exquisite handwriting that lays upon it. The floor is clean. The sofa is clean. The space is tidy. You can tell a man lives there. A man. Nobody else. If you were to take a peak behind the closed doors of the other rooms you'd find a room with a grand bed with eternaly disheveled blankets and pillows along with pieces of clothing hanging from the edges. Its a used bed. This bed is used by a man. Another peak behind another door at the end of the hallway shows a guest bedroom. A guest bedroom for a child. Some ten books are stacked neatly on the small yet elaborately decorated table next to the bed. A bed with clean and unwrinkled bedding. The colors of the room match to a fault except for the small personal items of the guest child. One could assume the child had no idea what the room they are staying at would look like and whatever it did look like, theyd spend so little time there that in the end it doesnt matter how it looks. The closet is extensively decored with patterns of gold and light blue without a scratch on it. The floor is clean and tidy. It would seem the child forgot to bring any toys while residing here. One wouldnt be at fault for thinking this man has some distant relatives or personal friends with children, and would ocassionaly let them stay at his home.

It's a long conparison but its the best way i can explain myself while sporting a pulsating headache after a long day of classes

So yeah, while I dont think Mathieu is in a position of pet by his father, he is in a position of child who is the result of an one night stand and has to visit his father whenever the court decides and whenever his father decides its convenient.

[veronicaphoenix]

To drown your sadness in a sea song.

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x mermaid!reader Parts: one - two - three - four - five - epilogue Trigger warnings: sexual innuendos, brief mention of sexual intercourse, mentions of blood.

PART FOUR — THE SONG | Words: 2.2k

She doesn’t like clothes. It’s a fact that makes him laugh when he first finds out, seeing her stepping out of his room in his old, shrunken shirt and sweatpants. She looks funny but she also looks clearly uncomfortable. 

“They’re itchy,” she says. “I don’t like it. Can I just wear your white t-shirt?” The one she’s been wearing since he bathed her, the one which is thin and light and oversized. 

“Sure,” he agrees, his eyes still soaking in the sight of her human form. 

“I’m just… not used to wearing clothes,” she adds, her voice low, as if she feels guilty for it. 

“Don’t mind me,” he can’t help replying, his lips curling into a playful grin, “I wouldn’t complain if you chose not to wear any.” 

“You’re cheeky,” she retorts, her smile betraying her feigned annoyance.  

“Just a little” he chuckles. 

With a playful sway of her hips, she tugs down the sweatpants and throws them at him. The last thing she hears it’s his laughter as she closes the door behind her to change.

She didn’t tell him but another reason why she likes that old white t-shirt is because it carries his scent. All his other clothes do, too, but there’s a particular tinge on that one that she really likes, that brings her comfort and a sense of closeness.  

 

Later that evening, while Noah sits cross-legged on the living room carpet with his MacBook open on the coffee table, she embarks on a tiny new adventure. Her mermaid curiosity leads her back to his room, where she’s drawn to the artifacts of his human life. 

In a corner, a guitar stands proudly on its stand. Framed vinyl records are framed and hung on the walls. Leafy vines cascade from the ceiling, lending a touch of nature to the otherwise man-made space. And then, there are books, lined neatly on a shelf. The Lord of the Rings collection catches her eye, and she can’t help but run her fingertips along the weathered spines. 

She decides she will ask him to read to her. She craves the sound of his voice, and she can only imagine how wonderful it would be to hear him weaving tales to her into the night. 

There’s also other books and she wonders if he’s ever read anything about mermaids. It doesn’t matter, really. She’s willing to teach him everything there is to know. 

If only there was enough time… 

Her curiosity doesn’t end there. 

She pulls opens the first drawer of a large white dresser by the bed. It’s a jumble of underwear and socks. She entertains herself trying to find a pair of matching socks, but she finds none. 

In the second drawer, she finds a collection of sweatpants.

“Itchy,” she mutters, quickly closing it in disdain.  

The third and fourth contain an array of clothing—tank tops, pajamas, swimwear— all foreign concepts to her aquatic sensibilities. 

The last one is a chaotic mess, and it feels like opening a treasure that’s been lost at sea centuries ago. Her eyes sparkle as she delves into its colorful contents, feeling a rush of excitement.  

Of course, she has Noah’s permission. She might be a wild creature from the sea, but she’s got manners. She waited for Noah to notice how curious she was about things he had in the house until he told her to explore wherever she wants, for as long as she needs.

She moves aside a clutter of items: empty plastic traveling bottles, an ibuprofen blister, travel plug adaptors, two square silver packages, old cable headphones, and a striped fox seashell the size of her hand. 

Her heart quickens its pace, a rhythm echoing the restless tides of her soul now that she’s away from home. 

She cradles the shell in her hand, feeling its weight, tracing the ridges and valleys with her fingertips. It carries a whisper of the distant shore and the echo of crashing waves. Its surface is weathered by time and tides, but it holds a kaleidoscope of reminiscences anyway.  

It’s barely been twenty-four hours, but she does miss the gentle sway of seaweed forests, the iridescence of coral reefs and the playful dance of sunlight filtering through azure waters. 

She wishes she could show Noah her world. 

So, rising from her kneeling position, she closes the drawer and descends to the ground floor, her steps more confident now as she makes her way to the living room. 

“Found something interesting?” Noah asks, catching sight of her approaching barefoot. 

“The last drawer in that white furniture in the room resembles the depths of the ocean,” she enthuses. He furrows his brow in momentary confusion. Then he remembers all the crap and other things he’s stashed away in that particular drawer. He’s about to feel alarmed when he notices the shell on her hand and he senses the energy radiating from her. 

“Where did you find that?”

“In that same drawer. It doesn’t belong to my region, though,” she informs him, still eyeing the sea treasure in her hand.

“I think a friend gifted it to me from a trip abroad. I’m not sure,” Noah replies, his interest somewhat subdued. He really can’t remember, to be honest. 

Undeterred, she settles beside him, facing him directly. Noah’s attention is drawn to the scales on her knee. He wonders if they cause her any discomfort, given their dry appearance. They look as dry as scabs and he’s about to ask her if they should be worried.  

“Listen,” she says, interrupting his thoughts. 

She places the opening of the shell against his ear. 

He expects the familiar echoes of the sea, but what he receives is beyond it. 

A symphony of sounds unfolds within his mind. Not the typical oceanic murmurs, but a harmonious blend of melody and whispered words.  

It’s a harmony. Each note feels like a brushstroke painting the canvas of his imagination, conjuring up a composition on the lines of the music sheet in his mind. There are whispered words. His soul is stirring. He wants to chase the echoes. 

In that moment, he understands where he failed. As he fell into the grasp of his misery, he failed to see the vastness of the world, how boundless it is. Within its depths lie what he’d been looking for, and he hadn’t been able to see it.

As he listens and tries to retain the melodies, a new element is added to the composition—a voice, ethereal and captivating. 

It’s her voice. 

She’s singing and he cannot hear anything else around him. 

“Don’t stop,” he encourages her while enthralled. 

A few moments after, he reaches for his phone, desperate to capture the magic of her voice. 

Her voice fills the room, a haunting melody that echoes through the corners of the house. He will not dream of anything else ever again. His heart is swelling with a newfound sense of purpose, a clarity that he has long been searching for. 

Even as he sets the shell aside, he can still hear the ocean continue to sing within him, mingling with her voice. It’s a promise. 

The smile she wears as she finished singing is like the last ray of sunshine before the sun sets behind the mountains.  

He’s not the only one elated. She can’t recall the last time she’s heard her own voice, let alone performing with such grace. 

 It takes him a moment to fully grasp the significance of the moment. This is what he’s been waiting for for months. With just a worn seashell by his laptop and a minute-long recording of her voice, he knows that a world of possibilities is right there waiting for his added touch of magic. 

It is music already, but he will make it his. 

When he looks back at her, it strikes him again how any of this is possible. 

“Come here,” he says, his voice restrained with emotion. 

She blinks, her smile falling a little. 

She’s right next to his body but closer isn’t enough for him. He wants her nearer still.  

As soon as she makes attempt to move, his hands are on her waist and he’s lifting her up and settling her onto his lap. She steadies herself against his shoulders, and she can feel the muscles beneath her touch. She holds her breath for a couple of seconds. His brown, beautiful eyes roam her face as if he’s not sure she’s really there. If she’s truly real. 

But she is, and he affirms that reality with the press of his mouth against hers.  

The kiss begins with a slow, tender rhythm, just like their first on the shoreline. But it transforms into something wilder, more urgent when he feels her confidence in her grip, in the way she grabs at his shoulders. The kiss deepens as her head tilts to give him better access. It’s as if she knows exactly what he wants. Her hands move to his neck and soon she’s pulling at his hair, eliciting a low growl from deep within him. 

She wants to hear him growl again. It reminds her of the ocean. 

The ocean, who isn’t gentle; who’s rough and demanding. She wants to feel Noah  just like that.

She pulls at his hair again, aware of what it does to him. She feels proud of herself for learning so quickly.

But amidst the fervor, she forgets one crucial detail: 

She can go a lifetime without air.

Noah can’t. 

And despite how he wouldn’t mind dying in her embrace, in her kiss, she doesn’t want that to happen. 

She pulls away, putting her hands on his chest to push him away as she senses how much he wants to continue. 

“You need to breathe,” she reminds him in a soft whisper. Her cheeks are as flushed as his. 

His grip on her hips starts to loosen. His expression is dazed. She watches as his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. 

“I can breathe you,” he replies. His words are laced with enchantment.

He’s definitely bewitched, she thinks as he attempts to draw her back into his embrace.  

She lets out a tiny laugh and attempts to stand up, only to feel her legs tremble beneath her. With a near stumble, she catches herself just in time, steadying herself with a hand on the table. 

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath. 

The curse breaks Noah out of his trance.  

“Did you just swear?” He asks. 

She meets his gaze with wide eyes, wishing she could take back the slip of her tongue. 

“Yes…?” Her response is self-conscious. She feels somewhat mortified that Noah had to hear such language from her. 

“I didn’t think a creature like you could swear,” he says, a hint of amusement coloring his words.  

Why does he find it funny? She wonders.

She shakes her head in mild embarrassment and straightens up, smoothing down the t-shirt that falls to mid-thigh.  

“I can do more than what you think,” she tells him without paying too much attention to her own words. She’s not trying to be provoking. It’s just a genuine, innocent statement. 

But she quickly notices the effect her words have on him.

“I’m trying to be a gentleman here, you know?” he says, his eyes narrowed and darkening for a second.

She knows exactly what he means, and she blushes. 

The rest of the day is spent in the warmth of the living room floor, with Noah sipping on his coffee while she sticks to juice, finding coffee too bitter for her taste even though it smells comforting, she says. 

Also, juice doesn’t make her puke, which is a relief. 

She still refuses to wear something else beside his t-shirt and underwear, which prompts him to cover her with a blanket when the night starts to envelop them.  

The melodies come easier than they ever have, and every time he manages to get another piece of work done, even if it’s just four seconds, he rewards her with a kiss and a touch of her fingers on her face. She loves the way he tucks her hair behind her ear, how sweet and tender he is. It’s something she’s been wanting to do to him since long, even before they kissed for the first time, but she restrains herself for a little while longer. She will do it very soon, when she’s trapped underneath his naked body on his bed and he’s moving against her, building inside of her the same sensation of a tidal wave that will threaten to devour her.  

Noah is engaged in a phone call downstairs when she locks herself in the bathroom. 

She’s been feeling an unfamiliar discomfort in different areas of her body, and it’s only been intensifying in the past few hours. 

It doesn’t take her long to pinpoint the source: the remnants of scales clinging to her skin. 

Delicately, she traces the ones just beneath her ear. They’re parched, dry. It’s an anomaly, for they’re usually wet and shiny. 

She moves her shoulders, trying to locate more of the pain. Hesitant, she gingerly lowers down the fabric of Noah’s t-shirt, revealing another patch of scales covering a tiny bit of her right shoulder. She reaches out and brushes the area, which is surrounded by a crimson halo. When she touches them, she encounters a dampness which is meant to reassure her. Instead, when she brings the fingers in front of her eyes, instead of ocean water she finds her fingertips tainted with blood.            

This is not her world, not her body… and she knows she’s running out of time. 

'PART FIVE — THE NECKLACE' COMING UP TOMORROW

[gghostwriter]

Entangled Strings of Fate

Chapter 1. Lighting stuck (and was caught in a bottle)

Spencer Reid x FOC

Summary: Caltech, Pasadena - Cleo considers herself a woman of logic. With an IQ of 158 and an eidetic memory, how could she not. But meeting Spencer, the boy genius to hers, had her believing in intangible theories like the invisible string and the fates. Now, if only he would notice the depth of her feelings. Set in Caltech, pre-season 1 and will progress from there. previous chapter || series masterlist || next chapter

“Luck is not chance, it’s toil; fortune’s expensive smile is earned” - Emily Dickinson

The day started off beat when the alarm for her 8am class didn’t ring and it continued to snowball since then. Rushing out the door with a piece of bread in her mouth, her bag strap broke into two. The vending machine around the corner was out of order. She stepped on gum while brisk walking to her next class. And missed the chance to borrow the last book copy of a pre-requisite read for another class. In retrospect, these could all be the fates and time setting the scene. 

“Excuse me, I was told by the librarian you borrowed the last copy of The Origins of Totalitarianism?”

A pair of eyes looked up at Cleo blankly from his cluttered library desk by the window. He looked young, younger than any university boys she’d seen around the campus. Locks pushed behind his ears, he was pleasing to the eyes. If the academic genius was the type and it was true for her. 

Cleo found herself rambling under his scrutiny. “I know I’m not supposed to know who borrowed which book due to personal privacy and the librarian shouldn’t have have told me anything even with my incessant questioning but I really do need the book for a pre-requisite.” 

“Actually yes, you shouldn’t have been given access to library records or been privy to any of those information. But I do have the copy you’re looking for,” he pointed at the mentioned book from underneath a precarious book pile. 

“Is it possible for me to borrow the copy for a while?” 

Silence.

“At least right now? I can read through it quickly and never have it leave your area of premises,” she pleaded, sitting down at the empty chair in front of him. “Please and I’ll never bother you again after that.” 

He quirked his eyebrow up. “It’s a 579 page book. You can finish it in one sitting and not compromise retention?” 

“Well, I do read fast and have an eidetic memory.”

Cleo blushed and averted her gaze. She knew better than to brag about her skills that would get her labelled as a freak of nature but she was past the point of no return. Flashbacks of the high school teasing and gum in her hair incident whirled in her mind. It could have been worse if not for her older sister, Thalia, by her side. A 5’3” terror of a protector specially when Cleo accelerated from 1st year to 3rd year which was her sister’s grade. 

The young boy slid the battered copy to her view point. “I actually don’t need it back right away. It’s more of a light reading.” 

Her eyebrows rose with intrigue. Any run-of-the-mill university student wouldn’t consider this type of book a leisure read. “I’m Cleo, by the way. Cleo Murphy.” 

“Spencer. Spencer Reid.” 

“Well Spencer, I didn’t think anyone would consider Origins of Totalitarianism a great book to pass time with. None of any college boys I’ve encountered, any way.” She started, looking around the various books on the table—from Chemistry, to Philosophy, to fictional classics in its original language. “Which begs the question, are you a genius?”

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I do have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory—like you, and can read 20,000 words per minute,” he rambled on. “Yes, I’m a genius.” 

Cleo couldn’t help but be impressed with his response. It was commonly estimated that one of the greatest theoretical physicist to ever walked the Earth, Albert Einstein, had an IQ of about 160 and here was a modern day genius that beat one of the greats by a mile in numerical value. A proficient reader can read 280-350 words per minute without compromising comprehension and she herself can read 625-950 words per minute, a feat on its own, but here was someone who made that skill seem so ordinary. 

“You’re taking up Political Science as an undergraduate for law school, correct?” His intelligent hazel eyes locking into hers. “And a genius too.”

She smiled. “What made you say that?” 

“Well, you mentioned that this book is a pre-requisite for your class. You also used the term personal privacy, have an idea that library information should not be shared and apologized for it to cover bases. You’ve also hounded the librarian for those details, getting on her nerves similar to how lawyers hound information to get the court hearing outcome that they want,” he paused, tapping his finger on the table like he was in further in thought. “As for the genius commentary, you didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned my IQ. You also mentioned that you read fast, probably not as fast as 20,000 words per minute but faster than the average reader. An eidetic memory and based on your favorite character keychain hanging from your bag it looks to be more popular for a 13-15 year old than a university student so you graduated earlier than average.” 

“Everything was almost right. Except the keychain, it’s not my favorite. It’s my older sister’s,” she looked at the keychain on her bag and chuckled. “I’d like to guess you’re in Caltech for a Ph.D, your interests on reading is too varied to pinpoint what but I’d say you have a BA in Psychology with how you intellectually guessed me.” 

“It’s not an intellectual guess. It’s actually called profiling,” he clarified. “And I graduated with BAs in Psychology and Sociology, recently. Currently acquiring my PhDs in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering concurrently.” 

“So you’re a sophophile?”

“I prefer the term polymath,” he stated as he closed the book in front of him, seemingly wanting to focus on the conversation at hand. “Sophophile isn’t really a proper term is it? I don’t think I’ve encountered it in the dictionary.” 

“It’s more of an urban dictionary term, from the Greek origin of Sophia—wisdom and philac—love.” She explained as the 3pm bell rang. “Well then Spencer Reid, I’d leave you to your readings. Do you want to meet up for coffee tomorrow by Cecile’s at 10am? It’s this hole in the wall coffee spot just around the campus block.”

Spencer opened his mouth, seemingly about to disagree.

“As a thank you for lending me the book, I mean,” she rushed out, stuffing the book inside her bag as she stood. “And I’d like to hear more about your eclectic taste of light reading.”

He smiled, a full grin lighting up his baby face. If she thought he was attractive before, it was nothing compared to when he smiled. He was beautiful. 

Heart threatening to jump out of her chest, Cleo felt the times were trying to mark this moment as significant. A moment now engraved in her own mind. A chance meeting that altered the course of her life here on Earth as she knows it.

“I’d like that.” He replied.

And as it were pre-destined, their red strings of fate intertwined. 

———

Cleo was woman of logic, always hated the unknown and where all the impossibilities may lead. That was what attracted her to law, in the first place. Everything is clean cut, written on a piece of legislation with corresponding violations should there be a breach in right or contract. She Also liked her order and structure, clearly seen adapted to her surroundings. Her small personal collection, brought from her home library, of books organized in a Dewy Decimal System. Her number of shoes beside the entryway arranged by type, color, and height. And her  clothing arranged in the same manner. Her roommate, Raina, once jokingly asked if she had ever gone to the doctor to get diagnosed for OCD. It wasn’t that really, it was more of a result to her rigid upbringing as a member of the upper echelons of society.

Meeting Spencer has thrown her life into chaos. Her bed was made, yes, but various pieces of clothing were haphazardly thrown all around it. She was undecided on what to wear, an inconceivable act from someone like Cleo. Was it too casual to wear her favorite jeans or was it too dressy to wear her green maxi skirt. An IQ of 158 and she was unable to answer such a simple problem. Her phone rang underneath all her clutter, a reminder that she had 15 minutes left before the scheduled coffee meet. 

The walk to Cecile’s was an 8 minute walk, 6 minutes if she walked faster than usual. Which gives her a shy of 7 to 9 minutes to decide what to wear and exit her dormitory. She looked at the clock on her bedside table, 1 minute had passed since then. She sighed and reached for her own type of uniform—low rise jeans, long sleeve top, and her trusty black Converse—and she was out the door with 9 minutes to cover the distance. She disliked being late, no matter the setting, and from what she gathered Spencer was the same. 

Rounding the campus block, she spotted Spencer waiting outside Cecile’s. He had his hair, again, pushed behind his ears—possibly gelled slightly to stay in place. A polo tucked in his khaki pants that are slightly rolled to showcase his mismatched socks, scuffed black Converse, a light cardigan hanging on his wiry arms, and a brown satchel to finish the look. 

“Hey Spencer,” she greeted. Peeking at her wrist watch, she noted that she was right on schedule. A small success.

“Hi,” he greeted back with a his awkward smile and half wave of his hand.

As she stepped into the warm shop after him, she was greeted with the enticing smell of newly baked pastries and ground coffee. It was a Saturday, meaning the average university students were all asleep, hung over from Friday parties and booze. The shop was almost empty, sans one table being occupied by a staff. 

“So, what do you like? My treat,” she asked. No longer needing to look at the menu. This was her spot to decompress and people watch. Her order was always the same. She is ,after all, a woman of order and predictability.

“Just plain black coffee, filled only until a fourth of the cup.”

She thought that was an interesting choice of drink and specifications. She’ll have to ask him to explain that later on. She turned to face the cashier, a teenage boy with apparent bags under his eyes. “Hey Adam, one order of plain black coffee filled until a fourth of the cup and my usual, please.” 

“Hey Cleo, sure thing. My mom just baked a fresh tray of croissants, any interest on those?” He asked while ringing up her orders.

She laughed. “Like you’d need to ask, make it two for here and two to go.” 

“You didn’t have to buy me a croissant too, you know,” Spencer stated as they walked to the table by the window with their orders on hand. “The coffee is enough compensation for lending you the book.”

“I want to,” she insisted, sitting in front of each other. “Plus, the croissants here can rival the ones from Paris.” 

“Okay. But why two to go?” He continued to ramble on. “Scientifically speaking, pastries are best eaten after 20 minutes of cooling. They go through a process called starch retrogradation, with moisture from inside the pastry continuing to migrate outward and evaporate, leaving a moist interior and a nice crispy crust.”

“That may be true but those to-go pastries aren’t for me. They’re for my roommate, Raina, and he,” she pointed to Adam. “Is her boyfriend. Where’d you learn that interesting tidbit?” 

“From a pastry cookbook. I was trying to bake myself some pastries for whenever I need a sugar rush.” 

“You know how to bake? That’s charming,” she blushed. This specimen of a teenage boy couldn’t get any more perfect than he already was. “But I have to ask, why the specifics on your coffee order?” 

Spencer proceeded to scoop 7 spoonful of sugar to his coffee, seemingly showing her the answer to her question. 

With an eyebrow raised, she sipped her order—a flat white. That definitely answered her question. That much sugar added to coffee can have bad effects in the future, such as diabetes, when done regularly but she knew Spencer knew that so it was more a taste type of choice, she concluded as she slid the lent book across the table.

“Thank you again for letting me borrow the book,” she said. “It’s not my choice of light reading, per se, but it was a great read still.” 

“Then what would you consider as light reading then?”

She pondered over the question. With the large repertoire of books she has read ever since she was a kid, the inquiry was hard to answer with just one title. “It would depend on what I’m looking for really, definitely fiction, it is a great form of escape after all. If I’d want to stimulate my brain, I’d go for a mystery novel. If it’s for nights when I can’t fall asleep, The Little Prince in it’s original language always does the trick. And if it’s just to pass time, I’d say I gravitate towards contemporary fiction that tackles societal issues.” 

“You read in French?” He asked, clearly intrigued with the workings of her mind. 

“Oui, my family moved to France when I was a little girl due to business and my mother wanted me to learn French from the locals rather than subject me to non-native teachers. Do you also speak French?” It was also her mother who enrolled her to learn Russian, German, Italian and Spanish but she didn’t need to brag more than she already had.

He took a sip of his coffee and smiled. “I can read and understand French, Russian and Spanish but speaking it is a bit difficult. The accent comes off wrong and I’d like to think it’s because I have a lot of things to say so my pronunciation can’t keep up.” 

“I don’t see how that can stop you from speaking the language. If you’d like, we can talk to each other in French for your pronunciation practice,” she suggested. It was a great excuse to not lose connection with him. The boy who tugs at her heartstrings like no other. “Granted I can also communicate in Russian & Spanish but my accent for those two is a bit wonky at best.” 

Staring deeply into her eyes, she felt vulnerable and hoped that he couldn’t hear her heartbeat threatening to jump out of her chest.

“Oui, j’aimerais bien,” he replied. His accent sounding American still but Cleo thought it was cute nonetheless.

“Parfait,” she breathed out, unable to stop her large grin from spreading. 

[littlecrow-rogue]

Trough the Lens: A Mötley Crüe fanfiction - Chapter One

Hi!

So the other day I made a post aboute writing a Mötley Crüe Nikki Sixx x OC fanfiction.

I did it!

I am bit nerves posting it cause english is not my first language so this was a bit hard, and even tho I asked some help from Google and transolaters to fix my grammer mistakes probobly there are still some mistakes left or wrong usage of words. But I hope it's still enjoyable.

If you read this have fun and let me know if you think and if you'd like a second chapter for it.

XoX - V

Chapter 1: "The Beginning"

The band members of Mötley Crüe sat huddled around a cluttered table in Nikki's flat, the air thick with anticipation and the remnants of their brainstorming session. Empty beer bottles mingled with scattered papers, evidence of their search for the perfect promotional plan and a testament to the chaos of their creative minds.

Tommy tapped his fingers impatiently against the table, his dark eyes darting restlessly around the room in search for inspiration. The weight of their first gig hung heavy in the air, a silent reminder of the task at hand.

Suddenly, Nikki's voice shattered the silence, cutting through the haze of uncertainty that had settled over them.

"Alright, guys, time to get down to business," he declared, his tone commanding attention.

Vince lounged back with a smirk, tossing out a suggestion that earned a mixture of amusement and disdain

"A little spray-painted graffiti on the side of Sunset Boulevard could drum up some serious buzz”

Nikki shook his head with a wry smile.

"As much as I appreciate the guerrilla marketing approach, we need something more polished," he said, running a hand through his tousled hair as he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on his bandmates.

Mick nodded in agreement.

Nikki arched an eyebrow, his gaze locking onto Tommy’s with a curious intensity.

"Do you have any ideas, Tommy?"

A mischievous grin spread across Tommy's face as he leaned back in his chair, confidence radiating from every pore.

"Actually, I do," he declared, capturing the attention of his bandmates.

"My sister, Katie, she's a photographer. She could help us make some flyres with some killer shoots."

The mention of Tommy's sister piqued the band's interest. They had heard stories about Katie Lee, Tommy mentioned her a lot, but none of them had ever met her.

Mick, ever the pragmatist, cut to the heart of the matter with a single question.

"Is she any good?" he asked, his skepticism evident in his gravelly voice.

Tommy's response was immediate.

"She's incredible," he declared, his voice brimming with pride.

"She's been working as a photographer in downtown LA for the past two years, but she has been obsessed with photography since we were kids. Trust me, guys, she's the real deal. "

Vince grinned.

"Well then, what are we waiting for? Let's go pay Katie a visit and see if she can work her magic for us."

As their car glided to a halt in front of SutterLux Studios, the first thing that caught their eyes was the imposing sign, polished to a mirror like perfection, a testament to the studio's prestige as it boldly announced its name to the world. It stood as a beacon of elegance amidst the bustling cityscape, its modern architecture a symphony of clean lines and sleek facades that mesmerized passersbys. Every detail, from the smooth curvature of the walls to the precise symmetry of the windows, spoke of craftsmanship and artistry that left an indelible impression on all who saw it. Surrounding the entrance, a meticulously curated garden, a lush oasis of greenery, provided a tranquility to the building's exterior.

As they stepped out of their car, the band's rock and roll style clashed brilliantly with the polished surroundings. Leather jackets, ripped jeans, and a smattering of tattoos made for a striking contrast against the backdrop of elegance.

Stepping into the studio, they were greeted by a receptionist girl seated at a marble-topped desk, her workspace packed with notepads and notebooks in neat order wich spoke volumes about her attention to detail. With a shy smile playing on her lips, she chirped a warm welcome, while her eyes scaned the group of men before her.

"Welcome to SutterLux! What can I help you?” her voice was light and airy.

Tommy leaned casually against the desk, flashing his trademark grin as he addressed her.

"Hey there, we're here to see Katie Lee. Is she available?" he inquired, his voice laced with confidence.

The receptionist's bashfulness only added to her charm as she inquired about their appointment, her eyes flitting towards the calendar as she searched for any openings.

"I'm her brother, and I just want to talk to her if she's free," Tommy explained with a nonchalant shrug, his charm evident in every word.

Recognition flickerd on the receptionist's face as she realized who Tommy was

"Oh, you're Katie's brother Tommy? She's mentioned you," she remarked, her shy tone melting into a warm, friendly demeanor.

"Let me see if she's available. Please take a seat. I'll be right back."

With a graceful gesture towards the plush black sofas on the other side, she disappeared into the depths of the studio, leaving the band members alone in the lobby. The air crackled with anticipation as Vince, Mick, and Nikki exchanged nervous glances, unsure of what to expect when they finally met Katie Lee.

As the receptionist girl reappeared with Katie by her side, the room seemed to brighten with her presence. Her fiery red hair cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall of flames, framing her face with an aura of vibrant energy. Her eyes twinkled with a mischievous sparkle, and every step she took radiated confidence.

"Tommy!" Katie exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine delight as she enveloped her brother in a tight hug.

"What are you doing here?"

Tommy returned the hug with equal enthusiasm, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

"We came to see you, sis," he replied, pulling back to gaze at her with fondness.

"Who’s we?” she asked couriously as her gaze shifted to the other men standing behind Tommy, her smile widening at the sight of them.

"Nikki, Vince, and Mick," Tommy introduced, gesturing to each member of the band in turn. "Guys, this is my sister, Katie."

The band members exchanged greetings with Katie, their admiration for her evident in their eyes. Her easygoing demeanor and magnetic charm left an impression on each of them, drawing them in with her infectious energy.

"Do you have a little time to spare for us sis?” Tommy asked eagerly.

"I hope so.” Katie replied with a grin.

"Sam, when's my next client scheduled to arrive?" Katie turned to the receptionist girl, who quickly returned to her desk.

Sam scanned the schedule and checked the clock on the wall before responding,

"You've got about an hour and twenty minutes until your next appointment."

Katie nodded thoughtfully.

"Great. In that case, why don't we head over to that coffee shop down the street? We can grab a table and chat," she suggested, turning back to the band with a warm smile.

"Sounds like a plan," Tommy cheered, his excitement matching hers as they left the building.

As Katie and the band strolled down the bustling streets of downtown LA, the city pulsed with an electrifying vitality and amidst the vibrant chaos, they sought refuge at a quaint corner table in a cozy café, where the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee enveloped them like a warm embrace.

After placing their orders, Nikki leaned forward, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Katie.

"So, Katie, Tommy's been singing your praises as a kickass photographer," his voice as smooth as silk. "We're on the hunt for someone with your skills to help us make a splash with our upcoming gig."

Katie nodded, her interest piqued.

"I'm all ears," she replied, leaning back in her chair.

Tommy, unable to contain his excitement, leaned forward eagerly.

"We've headlining at the Starwood Club next month," he announced, a grin spreading across his face. "But we're not just looking to play; we want to rock the joint!"

"And to light up that stage, we need some badass posters, flyers, and all that jazz, something that draws  a lot of people in" Vince chimed in, his voice hyped.

Katie soaked up their vibe, a glint of excitement dancing in her eyes.

"Consider it done" she declared, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"But first could guys maybe show some of your music for me? Just to get a better image of Mötley Crüe.”

The band exchanged looks, a smirk playing on their lips.

"We'll crank up the amps and give you a taste," Tommy promised, a grin spreading across his face.

"You just got a backstage pass to our sonic circus," Nikki added, a playful twinkle in his eye.

"Why don't we invite you to my place? We've got a rehearsal space set up there, so you can experience what we're all about."

Katie's eyes gleamed with excitement.

"That sounds perfect," she exclaimed, a radiant smile gracing her lips.

"Then it's settled," Mick declared with a decisive nod. "We'll make our way to Nikki's place once we're done here."

With the first part of their plan solidified, the band and Katie lingered over their drinks, their conversation flowing with easy.

As the time drew near for Katie's next appointment, the group decided to escort her back to work. Upon the arrival, Katie vanished into the studio to finish her job for the day.

As the band settled into the reception hall, time seemed to stretch out before them, each minute feeling like an eternity as they waited with for Katie's return.

At long last, the door creaked open, and Katie emerged with a satisfied smile playing on her lips.

"Sorry for the wait, guys," Katie apologized, her voice carrying a note of excitement as she joined the band.

"I'm ready to roll now."

With a renewed sense of anticipation, Katie and the band made their way to Nikki's car, the excitement practically crackling in the air around them. As they headed to the Sunset Strip, Katie couldn't suppress the thrill bubbling within her, eager to delve deeper into the realm of rock 'n' roll.

Arriving at Nikki's apartment building, Katie was greeted by a surge of excitement at the thought finally getting to know the band wich her brother was part of.

As Mötley Crüe and Katie entered Nikki's flat, they were greeted by a space that perfectly encapsulated the rock 'n' roll lifestyle. Posters of iconi musicans adorned the walls, while instruments were scattered haphazardly around the room. Amplifiers hummed softly in the background, hinting at the music that was created within these walls.

The furniture was a mix of vintage pieces and modern comforts, giving the space a lived-in yet stylish vibe. A plush couch sat against one wall, its cushions worn from years of use, while a sleek bar area beckoned from the corner, stocked with an impressive array of spirits.

Nikki led the group into the room with a grin, gesturing for them to make themselves at home. "Welcome to my humble abode, where the magic happens" he said, a twinkle in his eye turning to Katie

"Make yourself comfortable."

As Katie and the rest of the band settled in, Nikki made his way to the fridge, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Alright, folks, what'll it be?" he called out, opening the fridge door to reveal an assortment of beverages.

"Beer, wine, whiskey? You name it, I've got it."

The band members exchanged glances, a collective smirk crossing their faces.

"Surprise us, Nikki," Vince replied, a playful edge to his voice.

Nikki chuckled as he retrieved a selection of drinks from the fridge, passing them out to the group with a flourish. As the band settled in with their drinks, Nikki turned to Katie with a grin.

"Are you ready for your private show, Katie?" he asked, his eyes alight with anticipation.

Katie's face broke into a wide smile.

"Absolutely," she replied, excitement coursing through her veins as she leand back comfortably in the couch, drink in hand. With a casual ease, she propped her legs up on the coffee table, fixing her gaze on the band with eager anticipation.

With that the band took their place on the stage, wich was the other side of Nikki’s living room, and launched into their first song. The music was filling the room with its raw energy. Katie's eyes danced with delight as she listened, completely captivated by the electrifying performance unfolding before her.

Song after song, Mötley Crüe poured their hearts and souls into their music, each note resonating with passion and intensity. Katie couldn't help but be swept away by the sheer talent and charisma of the band, her appreciation for their music growing with each passing moment.

As the final chords faded into silence, Tommy and Nikki took their seats on either side of Katie, their faces flushed with exhilaration. Vince and Mick settled into the armchairs surrounding the coffee table, their expressions mirroring the sense of accomplishment that filled the room.

"So, Katie, what did you think?" Nikki asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

Katie's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she took a sip of her drink, considering her response.

"I loved it," she said, her voice filled with genuine admiration.

"Each song had its own unique energy"

With the mood buoyed by Katie's praise, she launched into her ideas for the flyers and posters, drawing inspiration from the music she had just heard.

The band members listened intently, nodding in agreement as Katie outlined her vision for the promotional materials.

"I love it," Vince exclaimed, his eyes shining with enthusiasm.

"It sounds like you really understand our vibe and what we're all about."

Katie smiled, feeling a surge of pride at the band's reaction.

 "I'm glad you think so," she replied.

"I can't wait to get started and see what we can create together."

As the excitement of their collaboration filled the room, Katie and the band members of Mötley Crüe quickly settled on a date for the photoshoot.

"How about Saturday, two days from now?" Katie suggested, her eyes alight with enthusiasm.

The band members exchanged eager nods, they couldn’t wait to see Katie's vision come to life. "Sounds good to us," Nikki replied, a grin spreading across his face.

"We'll make sure we're ready to rock and roll."

With the date set and plans in motion, the group toasted to their upcoming photoshoot, excitement buzzing in the air. As they continued to chat and laugh late into the evening, Katie couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation for the creative journey that lay ahead.

As the evening wore on and the excitement of their collaboration began to wind down, the band members of Mötley Crüe started to make their exit.

Vince, with a mischievous glint in his eye, rose from his seat, his voice laced with playful banter.

"Alright folks, see you on Saturday. I'm off to see my girl" he declared, his announcement met with teasing cheers from the rest of the group.

Shortly there after, Mick followed suit, offering a nod of farewell before vanishing into the nocturnal embrace of the city.

Tommy glanced at his watch, realizing it was time to pick up his new flame.

"I better get going, my date is waiting" he said, flashing a grin at the others.

"New girl?” Katie asked quirosly.

"We will see” he answered with a huge smile still plaster on his face

"But before I head out, Nikki, do you mind taking Katie home?"

 "I'd be happy to make sure she gets home safely." Nikki nodded in agreement, a warm smile on his face.

Katie smiled gratefully

"Thank you, Nikki," she said

"I appreciate it."

With goodbyes exchanged Tommy dissapiered and soon after Nikki and Katie made their way down from the flat to Nikki's car, the cool night air greating them as they stepped out side. They exchanged casual banter as they walked, their laughter echoing off the surrounding buildings.

 "So, Nikki, where did you and my brother crossed paths?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Nikki's gaze drifted to the road ahead, a nostalgic smile gracing his lips as he recounted the story.

"Well, it was after I had a falling out with my former band's singer and decided to quit London," he began, his voice tinged with nostalgia.

"I was feeling pretty lost and unsure of what to do next."

He paused for a moment, lost in thought, before continuing.

"I found myself sitting in a diner, flipping through the ads of musicians looking to join a band," he explained.

"That's when Tommy walked up to me out of the blue."

A smile tugged at the corners of Nikki's lips as he recalled the memory.

"He was this cocky guy with wild hair and an even wilder personality," he said.

 "I remember him saying he had my poster on his bedroom wall” he laughed and Katie started giggeling next to him.

"And then he just seated himself infront of me and started twireling his drum sticks and as they say the rest is histroy”

Katie glanced over at Nikki, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"It's amazing how things just seem to fall into place sometimes," she remarked, her voice filled with admiration.

"It's like the universe has a way of bringing people together when they need it."

Nikki nodded in agreement, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Yeah, it's funny how life works out like that," he replied, his voice tinged with reflection. "Sometimes the most unexpected encounters can change the course of your life in ways you never imagined."

They fell into a comfortable rhythm of conversation, sharing stories and laughter as they made their way through the city streets. Before they knew it, they had arrived at Katie's apartment building, the glow of the streetlights casting a warm halo around them.

As Nikki pulled up to the curb, he turned to Katie with a smile.

"Well, here we are," he said, his tone lighthearted.

"Thanks for the company, Katie. I had a great time tonight."

Katie returned his smile, a sense of warmth and gratitude filling her chest.

"Thank you for the ride, Nikki," she replied, her voice sincere.

With a final wave goodbye, Katie stepped out of the car and watched as Nikki drove off into the night. As she made her way up to her apartment, a sense of contentment washed over her, grateful for the unexpected connection she had formed with Nikki and the band.

[trybeforeyoudeny]

Quick Steddie ficlet! 1.4k

“God dammit!” Eddie jiggles the handle of the shower to no avail. “Gareth! What’s going on with the water?!”

A moment later his roommate pops his head through the doorway and lets out a laugh at Eddie’s frustration. “The landlord had to shut it off, he’ll be back to fix it tomorrow. I took a shower next door and I told him you might stop by after work.”

Eddie’s face scrunches at the thought, the last thing he wanted to do was go shower at a stranger's apartment but after working in the shop all day he doesn’t have much choice.

“Wonderful, thanks man,” Eddie pats him on the back and reluctantly makes his way across the hall.

Knock knock knock

Nothing could have prepared him for the gorgeous man that answers the door. He stands tall, leaning on the door frame with his arms crossed.

“Uh… hi. My roommate said I could use your shower…” he tries not to blush as the man looks him up and down.

He takes this moment to realize how he must look like a mess right now. His hair in a messy bun, he has his work coveralls on with the sleeves wrapped snugly around his waist, and the grease that didn’t get wiped onto his white muscle shirt was covering his hands and smudged on his face.

“I’m sorry, I just came from work,” Eddie adds on as if the handsome stranger would assume this is how he normally looks.

“I can see that,” he chuckles, stepping aside. “Come on in, Eddie right? I’m Steve.”

Steve.

That suits him.

“Yeah, Eddie,” he confirms while stepping across the threshold into the warmth of Steve’s small apartment.

It felt nothing like his own, though the layout was almost identical. His place was cluttered and messy, empty pizza boxes stacked on the counter and the trash can overflowing because he and Gareth always argue over whose turn it is to take it out. It was practically guaranteed that you’d find loose clothes scattered about upon entering, and their decorating choices-or lack thereof- was abysmal.

Meanwhile, Steve’s apartment was bursting with life and everything had its place. Eddie thought this guy must be an interior designer because he felt as if he just entered the pages of a pottery barn catalogue.

“Nice place,” Eddie comments while kicking off his heavy work boots. No way was he going to track muck through this guy's home. As he places his shoes on the rack by the door he can’t help but notice several pairs of women’s shoes and silently groans to himself. Of course he’s got a girlfriend, just look at him!

“Thanks, my uh, roommate decorated it,” he shrugs. “The shower is just down the hall, second last door.”

“Thanks,” Eddie gives him an awkward smile before exiting the situation as quickly as possible and locking the door behind him.

He lets out a slow breath once he’s alone, carefully stripping from his clothes while trying not to touch anything. At his own place, he’s sure there are black smudges on everything from him being reckless after work, but he’ll be damned if he leaves a trace of grease on the fluffy white towels hung up, or the light peach-coloured walls.

Once he makes it safely into the shower he gets to work scrubbing harshly at his skin. He had forgotten to bring a loofah but the rough callouses on his hands seem to be getting the job done just fine. He moves onto his hair- which he once again, forgot the products for.

He peeks at the bottles on the shelf, taken aback by all the expensive products that he would never splurge on. He knew Steve’s hair looked too good for the drugstore products he’d always buy.

Once he steps out of the shower, hair silkier than it has ever been in his life- he wraps a towel around his waist and nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the doorknob jiggling.

“Steve! What have I told you, if you lock the door, I’m gonna find my own way in!” A woman’s voice yells through the door and suddenly the handle turns and the door swings open, a bobby pin still sticking out of the lock.

“Wait, you’re not Steve,” the brunette gasps.

“Robin!” Suddenly Steve appears behind her, wide-eyed with a look of horror on his face. His face drops into something else when his eyes land on his Eddie, something he can’t put his finger on. Is he biting his lip?!

“Damn Stevie, you could have told me you had a date over, I would have stayed at Vickie’s tonight,” she nudges her elbow into his side and wiggles her eyebrows at him.

“I- what? No!” Steve becomes flustered. “Robin, this is our neighbour, Eddie. His water is out so he’s taking a shower here,” he explains, eyes still scanning Eddie up and down.

He can’t help but feel drastically underdressed while standing in nothing but a towel draped around his waist, water droplets dripping from his hair and down his exposed chest.

“Oh,” Robin pouts, “well, you know where he lives so something could still happen-“

“Out!” Steve yells but there’s no harshness in his voice. “Sorry about her, she’s… a lot,” he chuckles.

“No worries, honestly I thought she was your girlfriend so I thought I was about to be tackled,” he jokes.

“Girlfriend? No, definitely not,” Steve’s face scrunches at the idea.

“Good to know,” he smirks, replaying robins words in his head. She had thought he was a date or hookup so clearly, Steve isn’t as straight as he assumed.

“I should uh… give you some privacy,” Steve blushes, suddenly realizing how long he’s been standing in the doorway ogling at his nearly naked guest.

“About that… I forgot my clothes next door.” Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he think to grab a fresh change of clothes before running across the hall? Possibly the same reason he hadn't brought any of his products over- he had the memory of a goldfish and the attention span of a golden retriever.

“Oh- uhhh,” Steve stammers. “You could borrow some of my clothes?” He wants to bang his head against the wall. Offering to run next door to ask Eddie’s roommate for some clothes was the obvious choice, but nope! That clearly couldn't cross Steve’s mind before offering up his own clothes to this tall, gorgeous stranger.

Of course, the upside of this situation being that this will give him an excuse to see him again.

“If you don’t mind,” he replies cautiously, as if to not overstep any boundaries that have already been crossed.

“Course not! I’ll be right back,” Steve gives him an awkward thumbs-up before turning heel and entering his bedroom. He pulls his wardrobe open in a frenzy and begins to look through his colourful attire with dread.

How is he supposed to find a decent outfit to lend his hot mechanic, metalhead neighbour, when his outfits consist of polos and soft sweaters?

“Okay- this is fine,” he mumbled to himself as he searches. “He only has to get across the hall, I’m doing him a favour, he won’t judge!”

Once he pulls down the tamest articles of clothing he can find he brings them back to the bathroom, dropping them off outside the door and giving a soft knock to alert Eddie.

A few moments later Eddie enters the living room wearing Steve’s grey sweatpants and soft baby blue crewneck sweater and his heart skips a beat.

“Looks good on you,” he comments when he sees how uncomfortable he looks.

“Thanks, not really my style but it’s comfy,” Eddie smiles, wide and genuine. “I’ll bring it by tomorrow for you.”

“Sure,” Steve nods, biting the inside of his cheek to gain courage before adding, “maybe we could grab coffee after?”

“It’s a date,” Eddie winks before sneaking out the front door and hurrying inside his own apartment, heart pounding and cheeks hurting from smiling so hard.

“Hey man, did it go okay? Steve seems cool, we should invite him and his roommate over sometime,” Gareth looks him up and down, chuckling when he seems Eddie’s outfit. “New look?”

“Shut up!” Eddie groans. “But yes, we’ll definitely be seeing more of him,” he pulls his still wet hair in front of his face to hide his love sick grin.

[lambden]

#25: "What have you done now?" for the ship of your choice?

2.7K words, T, geraskier! warnings include alcohol overconsumption & references to Jaskier's alcoholism. set post-s2 thank you so much to @spilledbutter for looking over this for me! <3

Long after all the other residents of Kaer Morhen have gone to bed, soft hands come to touch Geralt’s shoulders, stirring him from his unrestful sleep. He jolts upright, sitting straight in his chair; the grip on his shoulders does not slip. Soft, strong hands then. He closes his tired eyes as the laboratory around them sways. When he speaks, the rumble rises from deep in his chest: “Yen?”

A broken off laugh, and not the voice he was expecting. “No. Not Yen, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt corrects. The last thing he remembers is bidding goodnight to his brothers as they stumbled off to their rooms, conspiring to pull some awful prank on Coën. Geralt should probably get up to warn the poor Griffin about whatever Lambert and Eskel intend to do. 

Then again, the damage has already been done. His eyelids flutter shut once more, and he slides back forward, seeking the comfort of the solid table as a balm for his aching temple.

Jaskier, who Geralt honestly forgot was in the room, holds him up. Very strong hands. Geralt exhales, and with his trembling breath and tired throat, the noise comes out as a whimper. He reclines into Jaskier’s arms, who receives him with surprising stability and even brushes the sweaty hair from his forehead. “Darling,” croons the bard.

Geralt’s breath slows, caught in the tide of Jaskier’s expanding lungs and chest but buoyed by his thick arms. The bench underneath him could crumble to sand, and Geralt thinks Jaskier could still hold him here. The strength is even more impressive given that Geralt is practically dead weight right now.

Each word is a soft puff of air tickling the back of Geralt’s pink ears as Jaskier continues, slow and quiet and for once not amused at all, “What have you done now?”

Good question. Geralt, suddenly panicked that he’s been caught falling asleep in a puddle of his own sick, opens his eyes— but the laboratory table is thankfully only cluttered with the souvenirs from his night. Emptied bottles stacked against each other and long-forgotten cups tower over small plates of pits and crusts. The real culprit, Eskel, has already fled the scene, but he left behind the remnants of his poison in a few of the bottles. Geralt can’t even remember where he said he’d found the damned stuff, let alone what type of liquor it was. But he had warned them of its potency, and Geralt and Lambert, determined men of science that they were, had been desperate to test out the claim.

He struggles to piece together a good answer for Jaskier. Even though the bard has stunk like a tavern since they first ran into each other again, Geralt still feels embarrassed as he decides how to explain his night. Maybe if he tells him they were mourning, Jaskier will have more sympathy; except they weren’t drinking away their grief, not specifically. Witchers are always mourning, of course, but… it had been a good night. Right up until he passed out alone and stone cold drunk in the cold stone basement.

Geralt supposes he should be lucky it was Jaskier and not Ciri who found him, or Yennefer; he’s sure the sorceress would have some choice words for him. Jaskier should have some choice words for him. A few decades ago, if Geralt had brought the bard to Kaer Morhen and had a party without him, Jaskier would have given him hell for the lack of an invitation. But now he doesn’t complain even a little, just gently working his fingers through Geralt’s hair.

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” The words spill out before Geralt can catch them and cork them. He twists in his old friend’s grip, suddenly desperate to steal a glimpse of Jaskier’s expression, and in the process his elbow knocks a bottle off the table. It bounces away without shattering but the sound is enough to make both witcher and bard jump, and Jaskier’s strong, soft hands release Geralt.

A little pink— his heart is racing, Geralt’s witcher senses supply— and wide-eyed, Jaskier says, “What?”

“Why are you down here,” Geralt mutters, unwilling to repeat himself. It was a stupid question anyway; Jaskier is mad at him. The bard hasn’t said as much, not since Geralt picked him up from his jail cell. But even though witchers have a famed ineptitude for emotions, it would take the obliviousness of a rock troll to see past Jaskier’s anger. His fury, and heartbreak, are woven into him— stitched into his ruddy skin, his messy hair, his vulnerable eyes, the frippery he drapes himself in to look tougher. His fury is in his scent, how he stinks of booze and… What was it? Heartbreak and heroics? Destiny?

Those vulnerable eyes search Geralt’s for something now, and when Jaskier doesn’t find whatever it is he’s looking for, he blinks and sniffs and clears his throat all at once. “I know there aren’t any windows down here, but up in the world of the living,” the bard informs him, sounding more like his haughty usual self, “dawn has almost broken. You’re usually training at this point— I knew you and the other witchers stayed up late, but I didn’t know you had drank yourself to sleep right on the table. I mean, when I came down here, I thought something had gone horrendously wrong.”

“Something did go horrendously wrong,” Geralt jokes, deadpan. “I drank too much.”

“Yes.” Another sniff. “I think they can smell that from Novigrad. But, I’ve seen you drink an entire bar by yourself before.”

“That was human alcohol,” he clarifies. “This was not.”

“Ah.” Jaskier gives the bottle rolling away on the floor a more considering glance, then stoops to pick it up. Geralt has seen Jaskier sample more dangerous substances but not many, so instinct takes over. He rounds his knees over the bench to spin around properly in his seat, and then rises to stalk over to the bard and— well, he only means to take the bottle and set it down on the table again. But as he misjudges the distance between them, he ends up slamming into Jaskier and knocking him back a few steps.

This time, the bottle does shatter, and Jaskier shouts. “What the fuck! What is— listen, Geralt, just because you’re experiencing a proper hangover for the first time doesn’t mean you get to fucking— whatever the hell you think it is you’re doing!” His hands fly up to grab Geralt by the collar of his shirt, shaking him as best he can. The motion doesn’t sway Geralt as much as the loud sound does; he holds firmly onto Jaskier’s shoulders, trying to regain control of his breathing. “And if you want to know why I’m not mad at you, well, I’ve got a lovely surprise for you, you absolute prick, because I am, in fact, furious—”

“Then why come down here,” Geralt interrupts roughly, sounding as ragged as he feels. “Why keep tabs on me if I’m such a—”

“Keep tabs on you!” Jaskier chokes, incredulous. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck what you do—”

“You watch me train every morning,” he growls. Jaskier’s angry mouth clamps shut at that, and the rush of colour floods his face once more. “Even if I couldn’t see you watching, you just said about as much. Why?”

“Maybe I like seeing you tire yourself out!” There’s that anger, solid as a mountain. Geralt rests against it, almost comforted by Jaskier’s rage even as the man continues. “Maybe it pairs well with my morning tea; such a lovely sight, my boorish, sweaty witcher throwing himself against a training dummy for hours and hours as the sun rises instead of talking out your deep grief and trauma with, oh, hmm, I don’t know, fucking anyone? A friend? Your family? Your sorceress lover?”

“We talked about feelings last night,” Geralt protests.

Jaskier huffs, dropping his grip on Geralt’s shirt. Each angry sentence had been accentuated by him brandishing his fists as if to shake Geralt, like an angry child— in the absence of his tightly curled fingers, there are long lines that will undoubtedly stretch out the shirt. Geralt doesn’t care. Cold as ice, the bard hisses, “Did you now?”

“Oh yes.” Vaguely, at least.

“And how did that go?”

His memories are too vivid for the amount of liquor he consumed. Only a few hours ago, this room felt much smaller. Happier, despite the blips of enormous grief— how had their discussion about feelings gone? He remembers Lambert pretending not to fight back angry tears, hiding his twitching scowl behind his mug after they all fell silent at the mention of an old quirk Diever used to have.

Geralt, in lieu of a good answer, releases Jaskier’s shoulders so as to indicate the broken glass shards littering the floor between them. And, bizarrely, this works. Jaskier’s face falls, and he laughs uncomfortably. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. You’re drunk, and I’m being a prick.”

Instead of insisting that if he was still drunk he would feel better, Geralt steps over the bottle and presses a hand to Jaskier’s shoulder again. “No… you came to check on me,” he reminds the man gently. “Even though you’re furious. No one else has even noticed I didn’t make it to bed last night.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Jaskier mutters. This time he doesn’t shake Geralt, nor does he shake him off. He simply tolerates the witcher entering his personal space, just like how Geralt used to put up with the young bard’s apparent and obnoxious omnipresence. He doesn’t even avert his gaze, staring blatantly instead. “If I really was Yen, I’d be disappointed. You look like shit.”

“You used to bathe me,” Geralt blurts out, emboldened by the closeness and the hangover. Jaskier gapes, but he continues, a boat cut loose from its anchor, drifting further beyond the forgivable pale. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ve lived for more than a hundred years, but… I’ll never forget.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, heavily and warningly and desperately.

“You— you could do it again now,” he stammers. His hand rises from the man’s shoulder to the side of his throat; he lines his pointer fingers up under Jaskier’s jaw and feels the bard breathe. Pulse to pulse, the years are easier to forget. “I’d let you. You haven’t changed so much, you know— new coat, new hair… and you reek of wine now, but—”

“Wow—”

“But, your eyes are the same blue as ever.” Geralt traces the curve of Jaskier’s cheekbone, humming. “Vitriol blue.”

“If you’re trying to sound like a poet, comparing my eyes to sulphuric acid is a shitty start.” The protests are less effective thanks to how Jaskier’s voice trembles. He lifts his hand but only to place it over Geralt’s, palm soothing his knuckles. Geralt sways into him, and once more a strong arm circles around his back, keeping him steady. “If you remember this when you’re sober, you’re never going to speak to me again.”

“I’m painfully sober,” promises Geralt, lowering his tone to impress the severity of his sobriety upon Jaskier. “My stomach is killing me. I want to sleep for two days straight, then wake up to a barrel of coffee and a gigantic breakfast, and then I want to poison Eskel for doing this to me.” And Lambert too, for good measure. “But first, I want you to bathe with me.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier shakes his head as his steel grip tightens around the witcher to support him. But despite his stern expression and posture, his voice is soft and affectionate as ever. The laboratory has never seemed smaller. Geralt strokes the bard’s cheek again. “Fuck. Listen to me, my stupid darling witcher. If I take you down to the springs right now, you’re likely to drown and I’m nowhere near strong enough to pull you to safety. Sleeping for two days sounds better, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t you like to go to bed?”

Instead of pointing out that Jaskier is obviously strong enough to lift him as he’s holding him up right now, he finally relents. “Yes.” The human’s shoulders sink in relief until Geralt pleads, “Take me to bed, Jaskier.”

Jaskier laughs, tense and sharp, and pulls away before Geralt can try to persuade him anymore.

-

Every blow of his steel sword against the rotating iron dummy is a new pin-prick against Geralt’s already fragile skull. He keeps at it anyway, only showing himself mercy by striking at a less vicious rhythm than he might on other mornings. And while he usually doesn’t have to worry about the sun, the early afternoon is almost blinding.

As poor as he feels, he’s in much better shape than last night. The exact logistics of how he made it to bed and undressed have escaped him; he only knows that Jaskier had somehow managed to carry his drunk ass all the way back to his room. Geralt twists to glance up at the high walls of the Keep, his gaze searching for the window to the bard’s room. The little songbird watches him train every morning, just as Geralt had cruelly pointed out last night. Maybe it pairs well with my morning tea.

It’s no longer the morning. The familiar silhouette of his friend is nowhere to be found now.

Geralt strikes the dummy again, stomach roiling— not from his bad hangover, but from bitter, inescapable embarrassment. Over the decades they have fallen into certain roles together. Usually, Jaskier is the one who can’t handle his alcohol, who imbibes too much and makes it the witcher’s problem. Usually Jaskier is the one teetering on the slippery precipice of inebriation, begging Geralt to stay up and chat with him, loudly singing of the night’s exploits, and constantly proclaiming to his captive audience of one how very not drunk he is.

But in all their years of friendship, Jaskier has never behaved like that. Sure, he’s broken bottles, and stumbled up to Geralt stinking of sweat and sin and far worse things than liquor. But he has never pressed himself up against the witcher’s body, never begged to be held or gripped him tightly or traced the outline of his face. Never has Jaskier asked Geralt to bathe him; let alone to bathe with him.

Geralt swings too hard. His shoulder twinges; he beheads the iron dummy. Its vague head-shaped appendage clatters to the ground and the loud noise echoes around the stone courtyard.

Still, Jaskier does not peek out of his window.

Geralt sheathes his steel and stomps back inside, livid with himself. He pushes open the doors to the main hall and strips off the top half of his sweaty armour as he does. When he succeeds in removing his shirt and throwing it to the ground, he sees the very man who’s been on his mind all day standing before him.

If Jaskier is put off by the ugly scowl marring Geralt’s features or by his heaving, bare, oily chest, he doesn’t let it slip. In each of his hands is a clay mug of steaming water; he proffers one now and Geralt accepts it gently, cowed by the kindness. It isn’t in fact water but hot black tea.

In all those times that Jaskier came to him for aid, drunk as a Skelligan or hungover enough to curse the gods themselves, Geralt doesn’t think he ever went to the trouble of brewing the bard tea. He raises the mug to his lips without question; it’s delicious, and instantly calms his aching head. This makes him feel even guiltier. “Thanks,” mutters the witcher.

Jaskier’s eyes flash, but he keeps his musings to himself for once. There is a slightly clipped, nervous edge to his tone as he chirps, “Feeling better?” 

Perhaps he’s expecting Geralt to lunge forward and drop the mug between them and embrace him again. Geralt, mortified, will do no such thing. He answers honestly and bluntly, “No.”

Jaskier should slap him for his impudence or chew him out for his ungratefulness. He just smiles, nervously shifting between his feet, and then finally paces over to retrieve a previously unnoticed basket from a nearby table. Inside lay some small vials of oil and cleanly folded towels. Geralt’s heart melts, and Jaskier, still smiling anxiously, says, “Well, I’ve got just the thing.”

[vmygdvlv]

After Hours: echoes of a night !

Genre: angst. series / part.i

Pairing: valerio x riccardo + (some Edoardo & Cesare in the mix) italian boys!au

Summary: valerio finds himself drawn into the world of his older university peers, eager to fit in and prove himself. when they invite him out for a night of drinking and revelry, valerio is excited but anxious, knowing that the crowd he’s with is more experienced and reckless.

Warnings: emotional distress, substance abuse, peer pressure, aggressive behavior

The tension in the small apartment was palpable. Valerio’s place, typically a haven of calm and order, had transformed into a raucous gathering spot. The cluttered living room was a stark contrast to its usual neatness, with snacks and half-empty glasses strewn across the floor. The sound of loud laughter and clinking bottles filled the space as Valerio’s older peers took over.

Luca, a tall figure with an air of effortless charm, was holding court. “Tonight’s going to be epic,” he declared, his voice carrying an edge of bravado. “And let’s not forget, it’s Andrea’s birthday. We’re going all out!”

Andrea, the birthday boy, grinned broadly, raising a nearly full glass in a toast. “Cheers to another year of living it up!” He downed his drink with exaggerated gusto, prompting cheers from the group. Valerio, caught between the excitement of the night and the unease of his disheveled home, tried to keep up the facade of confidence. His attempts to join in the conversation felt hollow, a stark contrast to the wild energy of his friends. He moved around, picking up after them, though his gestures were more resigned than enthusiastic.

“Hey, Valerio, don’t sweat it,” Marta said with a teasing lilt in her voice. She was perched on the arm of the sofa, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “It’s a party, not a library.”

Valerio managed a tight smile. “Yeah, I guess. Just trying to keep things from getting too crazy.”

Marta’s laughter was cut short by Luca’s booming voice. “Come on, let loose! We’re celebrating Andrea’s big day, remember?”

The apartment, once a serene sanctuary, now echoed with the sounds of unchecked revelry. Bottles clattered as they were opened and closed, music blared from a portable speaker, and the group’s loud conversation reverberated off the walls. Valerio’s initial excitement was overshadowed by a growing sense of anxiety. He was keenly aware of every misplaced item and every spilled drink, the mess a stark contrast to his usual orderliness.

A loud crash from the kitchen interrupted Valerio’s thoughts. He hurried over to find that someone had knocked a stack of plates onto the floor. The pieces were scattered, and the wine that had been spilled mixed with shards of porcelain. Andrea and Luca were in the middle of it, laughing as they tried to clear the mess with little regard for the damage.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Andrea said dismissively, stepping over the broken plates. “It’s just a bit of fun.” Valerio’s frustration bubbled up, but he forced himself to keep calm. “Can we try to keep it down a bit? It’s a lot to clean up.”

“Relax,” Luca replied with a dismissive wave. “We’re just having a good time. It’s not the end of the world.”

As the evening progressed, the energy in the room was infectious. The group’s laughter and animated chatter filled the space, creating a sense of camaraderie that Valerio tried to embrace. He put on a brave face, masking his anxiety with a veneer of excitement. He was eager to make a good impression and prove himself to his friends, even if it meant pushing his limits. In the midst of the preparations, Valerio’s phone buzzed with a message from Riccardo. It was a simple, straightforward text: “How’s everything going? Remember to be careful tonight.”

Valerio’s stomach tightened slightly. Riccardo, though well-meaning, had always been a bit overprotective. He was like an older brother, and while Valerio appreciated the concern, he didn’t want to appear as though he couldn’t handle himself. He quickly typed a reply, trying to keep it casual. He texted back: “Everything’s great! Just getting ready for a fun night out. I’ll be fine.” Valerio sighed and tucked his phone into his pocket, deciding to leave it behind for the night. He was determined to embrace the freedom of the evening, even if it meant temporarily disconnecting from his usual support system.

As the group finished getting ready, Valerio’s mind wandered back to Riccardo’s text. He knew his friend was just looking out for him, but the thought of him hovering in the background added an extra layer of pressure. He wanted to prove that he could navigate the nightlife on his own, without anyone’s interference.

“Alright, everyone, let’s get going!” Luca shouted over the din. “Time to hit the pub and keep this party rolling!”

The clock ticked closer to midnight, and the group decided it was time to head out. They gathered their things, with Valerio feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension. His friends were chatting animatedly, and he tried to match their enthusiasm, though he could not completely shake the feeling of unease that lingered beneath the surface.

Before leaving, he glanced at his phone one last time. There was another message from Riccardo, this one more concerned. “Just checking in. Remember, I’m only a call away if you need anything.” He sighed and tucked his phone into his pocket, deciding to leave it behind for the night. He was determined to embrace the freedom of the evening, even if it meant temporarily disconnecting from his usual support system.

As the group spilled out into the chilly night air, their laughter echoing down the street, he took a deep breath, trying to shake off his lingering doubts. Tonight was about enjoying himself and proving he could hold his own. He pushed aside any lingering anxiety, focusing on the camaraderie and the promise of an exciting night ahead. Little did he know that the night would unravel in ways he hadn’t anticipated, setting off a series of events that would test his limits and the strength of his friendships. But for now, as they made their way to the pub, he was determined to enjoy the moment and make the most of the evening.

Across the table, his friends laughed loudly, already deep into their drinks. The bar was dimly lit, filled with the low hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses. Luca nudged him with an elbow.

“Vale, why so quiet? You’re not bailing on us, are you?”Valerio forced a grin, raising his glass. “Nah, just… trying to keep up with you guys,” he said, the alcohol making his words slur slightly.

Marta leaned in closer, her voice dripping with mock concern. “You sure? You look like you’ve had enough already.”

“Hey, let the kid drink!” Andrea, shouted, laughing. “He’s gotta learn sometime.”

Valerio’s phone buzzed, but he quickly shoved it deeper into his pocket, ignoring the concerned glances from his friends. He didn’t need anyone’s interference tonight. But deep down, a knot of anxiety twisted in his stomach, once he tried to drown with another gulp of beer. His vision blurred even further. He laughed along with the others, but it felt hollow, forced. He was barely holding it together.

Marta noticed, her smile turning a bit sharper. “You sure you can handle this? You’re looking a little worse for wear.”

He nodded too quickly, the motion making his head spin. “I’m fine, really. Just need to… sit for a minute.”

Andrea exchanged a glance with Marta, smirking. “Maybe he’s more lightweight than we thought. Should’ve stuck to soda, kid.” The teasing hit harder than it should have, and Valerio’s pride flared. “I’m not a kid,” he snapped, trying to steady himself. “I can handle it.”

Marta raised an eyebrow. “Prove it, then. One more shot?”

He hesitated, but the challenge was too much to back down from. He reached for the shot glass Marta slid over, trying to ignore the way his hand shook. Just as he brought it to his lips, his phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text.

Riccardo. Again. “Vale, answer your damn phone. I’m worried. Call me back.” He glanced at the message, a pang of guilt momentarily cutting through the haze. But he shoved it aside, downing the shot in one go. The liquid burned on the way down, and he nearly gagged, but forced himself to swallow. His friends cheered, but the victory felt hollow. Everything felt hollow.

A while later, he stumbled outside for air, the cool night hitting him hard. His head was spinning as he stumbled out of the club, the thumping bass still reverberating in his ears. The cool night air hit him like a slap, but it did little to clear the fog in his mind. He fumbled with his phone, blinking hard to focus on the screen. His vision blurred as he tried to dial Riccardo’s number. His hand shook, partly from the cold, but mostly from the alcohol coursing through his veins. His mind was a chaotic mess of regret and anger. He hadn’t wanted to call Riccardo—he knew how furious his older friend would be—but he didn’t see any other option.

The night had started innocently enough. A few drinks, some laughs with the older guys from his sound engineering program, an attempt to fit in. He had been eager to prove he wasn’t just the young, inexperienced student they all saw him as. But things had quickly spiraled out of control. The older students, with their easy confidence and their years of experience, had pushed him further than he was ready to go. Drinks kept coming, faster than he could manage, and before he knew it, Valerio was far past his limit.

Riccardo paced back and forth in his living room, the clock on the wall ticking relentlessly. It was past two in the morning and he hadn’t heard from Valerio since earlier that evening. The last text had been short, almost dismissive: “Heading out with some friends. Don’t wait up.” It wasn’t like him to be so vague. Usually, he was upfront about his plans, especially when it came to going out late. But something about tonight had felt off, and his instincts were screaming that something was wrong.

He grabbed his phone and opened the call log. The sight of his unanswered calls and unread texts only fueled his growing frustration. He’d tried to give Valerio space, tried to respect that he was an adult now, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Valerio was in over his head. These older guys from university—they weren’t the kind of people he trusted. They were the type who saw Valerio as an easy mark, someone they could mold into their own image. He dialed Valerio’s number again, but it went straight to voicemail. He swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Vale, where the hell are you?”

He tossed his phone on the couch and sat down, trying to think rationally. He knew he couldn’t just storm in and drag Valerio home like a child. But the thought of him out there, possibly drunk and surrounded by people who didn’t have his best interests at heart, gnawed at him. He had seen this kind of thing before—he’d watched friends fall into bad crowds, make bad decisions, and end up paying the price. And he’d be damned if he was going to let Valerio end up the same way.

Now, standing outside the club, feeling the world tilt dangerously, Valerio cursed under his breath. He had ignored his friend’s calls earlier, too caught up in the thrill of the night to care. But now, as he swayed on the sidewalk, the weight of his mistake pressed down on him. He knew Riccardo had warned him about this group, had told him to be careful. But he hadn’t listened. He wanted to prove himself, to show he could handle it. Instead, he had ended up here—drunk, alone, and desperate.

The phone rang in his hand, and after what felt like an eternity, Riccardo picked up. His voice was sharp, tinged with a mix of relief and anger. “Where the hell are you?”

He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “I… I’m outside the club. Need… need you to pick me up.”

There was a brief silence on the other end, and Valerio could almost picture Riccardo’s expression—tight-lipped, eyes narrowed in frustration. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Riccardo finally said, his tone dangerously calm. “I’ve been calling you for hours. Hours. And now you decide to answer?”

“I… I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his words slurring together. “Didn’t… didn’t see the calls.”

Riccardo let out a harsh laugh, the sound devoid of humor. “You didn’t see them? Or you ignored them? Because I’m pretty sure you were too busy getting trashed with those so-called friends of yours.”

Valerio winced at the accusation, shame prickling at the back of his neck. He knew his friend was right, but admitting it felt like swallowing glass. “I wasn’t… I just—”

“Save it,” Riccardo cut him off, his voice hardening. “Just tell me where you are.”

Valerio gave him the address, his stomach churning with a mix of guilt and nausea. He heard Riccardo mutter something under his breath before the line went dead. The abruptness of the hang-up left him standing in the cold, the silence pressing down on him. He shoved the phone back into his pocket, feeling more alone than ever. Minutes passed like hours, the cold seeping into the bones as he waited. He tried to ignore the looks from passersby, their judgmental glances only heightening his sense of humiliation. He knew he had messed up—badly. And now he would have to face Riccardo’s wrath. When he car finally pulled up, his heart sank. He could see the tension in Riccardo’s posture even before he got out of the car. The older man’s face was a mask of controlled anger as he approached, his eyes locking onto him with a look that could burn through steel.

“Get in the car,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Valerio didn’t argue. He could feel Riccardo’s fury simmering beneath the surface, and the last thing he wanted was to set it off. He slid into the passenger seat, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. The door slammed shut beside him, and the sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet street. Riccardo got in behind the wheel, his hands gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence thick with tension. Valerio could feel the anger radiating off Riccardo, a palpable force that made the air in the car feel stifling.

Finally, Riccardo broke the silence, his voice cold and sharp. “What the hell were you thinking? Going out with those guys, getting drunk off your ass… What were you trying to prove?”

Valerio stared at his hands, his shame battling with the lingering buzz of alcohol. “They said it would be fun.”

“Fun?” Riccardo spat the word like it was poison. “Does this look like fun to you? Being so drunk you can barely stand? Having to call me to bail you out?”

“I didn’t want to call you!” Valerio snapped, his frustration boiling over. “I knew you’d react like this!”

Riccardo’s eyes flashed with anger. “React like what? Like someone who gives a damn about you? Because, believe me, I’m the only one who does! Those friends of yours left you out here to rot. They didn’t care what happened to you, and you’re too damn blind to see it!”

Valerio clenched his fists, the words cutting deep. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, but he knew Riccardo was right. The truth was hard to swallow, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. “I’m not a kid. I can make my own decisions.”

“Yeah? Well, you made a hell of a decision tonight, didn’t you?” Riccardo’s voice was laced with sarcasm, his anger barely contained. “You think you’re proving something by getting wasted with people who don’t give a damn about you? You’re only proving how easy you are to manipulate.”

Valerio’s chest tightened, the words hitting harder than he expected. “I just… I wanted them to take me seriously.”

Riccardo let out a bitter laugh. “And did they? Did they take you seriously when they left you out here? When they pushed you to drink more even though you were clearly out of your depth?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. He didn’t have an answer. He knew Riccardo was right, but admitting it felt like a defeat. Instead, he turned his gaze to the window, staring at the passing lights as the car sped through the empty streets.

The silence stretched on, thick and oppressive. Valerio’s thoughts were a tangled mess, the alcohol making it hard to focus. But one thing was clear—he had messed up, and there was no easy way to fix it. When they finally pulled up to Valerio’s apartment, Riccardo turned off the engine but didn’t move to get out. He sat there, his hands still gripping the wheel, his jaw clenched tight. Valerio could feel the tension radiating off him, the anger that had yet to fully dissipate.

“Valerio,” Riccardo began, his voice softer now but still laced with frustration, “I need you to understand something. I’m not just angry because you got drunk. I’m angry because you put yourself in a situation where you could’ve been seriously hurt. And for what? To impress a bunch of guys who don’t give a damn about you?”

Valerio swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I didn’t think it would go this far.”

“That’s the problem,” Riccardo said, his voice tinged with sadness. “You didn’t think. You were so caught up in trying to fit in that you forgot to take care of yourself.”

Valerio nodded slowly, the weight of Riccardo’s words pressing down on him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to get this bad.”

Riccardo finally released the wheel, turning to look at Valerio. The anger had faded from his eyes, replaced by a deep concern. “Just… promise me you’ll be more careful next time. I don’t want to have to come find you like this again.”

Valerio met his gaze, the guilt gnawing at him. “I promise.”

The late night air was crisp and cool, a stark contrast to the warmth of the arguments and emotions that had filled the previous night. Valerio, now sober but visibly drained, shuffled out of the car and leaned against the passenger side, taking a moment to steady himself. Riccardo watched Valerio with a mixture of concern and frustration. He had insisted on staying the night to ensure that Valerio was safe and had a chance to reflect on the events of the previous night. There was an unspoken understanding between them—Riccardo’s presence was both a gesture of support and a necessary intervention.

“Let’s get inside,” Riccardo said, his voice softer now but still carrying an edge of determination. He nodded, though his expression was a blend of embarrassment and resignation. He led the way into the apartment, unlocking the door with a trembling hand. As they stepped inside, Riccardo glanced around, noting the disarray of the living space. Empty bottles and takeout containers were scattered about, remnants of a night that had spiraled out of control.

Valerio dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and sighed, clearly exhausted. “I didn’t expect you to stay over,” he said, trying to mask the vulnerability in his voice with a note of defiance. Riccardo closed the door behind them and followed Valerio into the living room. “I wasn’t going to leave you alone after everything.” he replied firmly. “You need to take some time to calm down and think about what happened. I’m not going to let you do that by yourself.”

Valerio rubbed his temples, the weight of the previous night’s events pressing heavily on his shoulders. “I get it,” he said, sounding more resigned than defensive. “I’m just… tired.”

Riccardo nodded, a heavy silence settling between them. “Good. Now get some sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

He knew things would be different after this—his relationship with Riccardo, his view of his so-called friends, and his understanding of what it meant to make the right choices. As he collapsed onto his bed, the room spinning around him, Valerio couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight had been a turning point. And as much as he hated to admit it, he was grateful that Riccardo had been there to pull him back from the edge.

[b4mpyre-k1zz3s]

For the sake of being in the Halloween spirit, and also inspiration from your name-

Vampire!Bam x gn reader where Bam and reader are already together, and reader thinks it’s funny to make Bam dress up as Dracula for a Halloween party. 🤭 I could literally come up with more Bampire scenarios lmaoo I just feel like younger skater boy vamp Bam would be so cute 😭

Bite Me!

Bam agrees to go along with Y/N’s costume idea- on one particular condition.

Bam Margera X Gn!Reader

(Fluff)

2.7k Words

Warnings: Suggestive content, alcohol, drug mention, biting, hickies,

An: Aaa happy early Halloween!! I’m not sure if you can tell from how I write this but I don’t go to too many Halloween parties XD I really liked writing for Bam early on in his Jackass career in this one, but yet again I like writing for Bam in general. I’ve never been super into the whole vampire romance type thing but I think writing this changed my mind! ;)

“Come on, Bam! One couple’s costume isn’t gonna kill you.” Rolling your eyes at the sound of your boyfriend groaning, you smeared on white face paint in the bathroom mirror, the sink below you crowded with containers of various products. “Its fuckin’ stupid! I mean,” He reluctantly peeled himself off of his spot on your bed, walking to the bathroom to squint over your shoulder at your reflection, “A ‘Bampire’? Really?”

You turned to him, your faces so close you swore you got makeup on him, “Yes. It was either that or Lamb Margera, and I didn’t feel like being Little Bo Peep. So there.” Not to mention, you thought he’d look adorable in the whole cape and puffy shirt getup. Planting a peck on his cheek, you went back to your makeup before you felt his hands snake around your waist as Bam leaned in towards you, mumbling against your neck, “Fine…but on one condition.” God, it was so easy to get to him. You nearly giggled as he continued, his teeth grazing your skin, “I get’t bite you tonight.” Oh, there was no way you could say no to that. “Alright…” You feigned annoyance, “Just not too hard?”

A Halloween party the two of you went to would be a good way for you to meet some of your boyfriend's new friends, you thought, gazing out the window as you drove along dim streets. As of one month prior he was a tv star, which you still hadn’t gotten over yet, but all you knew about what he did was the new and progressively grosser injuries he came home with. When you imagined his co-stars, you pictured a room full of cool extreme dudes that wear lots of baggy jeans and listen to edgy music.

So when you opened the door, you were kinda surprised. “Hey, sexy!” A man who could have been the real life Tarzan clad in the tightest patent leather playboy bunny costume, complete with satin bunny ears and black high heels, grinned at your boyfriend, leaning against the doorframe. Woah. You couldn’t deny, this guy pulled it off. Turning to lead you in, he shook his genuinely impressive ass a little, showing off the fluffy white tail he had on, “Bam has been telling us all about you!” Your boyfriend played it off like it was nothing but you nodded, trying not to make it obvious what you were staring at as you filtered through the crowd towards the kitchen. He chuckled this charming stoner laugh, leaning against a countertop cluttered with half empty liquor bottles, “I'm Chris, by the way.” You smiled when he shivered a little as his skin felt cold marble, giggling.

Talking over the loud music, you chatted with him and Bam for a while about the show and how well everything was going with the show- they might even be getting renewed another season in a few months! Oh, you were so excited to hear you leaned over and planted one on your boyfriend’s cheek. He rolled his eyes childishly, keeping up his tough guy exterior as you giggled. Suddenly, with your arms wrapped around his shoulders, something caught your attention from the corner of your eye- a rainbow blur followed by a fireball from the far side of the marble counter that lit up the dim, crowded room in a hot orange glow before, just as quickly, flickering out. You could hear Bam, and everyone else at the party, cheering for the guy in the multicolored clown costume as he landed with exaggerated bravado. One the applause died down, he made his way over to you and Bam, grabbing a couple beers from the fridge. Your boyfriend grinned, taking one from him, “That wath, like- theriously gnarly dude.” As much as he tried to downplay the lisp, you really found it kind of cute, but he’d kill you if you said that in front of his buddies. Bam threw his arm around you, “Thith ith Y/N. ” His huge pupils almost looked like a part of his clown makeup as he fist bumped you, speaking with a voice that sounded like he gargled tacks, “Hey, dude! Wanna beer?” Before you could answer, one was already in your hands, but it’s not like you would deny a beer from a clown. Bam chuckled as the clown left as soon as he arrived, “And that wath Theve…”

The party buzzed hotly around you, just so many people doing so many substances- a hotbed of sweaty activity. Not really listening to whatever you were saying to him at this point, Bam glanced over your shoulder, eyes widening as he gestured to someone just out of your line of sight to come over. A few moments later, you felt a broad shoulder brush against your arm and you turned. God, he looked straight out of one of those old westerns, especially with the way he tipped that black cowboy hat as he smirked, leaning down to you and drawling sweetly, “Howdy.” God, why does your boyfriend have so many hot friends? You chuckled as Bam took to introducing him, “Thith ith Johnny, n’heth probably the cooleth dude here bethideth mythelf.” Johnny chuckled, cracking a crooked smile, “Aww, you flatter me.” Thinking of something, he turned to look towards the living room, “Hey, me’n the fellas are settin’ up ‘Pin The Dick On The Jackass’ over there. Wanna join?”

That’s how you ended up holding a brass tack with a giant red construction paper penis dangling from your hand. You nervously stared at the bubble butt in front of you, not wanting to stick Chris and probably give him tetanus. “C’mon, c’mon- just do it!” He giggled, looking back at you with an unexpected level of giddiness. The people around you laughed and cheered as you squeezed your eyes shut, your hands shaky as you slowly moved them closer, until…

You felt Chris jump, his little bunny tail bobbing as he patted his chest, giggling, “Ooh!!” The room went wild at the sight of the paper dick swinging as he bounced on his toes as he chuckled, still managing to smile despite the tack in his ass, “Usually that feels pretty good, but that stung a little! Somebody get me a beer!” You couldn’t help yourself but to smile a little- these guys know how to have a good time.

“Really? A couple’s costume? Cute.” Ryan stood with his arms folded, leaning against one wall on the sidelines of the action. Bam rolled his eyes, “Oh yeah? N’whatre you thuppothed to be? Evel Kinevil?” Propping his helmet up on his hip, Ryan turned to him, grinning, “First off, I’m a motocross dude. Second of all,” He pointed to you in the center of the circle of people, “Y/N’s hand’s gettin’ pretty damn close to asses that aren’t yours. ‘You gonna do anything about that?” Ryan knew to play on Bam’s jealous streak concerning you, bored and wanting to see something happen.

Johnny gazed into the water of the big tin bucket, “Jesus…if you’re that bad with your mouth, I’d worry for Y/N…” Yanking his head up, water dripped down Bam’s forehead as he shot a glare at the cowboy, “Yeah, tho I’m gettin’ the damn apple!” It had been five minutes. Dunn chuckled, his teasing from earlier seeming to have done its job in making the party more interesting. You found it kind of cute to watch him frantically searching around for an apple, the fangs stuck to his teeth in no way helping him bite one. After what felt like forever, he whipped his head up, water spraying everywhere as he emerged victorious with the crisp apple wedged firmly in his teeth. “Alright dude!” Steve came up all smiles, patting him on the back with a gloved hand, leaning in, “By the way, I totally pissed in that water.”

“Are- are you theriouth?” Bam received a nod. Laughing, Steve got punched in the arm by your reasonably pissed off boyfriend (no pun intended), leading you to imagine this sort of thing was pretty routine for them. Gross. You could only wonder what other bodily fluids have been on him. As he stormed off to the bathroom, you felt a familiar hand grasp yours, leading you away from the hot crowd. Oh. Oh? Ducking down a dark hallway, you trailed behind Bam, not even thinking about how wet his hand was as the liquid dripped down your fingers.

Closing the door behind you, it was like you had just stepped into your own little world away from the chaos of the party. Music thumped through the walls softly, making your whole body vibrate as you leaned against the wall. You watched your boyfriend rinse his hair off in the sink under half burnt out vanity lights. Bam ran a hand through his soaked, dark curls, now half plastered to his forehead as he looked at you from the porcelain with those piercing blue eyes.

“Tho…” He stood up and took a step closer to you, his hands finding their place on your waist. Your noses nearly touched as he leaned in close to you, his breath warm on your skin as he raised an eyebrow, whispering against your ear with a fanged grin, “How ‘bout that bite now?” Heat rose from your toes all the way up to your cheeks as you blushed, flustered. He turned his head to the side, spitting the fangs out in the sink before dipping his head and closing in on your neck. You held your breath, but he seemed to hesitate for a second, watching your tense reaction with a smirk. He was playing with his food. Finally, after what felt like forever, you felt his teeth sink into your flesh.

You let out a whimper, not even noticing when the unlocked door to your side creaked open. Hell, you didn’t even pick up on it once the snickers started pouring in, too consumed by the purple, throbbing hickey Bam was presently biting into your neck. It took Chris leaning in, asking, “Hey, can I get one next?” To shake you out or your trance, whipping your head around at the crowd as they childishly giggled and gaged in mock disgust. Your face somehow turned redder than before, but Bam didn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest, chuckling, “How much’a that did you guys catch?” Johnny grinned, leaning against the door jamb, “Just enough.”

[drunkenlyamess]

⊹₊⟡⋆ Richie Tozier multi ff

⊹₊⟡⋆ Richie Rozier x m!oc

⊹₊⟡⋆ CW- Drinking, cussing, mentions of body dysmorphia, mloc is low-key a horrible person, enemies to lovers, homophobia, bullying, smoking, questioning of sexuality, misogyny, blood, slurs.

⊹₊⟡⋆ AN- I got drunk half way writing this so sorry if the end is shit

04 ← → 06

05

   SCOTTY collapsed onto his bed, the springs groaning under his weight as he sank into the worn mattress. He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, his cheek still pulsing with a dull throb. He winced, realizing he'd never bothered to ask Eddie to fix it. With a groan, he swung his legs over the edge, his bare feet brushing the cold, cluttered floor. He let his head hang between his knees for a moment, the weight of the day pressing heavily on his shoulders. Then, sluggishly, he pushed himself upright, navigating the mess of his room and making his way into the dimly lit kitchen.

Reaching for the landline perched on the counter, Scotty dialed a number burned into his memory. Each beep of the buttons felt automatic, like muscle memory that had etched itself into him over the years. He pressed the receiver to his ear, the dull rings resonating through the phone. His chest tightened slightly with each unanswered ring, the sound grinding into his nerves.

Finally, the line clicked, and a familiar voice cut through.

"Yo, Scotty. What's up?" Jet's voice hummed, muffled slightly as though he was talking around a mouthful of food. Scotty could practically hear the smirk through the phone. Jet always seemed to know when it was him, like some kind of instinctive alarm tied to the ringing.

"You wanna hang out?" Scotty asked, the words tumbling out almost too naturally. They were the same ones he'd been saying since preschool, yet today, they carried a strange weight. His chest tightened, his heart giving an uneven beat as though those simple words held more significance than ever before.

"Sure," Jet said, his tone casual. "I ain't got nothin' planned." There was a faint rustling on the other end as Jet shifted, the sound clear even over the line.

"Bring a first aid kit," Scotty added abruptly.

A beat of silence. Then: "What—?" Jet began, but Scotty cut him off by slamming the phone back onto its cradle. He exhaled sharply, his pulse thundering in his ears as he turned and headed back toward his room. He needed to pull himself together before his sister got home—she was still out with her friends, but she wouldn't stay gone forever.

He stood in the middle of the chaos he called a room, his eyes darting over the scattered clothes, empty bottles, and crumpled papers. With a frustrated groan, he ran his hand through his hair, the other soon joining as both rested atop his head. The weight of the mess pressed down on him, but with a resigned sigh, he knelt and started scooping up the pile of clothes that blanketed his floor. His arms strained to hold the teetering heap, his chin barely managing to keep the top layer from spilling over as he nudged the door open with his foot.

Crossing the hall to the bathroom, he dumped the clothes into the overflowing laundry basket with a grunt, the fabric tumbling in an unruly heap. Without pausing, he turned on his heel and headed to the kitchen. He grabbed a trash bag from beneath the sink, the plastic rustling loudly in the quiet house. Back in his room, he paused in the doorway, his eyes scanning the disaster before him with fresh resolve.

Starting near the bed, he crouched and began picking up the empty alcohol bottles, the sharp clink of glass echoing as he dropped each one into the bag. Candy wrappers followed, their crinkled shapes disappearing among the bottles. His gaze shifted to his desk, a warzone of cigarette butts, beer cans, and random papers from school—assignments that no longer mattered now that it was summer. Without hesitation, he swept everything off the desk into the bag, the sound of clutter crashing together oddly satisfying.

Once the desk was cleared, he tied off the bag with a firm tug, the knot securing the evidence of his negligence. He straightened up, his eyes roaming the now-visible floor and the cleared surfaces. It wasn't perfect, but it was an improvement—probably the cleanest his room had been in over a month.

The bed remained unmade, the sheets tangled in a haphazard mess, but he decided to leave it for now. The faint but lingering smell of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol clung to the air, but he didn't bother addressing it. It was good enough for today, and that was all that mattered.

He turned on his heel and stepped out of his room, the trash bag dangling from his hand as it swung slightly with each step. The stale smell of the room clung to him, and he wrinkled his nose as he walked down the short hallway, through the living room, and out the front door. The evening air was cool against his face, a refreshing change from the stifling, smoky atmosphere he'd just left behind. He trudged down the driveway to the garbage bin sitting at the curb. With a sharp swing, he hefted the bag into the bin, the loud thud of glass and trash mingling together marking the end of one small task.

As he turned back toward the house, he exhaled deeply, shoving his hands into his pockets. Reentering the house, he made his way to the couch, dropping heavily onto it. He leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees, and buried his head in his hands. His fingers idly tangled in his hair, tugging at the strands as he tried to calm the restless energy coursing through him. Biting his lip, he glanced at the clock, but the hands seemed frozen, taunting him with their refusal to move.

His foot bounced anxiously against the floor, the repetitive rhythm filling the silence. Every second felt like an eternity as he waited, the tension in his chest tightening with every passing moment. After what felt like hours, but was really just ten minutes, he finally heard a knock at the door.

He shot up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, his heart jumping in his chest. Rushing to the door, he stumbled slightly, his socked feet slipping against the hardwood floor. Regaining his balance, he yanked the door open, his eyes landing on Jet. A wide smile broke across his face, his relief palpable.

"Glad to see you too, man," Jet laughed, stepping inside and brushing past Scotty. He carried a small first aid kit in one hand, his casual demeanor contrasting sharply with Scotty's frantic energy. Scotty closed the door behind him, his eyes scanning Jet's face for any hint of judgment, but Jet just gave him a knowing look.

"Holy shit, dude, what happened to you?" Jet asked, his gaze zeroing in on the deep bruise blooming across Scotty's cheek like a violent piece of art.

"Why do you think I told you to bring the first aid kit?" Scotty mumbled, his voice low as he turned and led Jet back to his room. The door creaked softly as he pushed it closed behind them, blocking out the rest of the house.

Jet plopped down onto Scotty's unmade bed with a sigh, tossing the first aid kit onto the mattress beside him. Scotty quickly gripped the first aid kit from off the bed.

Jet pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, his fingers deftly sliding one out. He brought it to his lips, letting it hang there as he flicked open his lighter. The soft metallic click broke the silence as the flame flared to life. Scotty, seated at his cluttered desk, dabbed at the dark bruise on his cheek with antiseptic from the first aid kit. The sharp smell filled the air, mingling faintly with the lingering scent of smoke and stale beer.

Jet lit his cigarette, the end glowing orange as he inhaled deeply. He tossed the pack and lighter carelessly onto the unmade bed before leaning back, exhaling a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. The smoke twisted and curled, lingering in the air like ghosts, casting faint shadows in the dim light.

Scotty snapped the first aid kit shut with a soft click, leaving it on the edge of the desk as he pushed back in his chair. With a tired sigh, he slid down to the floor, settling against the side of the bed. His back pressed into the worn fabric, his shoulder brushing lightly against Jet's leg. The quiet between them was easy, the kind of silence that spoke of years of friendship rather than awkwardness.

Leaning back slightly, Scotty reached up to the bed, grabbing one of the cigarettes from Jet's discarded pack. He held it between his fingers, giving Jet a quick glance as if seeking silent permission. Jet didn't say anything, only exhaling another plume of smoke as Scotty grabbed the lighter.

The lighter sparked on the third try, and Scotty lit the cigarette, the acrid taste filling his mouth as he took a slow drag. The glowing ember matched Jet's, casting a soft, flickering light in the dim room. Scotty exhaled, the smoke joining Jet's in the air, swirling together before dissipating into the haze that seemed to hang permanently in the room.

Hours had passed, the day slipping into dusk as the fading sunlight streamed weakly through the grimy window. The golden-orange glow painted the walls in soft, uneven streaks, a fleeting warmth against the cool, smoky air. Scotty sat slouched against the bed frame , his head hanging heavily between his knees. His arms rested on his thighs, one hand clutching a half-empty vodka bottle, the other holding a cigarette that burned steadily, its curling smoke adding to the haze in the room. The faint smell of alcohol and tobacco mingled with the faint musk of old wood and sweat.

The vodka had started to hit him hard about thirty minutes ago, dulling his senses and loosening the tight grip of his thoughts. His body felt like dead weight, his movements sluggish and disconnected as if someone had turned down the volume on the world around him.

Jet had moved to the floor sometime during the evening, his back resting against the bed frame next to Scotty. He sat cross-legged, a cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers. Unlike Scotty, he hadn't touched the bottle. He never did. The sight of his dad stumbling, slurring, and shouting through his childhood had killed any curiosity he might have had about drinking. He watched Scotty out of the corner of his eye, his lips pressed into a thin line. Jet had tried to stop him once, years ago, but it didn't take long to realize you couldn't help someone who didn't want it. So now, he just sat there, letting the quiet settle over them like a heavy blanket.

The glowing tip of Jet's cigarette flickered as he brought it to his lips, inhaling slowly. He stared at the swirling smoke as he exhaled, watching it rise toward the ceiling and disappear into the growing shadows.

"Jet," Scotty mumbled, his voice slurred and low. He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray on the desk. The faint hiss of extinguished embers filled the silence for a moment before he sat back, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

When he dropped his hands, his face was a mess. His hair stuck up in uneven tufts, his eyes glassy and rimmed with red. His cheeks were flushed a faint pink, whether from the alcohol or the heat of the room, Jet couldn't tell. Scotty's half-lidded gaze fixed on him, unreadable and hazy, his expression somewhere between weary and lost.

"Yeah, what's up, man?" Jet said softly, turning his head to meet Scotty's gaze. He offered a small smile, though his eyes carried the weight of concern he didn't voice.

"I don't deserve you," Scotty mumbled, his voice low and uneven. He exhaled heavily, the weight of his words lingering in the air. "Seriously, if you were a girl, I would be in love with you." The words slurred together, his drunken state softening their impact. Scotty raised the bottle to his lips, taking another swig without a second thought.

Jet froze, caught off guard by the sudden confession. His brows knit together, his usually composed demeanor slipping as he stared at Scotty. There he was, sprawled out on the floor, one arm hanging lazily by his side while the other clutched the bottle like it was the only thing grounding him. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, were locked on Jet with an intensity that made him feel exposed. Scotty's mouth hung slightly open, as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just said either.

"Okay, man," Jet finally replied, his voice steady but stiff as he straightened up in his seat. The awkwardness crept in, settling between them like a thick fog. He shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to react or where to even look.

Scotty didn't seem to notice—or if he did, he didn't care. Halfway through the bottle, he was far beyond self-awareness, his gaze still fixed on Jet like the words hadn't fully left his mind. Jet rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away as the silence stretched, feeling the weight of Scotty's admission pressing down on him.

Scotty's eyes flicked downward, lingering for just a moment on Jet's lips before snapping back to meet his gaze. There was a flicker of something—hesitation, confusion—before Scotty's gaze softened, his alcohol-fueled boldness taking over. Jet stiffened, leaning back slightly, his jaw tightening as he registered what was happening.

Scotty leaned in, closing the space between them, his movements unsteady and slow, like he was navigating a dream. But before he could fully bridge the gap, Jet bolted upright, stepping away in one swift motion. Scotty lost his balance, tumbling to the ground with a muted thud. He stared up at Jet, wide-eyed, his face flushed with realization.

"I think I'm just gonna go," Jet muttered awkwardly, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. His voice was tight, carefullyng controlled, but his discomfort was palpable.

Scotty scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly as the room seemed to tilt around him. He pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to steady himself, and then ran a trembling hand through his hair.

"Jet, come on," Scotty said, his voice breaking. The nervous energy in his tone was impossible to miss. "You know I didn't mean to do that. I was just—" He stopped, his words faltering, as if unsure how to finish the sentence.

Jet turned, his expression unreadable, but his shoulders were tense, his fists clenched at his sides. "I'll talk to you later, Scott," he said firmly, his tone colder than Scotty had ever heard it.

The use of his full name hit Scotty like a punch to the gut, a stark reminder of the line he'd crossed. Jet had never called him "Scott" before, and hearing it now carried a weight that Scotty couldn't ignore. He stood frozen, watching as Jet walked away, each footstep fading into the distance like a dagger twisting deeper into his chest.

When the door closed, the silence that followed was deafening. Scotty sank back onto the couch, his head in his hands, regret and shame pooling in his gut like lead.

Scotty stumbled out of the bedroom, his steps uneven and frantic as he trailed after Jet. His head swam, the alcohol dulling his coordination but sharpening the ache in his chest. He followed like a kicked puppy, desperation radiating off him.

"Jet, please," Scotty called out, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. He reached out as if he could physically pull Jet back, but his plea was met with cold silence. Jet didn't even glance back, his stiff posture screaming frustration and disappointment.

Scotty felt a lump rising in his throat, an unfamiliar burn behind his eyes. He didn't want the tears to flow, but the dam broke before he could stop it. Tears spilled, warm and unchecked, running down his flushed cheeks. He hadn't cried in years—had forgotten what it even felt like—but now the tears came in a flood, each one cutting through the numb haze of his drunkenness.

Jet paused for a fleeting moment at the front door, one hand on the handle, before turning back to look at Scotty. His gaze was sharp, filled with something that Scotty couldn't quite name—anger? Hurt? Disappointment? It cut deeper than any words could.

"Jet," Scotty whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

Jet's lips pressed into a thin line, his expression hardening as he turned and stepped outside. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Scotty standing alone in the doorway.

Scotty staggered forward, gripping the edge of the doorframe for support as he watched Jet disappear into the night. The darkness swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but the faint echo of his retreating footsteps.

The realization hit Scotty like a punch to the gut—he was gone.

His hand curled around the edge of the door, the wood creaking under the force of his grip. Frustration, regret, and heartbreak churned inside him, twisting into something unbearable. With a guttural noise, Scotty slammed the door shut, the sound reverberating through the empty apartment.

He leaned his forehead against the door, his breath coming in shallow gasps as the tears continued to fall. His chest ached, hollow and heavy all at once, as the weight of his mistakes bore down on him.

With a shaken sigh, Scotty turned on his heel, running his trembling hands through his hair. His chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing, but it hitched when his eyes landed on the living room couch. His heart sank.

Jen was sitting there, her expression unreadable, and Scotty hadn't even noticed her come home. The realization hit him like a freight train. His gaze shifted, and there, sitting beside her, was Richie. The sight of both of them sent a jolt through him—he hadn't expected anyone to witness the mess he'd just become.

His stomach twisted painfully as sobriety slammed into him. The tears on his face, the rawness in his voice from begging Jet to stay—it all felt magnified under their silent stares. Shame clawed at his chest. They'd seen everything. He felt exposed, weak, pathetic.

Jen stood up from the couch, her movements deliberate but gentle. Scotty's eyes locked on her, his lip trembling uncontrollably. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the words caught in his throat. He felt paralyzed, his emotions too tangled to untangle, his vulnerability too fresh to mask.

Jen didn't wait for him to speak. She closed the distance between them, her arms wrapping tightly around him. The gesture broke through the dam inside him. Scotty's body sagged against hers as if his strength had been holding him upright until now. He clung to her, his fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt with a desperation that made her heart ache. His head dropped to her shoulder, his tears soaking through the fabric as his quiet sobs shook his frame.

Richie sat frozen, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes. He'd never seen Scotty like this—never seen him express anything besides anger, sarcasm, or annoyance. The sight of seeing the boy who pushed him without a second thought breaking down was jarring, almost surreal. His mouth hung slightly open, like he wanted to say something, but no words came.

Jen glanced over her shoulder at Richie, her sharp gaze cutting through his dazed state. She gave him a small shake of her head, a silent command to stay quiet. Richie's mouth snapped shut, and he shifted uncomfortably, unsure where to look or how to process what he was witnessing.

Scotty stayed buried in his sister's embrace, his grip never loosening. The weight of his emotions poured out of him, raw and unfiltered, in a way it hadn't in years. For once, he let himself lean on someone, his walls crumbling as he found solace in her quiet strength.

04 ← → 06