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thespnreferencedesk · 3 months ago

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A Fic Writer's Guide to the 1967 Impala

Part 1 | Part 2: Interior

Click for the full-size, annotated versions of images! Unlabeled screenshots here; full user manual available here

Due to the number of different Impalas used for the show, Baby will have some minor differences between appearances. This guide points out a few of them. Luckily, these differences are minor and will likely never come up in any written works but fan-artists should still keep an eye out.

Now, buckle up. There's a lot to cover.

Baby’s interior color is SEM Color Coat #15093 “Lt Buckskin.” In real life, this color was not an option on the 1967 Impala and was achieved by spraying the existing interior vinyl with vinyl dye. However, 5.22 shows that this is the Impala’s original interior in the show’s universe, so Dean would have only had to use the vinyl dye to touch up during one of his rebuilds. In addition to the buckskin vinyl, Baby also has black bench seats, tan carpeting, chrome trim, and black accents on the wheel and dash.

Baby doesn’t have grab handles or a center dome light, though it does have two rectangular cabin lights over the backseat windows, each next to a hook. Whether or not these interior lights work depends in the episode. The headliner has horizontal stitching that breaks it up into six panels. Sam and Dean rarely use the sun visors, but we do see in 11.04 that they are mirrorless and can swivel up and down and pivot to shade the side windows.

Both the front and back seats are black vinyl (not leather) bench seats with no center consoles. The front bench is manually adjustable via a lever on the driver's side. The seat can slide forward and backward (seen in 10.12) and recline (seen in 1.01). Adjusting the front seat moves the entire bench, including the passenger.

Fun fact: One of the options available for the 1967 Impala was power operated front seats, something I didn't even have on my '07 Hyundai. Power windows were also available, but Baby has neither of these features.

Both the front and back benches are wide if not a bit short length-wise (note that Dean’s hips are basically the same width as the seat). A child could easily lay down completely, a small adult like Claire or Charlie would be a bit curled up, and Sam and Dean can lay out with their knees bent. It is also possible to crawl over the front seat into the backseat or pull someone from the front into the back as we see in 10.04. That said, the cabin roof is not very high (just barely clearing Sam’s head) so expect to hit your head on the roof while in someone’s lap or flailing around in a fight.

Despite seating up to six, there appear to only be four total seat belts. The Impala has adjustable lap belts in the front and back seat rather than modern three-point seatbelts, but Sam and Dean don’t wear them.

The lap belts consist of two parts, a belt with a buckle that sits in the middle of the front seat and a belt with an “eye” piece that retracts into a retractor on the side of the front seat bench. To fasten the seat belts, pull the eye belt all the way out of the retractor before clicking it into the buckle. Adjust the belt by pulling on the excess strap to tighten it, and lift on the buckle then pull the other section of the strap to loosen it. Unfasten the seat belt by pressing the button on top of the buckle.

Up front, Baby has a steering wheel, a black instrument cluster, chrome ignition and other switches, an ashtray, chrome mirror, aftermarket tape deck, Four Seasons factory air conditioner, glove box, adjustable air vents, and padded dashboard (to smack your head on since there are no airbags).

Two different types of door lock buttons are used in the cars on the show. The first are shaped like golf tees while the second are straight anti-theft locks. The anti-theft locks don't have a cap that allows the door to be unlocked with a coat hanger or something similar. Push down on the button to lock the doors and pull up to unlock.

All four doors have a vinyl armrest with a chrome door lever, but the front seat rests do not have ashtrays. There are two different window cranks. The smaller one on top controls the small triangular front window that swivels side to side while the larger one on bottom rolls the main window up and down. Clockwise is up, counter-clockwise is down. Sometimes the knobs on the cranks are buckskin and sometimes they are black which would have been the original color.

In the driver's footwell is a long rectangular gas pedal, short rectangular brake pedal, square parking brake pedal, and labeled parking release lever. The switch for the high beams is on the floor near the driver's right foot and is controlled by tapping. There are also tan rubber floor mats that vary in style but appear in 11.04 as two individual mats with diagonal grooves.

The glove box comes with a lock, and the key for this is separate from the key that opens the door and starts the ignition. When not locked, the glove box can be opened by pressing the button built into the lock cylinder.

Baby's steering wheel is stock with an aftermarket vinyl wrap cover. The correct center horn button for the Impala has a chrome outer ring, gold center ring, and silver inner circle with the Impala logo. Sometimes, such as in 11.04, it’s shown with a Caprice horn.

While the '67 Impala was available as a manual, Baby is an automatic (so no "shifting gears"). Its gear shift/PRNDL is mounted onto the right side of the steering column rather than in the center of the footwell. The indicator (reading "Park RNDL") is mounted at the base of the steering column, below the instrument cluster. To shift from Park to Drive, push down on the brakes then pull the shift lever towards you and pull it down three notches. Press down on the brakes then pull towards you and push up to go from Drive to Neutral (one notch), Reverse (two notches), and back to Park (three notches). To shift from Drive to Low, pull the lever towards you again and pull it down one notch.

For anyone who has not driven a car with a shift lever like this, I can only describe it as feeling alarmingly similar to an old-school lawn mower. Whenever Dean is made to drive another car, he might instinctively reach behind the wheel for the gearshift and find it's not there. Someone used to cars with a center console gear shift might do the same while driving Baby, just reaching for the space below the radio instead.

Also on the steering column are a hazard lights button below the gearshift and a turning signal lever on the left. To turn on the flashing hazard lights, push in the button and pull it back out to turn them off. Lift the turn signal lever to signal right and lower it for the left. Using light pressure causes the blinker to turn off and return to neutral when you release it. Pushing the lever all the way into one position or the other leaves the turn signal on until you turn the wheel back to neutral or manually move the lever.

On either side of the steering column, below the instrument cluster, are four knobs. From left to right, these are for the lights, wipers and washer fluid, the ignition, and a cigarette lighter.

All of the lights on the Impala are controlled by a single light switch knob (below, left). This knob has three different positions: pushed in, pulled out to the first click, and pulled all the way out to the third click. When the knob is pushed in, all lights in the car are off. Pulling the knob out to the first click turns on the parking lights. Pulling all the way out to the second click turns on the low beam (your "normal" brightness). While the knob is pulled out to either the first or second click, turn the knob to adjust the instrument and tail lights for driving in the dark.

The windshield wipers knob is to the right of the light switch. To turn on the wipers, twist the knob clockwise. The first notch is "low" and all the way to the right is "high." Press the knob once to dispense a measured amount of washer fluid or hold it down to keep dispensing until you let go. Pressing the washer button simultaneously turns the knob, so you'll need to turn the wipers back off after.

The ignition key switch is just to the right of the steering column. Once it's inserted, turn the key to the left while pushing in to turn on just the accessories like lights and the radio. To start the car, push down the brake pedal and turn it all the way to the right. As soon as the engine starts up, let go of the key. You don't need to have your foot on the brakes to start the engine. Once it's running, you can press the gas pedal to help prime the carburetor with an additional shot of fuel. Don't pump the gas pedal or you risk flooding the engine.

People born after 2000 might be unfamiliar with how to use a car's lighter. The knob is part of a removable piece, about two inches long. First, push the button in and hold it to heat it. After a few seconds, pull the whole piece out. Yes, it can easily get lost. Touch whatever you wish to burn to the glowing orange heating element inside the cylinder. The removable piece is what gets hot, not the plug. This is also where you plug in things like car chargers or Sam's iPod jack.

A recessed instrument cluster sits behind the wheel. The panel consists of three main displays with the left and right sides each having two smaller displays. From left to right, the three main displays are the fuel gauge, the speedometer, and an analog clock.

The fuel gauge does not default back to "E" when the engine is off and instead may land randomly somewhere on the dial. The speedometer has a listed top speed of 120 and also features the high beam indicator light as well as the mileage. The analog clock is set by pulling out the knob at the bottom of the clock, turning to set the correct time, and pushing the knob back in.

Of the smaller displays, the upper two are the left and right turn signal lights. The bottom left are the brake system warning light and the engine temperature light. The brake warning light lights up red when the parking brake is applied or while the brake pedal is pressed if there is low brake pressure. The engine temperature light comes on if the engine overheats. On the bottom right are the oil pressure light and the generator indicator light. The oil light comes on if the oil pressure is low, and the generator light comes on if there is an issue with the generating system. All four of these lights come on when starting the car, but should quickly go back out.

The air conditioning and vents are where a few more discrepancies between screen-used cars show up. The 1967 Impala came with several different heat and air options: nothing, a heater only, an optional AC unit mounted under the dash, a Four Seasons air conditioning system, or a fancy climate-controlled option.

Baby has the Four Seasons system, but many of the cars used for filming were not. Only the Impalas with the Four Seasons or the climate control came with the center dashboard vent and the circular air vents near the doors. For visual continuity on the show, production added fake vents to non-AC cars. What gives these cars away as being non-AC cars, however, is that these cars have kick panel air vents and two mounted silver knobs that control them. As a Four Seasons car, Baby should not have these vents or knobs but ultimately does on occasion.

The center dash vent is able to be adjusted up and down by the ridged wheels on the sides. The spherical vents are a ball style and can be turned to position them or spun like a globe to change the style of the vent opening (see below). Two leg vents are hidden underneath the dash and can be opened or closed by turning the outlet like a dial. So if Dean wanted cold air blown on his legs but not on his face while Sam wanted cold air on his legs but not his face, both brothers could open or close their own vents.

The vertical switch on the left of the AC control panel controls the fan. Up is low, the middle is medium, and down is high. There is no way to turn it off unless the entire system is off. To turn the entire system off, push the topmost horizontal lever all the way to the left. Turning this lever to "Vent" blows outside air without changing the temperature. Moving to "Cold" blows cold recirculated air, moving further right blows cooled outside air, warmer outside air, and then full heat.

The outlets lever controls airflow to the vents mentioned previously. Moving the lever to "Upper" sends air through the dash vents only, moving to "Lower" sends air to the hidden leg vents only, and setting it in between sends air through both.

To use the defrost to clear up foggy windows, make sure the outlets lever is set to "Lower" or somewhere in the middle then move the bottommost lever towards "De-Ice" until it's blowing as hard as you want. To really crank the defrost or for ice, set the outlets to "Lower" only then blast the fan and push the temperature all the way to "Hot."

Dean's tape deck is an Audiovox Rampage AV 2000 from the 1990s. The '67 Impala came standard with either an AM or AM/FM transistor radio. The AM had a rear adjustable antenna, but the fixed AM/FM antenna was on the front. Looking at Baby, we can gather that it originally had the AM/FM radio. To switch between AM and FM, you would slide the switch at the top of the radio. The push buttons could be used to set favorite stations. Note that Dean's tape deck does not have this feature, so he would have to memorize his favorite stations in certain regions or just search until he finds something.

The original radio was switched out at some point for the Audiovox, either by John or Dean. The knob on the left turns it on and controls the volume, and the knob on the left is tuning. The button on the top left switches between AM/FM, the button on the top right lets you switch between local and longer-distance stations, and the bottom button is both the eject and fast-forward Press in part-way to fast forward and all the way to eject. There is no rewind button. To rewind, flip the tape over, fast forward, then flip it back around.

Fun fact: The shot in 11.04 of Dean putting in the tape is re-used from 5.22, so both “Night Moves” and “Rock of Ages” are on Dean’s Kick It In The Ass mixtape.

Two aftermarket Hertz speakers are mounted in the rear package tray (though a different speaker can be seen in 4.06). Underneath the tray’s black carpet is where Sam and Dean carved their initials as children. The rear footwell is nearly flush with the rear bench, meaning there is no “underneath the backseat”. There is room, however, underneath the front bench for things to get lost. The rear footwell also has a tan rubber floor mat, and the one seen in 11.04 is one single piece rather than two.

Unlike the ones in the front seat, the rear door armrests each have a lidded ashtray. The rear doors each have a door lock button and a main window crank like the front seat doors. There are no air vents in the backseat, so the AC would need to be cranked to reach anyone back there, potentially freezing anyone up front in the process.

Some of the most important things inside of the Impala are the little personal touches it's accumulated over the years. There's the tape deck, of course, but also the initials carved into the package tray, the Lego bricks in the air vent, and Sam's plastic rifleman wedged in the ashtray. These elements are first seen in 5.22 where Chuck mentions that Dean puts them back every time he's had to rebuild the Impala. Seeing the army man through the window in 5.22 is also what allows Sam to take control of his body back from Lucifer, so both brothers are well aware that Baby's supposed "defects" actually make her even better.

#my guides #art refs #car talk #baby #1967 impala

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 10 months ago

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1956 Cadillac Series 62 Convertible

Black Exterior New Black and White Leather Interior New Black Canvas Convertible Top New Black Carpets Upholstery work completed April 2019 365 CI OHV V8 w/ 4 Speed Hydra-Matic Transmission Equipped with Eldorado Trim Factory Gold Grille Power Windows Power Steering Power Brakes Power Top White Soft Boot Cover Detailed Undercarriage New Stainless Steel Exhaust New Shocks New Fuel Lines Freshly Rebuilt Carb New Gas Tank Fresh Brake Service with new wheel cylinders New Chrome Wire Wheels and Coker Radial White Wall Tires in style of original bias plys GM Heritage Factory Build Sheet verifying original Black car with Gold Grille option

#Cadillac Series 62 Convertible #Cadillac Series 62 #Cadillac #Convertible #car #cars

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goblin-jr · 2 months ago

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Tell me, where’s your hiding place?

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: Clark Kent braces himself for another forgettable assignment, expecting nothing more than a routine interview. But when he comes face to face with a ghost from his past, he knows he’s in for trouble.

part 1 . part 2 . part 3 . part 4 . part 5

complete

words: 7.2 k

💌 💌 💌 💌

The elevator hummed softly as it ascended, the floor numbers ticking higher with every passing second. Clark Kent exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his tie, tugging it loose before tightening it again. He caught his reflection in the mirrored wall—neat, composed, and entirely unbothered. Or at least, that was the goal.

In reality, he was still shaking off the last twenty minutes.

He had barely been two blocks from the Daily Planet when he’d heard it—a sharp, metallic screech followed by the unmistakable blare of a car horn. His head had snapped up just in time to see the taxi slam through the guardrail of the Metropolis Monorail overpass, its front end teetering over the tracks, headlights flickering against the rain-slick steel.

The driver had been unconscious. The passenger, a woman clutching a toddler to her chest, was very much awake, pounding on the back window as the weight of the vehicle threatened to drag them both down.

Clark had moved before he could think. A blur of motion between heartbeats. One second, he was stepping off the curb, and the next, he was beneath the car, hands braced against its undercarriage. He could feel the groan of the metal, the way the rain made everything slick beneath his grip, but the moment his strength took over, physics became an afterthought.

The woman’s wide-eyed shock barely registered as he tore the back door off its hinges, scooping her and the child into his arms before setting them safely on the pavement. The whole thing had taken maybe thirty seconds—long enough for bystanders to gape, for phones to rise, for someone to murmur the word Superman before he was already gone, vanishing into an alley before the inevitable swarm of reporters could descend.

And now, here he was, standing in a penthouse elevator, smoothing down his tie, pretending like none of it had happened.

His hair, still slightly damp from the drizzle outside, was combed back, but a stray curl had already begun to rebel against the order he’d forced upon it. His tie, a respectable shade of blue, sat a little too stiffly against his collar, a reminder of how quickly he’d thrown it back on. And then there were his shoes. He frowned slightly as he caught sight of the faint scuff marks marring the polished leather. If his interviewee was the observant type, they might notice.

Not that it mattered.

This wasn’t a real story. It was a fluff piece—some last-minute assignment Perry had thrown at him because the usual reporter was out sick. Some musician, Y/N something. He hadn’t even skimmed the file beyond the basics.

The elevator slowed. A soft chime rang out as the doors slid open.

Clark exhaled and stepped forward.

Half an hour. That’s all this would take. Ask the questions, get the quotes, and be done with it.

How hard could it be?

The elevator doors slid open with a smooth, soundless motion, revealing the entrance to the penthouse. Clark stepped forward, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet runner that stretched down the hallway. Immediately, he was struck by the sheer extravagance of it all.

Marble. So much marble.

The floors gleamed under the soft glow of recessed lighting, the white-and-gray veining swirling in elaborate patterns. The walls, too, were lined with marble panels, broken up only by large, modern art pieces that looked more like expensive smudges of paint than anything with real meaning. Gold accents caught the light at every turn—door handles, lighting fixtures, the trim of an absurdly oversized mirror mounted at the far end of the hall. It was cold. Impersonal. The kind of wealth that demanded admiration but offered no warmth in return.

Clark resisted the urge to adjust his glasses. He’d been in places like this before—interviews with CEOs, gala events, the occasional press function where billionaires pretended to be relatable over champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. But standing here, surrounded by so much artificial shine, he couldn’t help but think of the Kent farmhouse back in Smallville.

His mother’s worn wooden floors, the way they creaked underfoot no matter how many times she insisted they weren’t old, just well-loved. The chipped paint on the banister, the scent of warm earth drifting in through open windows on summer nights. Even the old oak table, scratched and scarred from years of family meals, had more character than this entire building combined.

Clark much preferred wood over marble.

Still, he had a job to do.

He stopped in front of the penthouse door, glancing at the polished brass number plate. The weight of the assignment settled in again—just a quick interview, a handful of quotes, and he’d be out of here. Simple.

Lifting his hand, he rapped his knuckles against the door. The sound echoed faintly down the hall.

For a moment, nothing.

Then, the click of a lock turning.

The door swung open.

Clark was already prepared with his introduction, but the words stalled for half a second as he took in the woman standing before him.

She was young—probably the same age as him—with sharp, intelligent eyes and a presence that felt effortless, like she belonged in places like this. There was something familiar about her, but not in a way he could immediately place. Maybe it was the shape of her eyes, the way she held herself, or just the faintest pull of recognition in the back of his mind, like he saw her on a billboard somewhere.

She blinked at him, clearly thrown off. “Oh. I was expecting Sasha.”

Clark cleared his throat, recovering quickly. “Sasha’s out sick. Perry White sent me instead. Clark Kent, Daily Planet.”

She hesitated for only a second before smiling, holding the door open wider. “Well, come on in, then.”

Clark stepped inside, the warm glow of the penthouse wrapping around him as the door shut behind him.

Y/N stepped back from the door, letting Clark into the apartment. He walked in, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag as his eyes swept the space. The penthouse was as extravagant as he expected—floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the open-concept living area in golden light, offering a panoramic view of the Metropolis skyline. The furniture was sleek and modern, everything arranged with careful precision. It was the kind of place designed to impress.

“This is quite the place,” Clark commented as they walked further inside.

Y/N glanced at him, an easy smile on her lips. “Yeah, it has its perks.”

She moved ahead of him, leading the way down the short hallway that opened into the living room. A plush ivory couch stretched along the center of the space, positioned in front of a low glass coffee table. Built-in shelves lined the walls, holding a mix of framed awards, books, and decorative pieces that looked like they had been placed there by an interior designer.

Clark took it all in as they walked. “Been here long?”

“A few years.” Y/N motioned toward the couch. “Go ahead, make yourself comfortable.”

Clark gave a polite nod before setting his bag down beside the armrest and easing onto the couch. It was softer than expected, and for a second, he sat a little too stiffly, still adjusting to the unfamiliar setting.

Y/N lingered near the kitchen, glancing toward him. “Do you want something to drink? Water? Coffee?”

“Water’s fine, thanks.”

She nodded and gestured toward the seating area. “I’ll be right there. Just make yourself at home.”

With that, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Clark alone in the living room. He glanced around again, his gaze settling on the details that filled the space. It was modern, polished, expensive—but something about it felt untouched, like it was meant to be lived in but wasn’t.

His eyes drifted to the oversized fireplace and stopped just beside it. Hung on the wall, standing out against the sleek decor, was a battered silver guitar.

Clark stilled.

Something about it nagged at him, an itch in the back of his mind that refused to be ignored. The rest of the apartment was curated to perfection—everything in its place, designed to impress. But this guitar didn’t belong to the aesthetic. It wasn’t some decorative piece picked out by an interior designer. It was worn, real, lived in. The wood was faded in places, the silver finish dulled by years of touch. The edges were scuffed, the pickguard scratched, the strings looked fresh, meaning they had been replaced more times than he could count.

And yet, it wasn’t just its condition that held him in place. It was something else—something deeper.

Clark leaned closer, his breath slow and steady as his eyes traced over every familiar detail. His gaze snagged on a tiny bird decal on the body of the guitar, its edges peeling slightly with age.

His stomach dropped.

Oh.

The memory crashed into him like a tidal wave. The silver guitar, the hands that had played it, the voice that had carried through the dim light of an apartment he hadn’t thought about in years. The name attached to all of it—Y/N.

How had he missed this?

Clark was a journalist. He prided himself on details, on never overlooking the obvious. Yet here he was, standing in the middle of her living room, blindsided by the realization that this wasn’t just some pop star.

It's her.

Before he could think much more about it, Y/N’s voice called from the kitchen.

“Alright, Mr. reporter. Let’s get this over with.”

Clark straightened slightly as she reentered, glass of water in hand, and set it down in front of him.

Gaining control of his expression, Clark snapped his gaze to hers as she settled into the chair across from him. This really is her.

The realization still sat heavy in his chest, but he refused to let it show. He didn’t know if he should feel proud that she had made it—really made it—or guilty that he had never once thought to check in on her after he left. Seven years, and not once had he tried to find out what happened to the girl with the silver guitar and the fire in her voice. Now, she sat in front of him, a household name, a polished version of the same person he had once known.

She looked different. Older, sure, but there was something else—something lighter. She looked happier.

He cleared his throat and reached into his bag, pulling out a small recording device. The soft click of the power button filled the quiet space as he placed it on the coffee table between them. Business. That’s what this was. He needed to focus.

Clark glanced at his notepad. “Alright,” he said, voice steady, professional. “Let’s start with the album. This will be your first release in two years. What inspired it?”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, considering. “Time,” she answered finally. “I needed time away from it all. Music never stopped being important, but I had to figure out who I was when I wasn’t writing for a deadline. I think this album is the closest thing to me that I’ve ever put out.”

Clark nodded, jotting down notes as she spoke. “Did you feel any pressure coming back after so long?”

She tilted her head slightly. “At first. People love to ask if you’re washed up the second you take a step back. But the truth is, I wasn’t interested in coming back just to prove a point. I wanted to wait until I had something to say.”

Clark tapped his pen against the pad. “And what is it you’re trying to say with this album?”

Y/N’s lips twitched, almost amused. “That would be giving too much away, wouldn’t it?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair enough.”

They moved through the next few questions with ease, Y/N answering smoothly, clearly used to this sort of thing. The creative process, favorite tracks, collaborations—Clark kept his focus steady, writing efficiently, keeping his mind from slipping into dangerous territory. But despite his efforts, his eyes kept drifting over her shoulder, drawn back to the guitar mounted behind her.

The silver finish, the well-worn edges, the tiny bird decal near the strings.

The guitar.

His grip tightened on his pen. He hadn’t realized he had been looking at it so often until Y/N followed his gaze, glancing back at the instrument. A small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips before she turned her attention back to him.

“You probably thought I wouldn’t have it anymore, huh?”

Clark went still.

His entire body locked up for half a second, but he forced himself not to react. His heart hammered against his ribs, though his expression remained neutral.

Does she recognize me?

No. That was impossible. It had been years. His glasses, his posture, the way he carried himself—Clark Kent wasn’t Kal. He had spent his whole life perfecting that distinction. If she did recognize him, that would mean she knew what he was. That Clark Kent wasn’t all human. That the quiet, mild-mannered reporter sitting in front of her was the same reckless, smirking enigma who had once pulled her out of an alley and into his world.

She couldn’t know.

Before he could decide how to respond, Y/N continued, her voice casual, but with unmistakable mischief. “I didn’t take you for a fan, Mr. Kent.” She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin in her hand, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. “Only the hardcore ones know the guitar I recorded my first album on.”

Clark exhaled slowly, just enough to release the tension in his chest. She didn’t know. She wasn’t looking at him like she recognized him—just a reporter showing more interest in an instrument than she expected.

He let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “I do my research.”

Y/N gave him a knowing look, her smirk widening into a full-on grin. “I’ll sign something for you after, but right now we need to finish the interview, yeah?”

Clark felt the tips of his ears heat up but quickly brushed it off, letting out a small chuckle as he flipped to the next page in his notebook.

“Oh my God,” Y/N snickered, watching him carefully. “You are a fan.”

“I’m not—”

“You totally are.”

Clark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before returning to his notes. “Let’s move on.”

Y/N let out a dramatic sigh but gestured for him to continue.

Scanning the remaining questions he realized he had everything he needed—probably more than he expected to get. Still, he asked a few final ones, keeping his tone measured, professional. Y/N answered just as smoothly, leaning back into the couch, arms draped over the arms of the couch like this was just another routine press stop.

“So, what’s next after the album drops?” he asked, capping his pen.

“Tour,” Y/N said easily. “Larger venues this time, I like the small, intimate ones but my team insisted”

Clark nodded. “Sounds like a full schedule.”

“It will be.” She stretched, arching her back dramatically before standing. “But I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t want to.”

Clark closed his notebook and stood as well, slipping it into his bag. “Well,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “I think that covers everything.”

Y/N grinned, hands on her hips. “You sure? This is your last chance to ask the really scandalous questions. My favorite color? My go-to breakfast order? My villain origin story?”

Clark huffed a small laugh. “I think I put you through enough.”

“Eh,” she shrugged, heading toward the door. “You’ve had worse interview subjects, I’m sure.”

He followed, his steps even as she pulled the door open and leaned casually against it. The interview was over, but there was still an odd weight in his chest—one he wasn’t ready to name.

Y/N crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “I’m excited to read the draft.”

Clark gave a polite nod, offering a small, unreadable smile. “I’ll make sure you get it.”

“Good,” she said, smirking. “And don’t forget—I still owe you an autograph.”

Clark shook his head, amused despite himself, before stepping past the threshold. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Looking back at the door, Clark stilled as he caught Y/N staring.

She hadn’t moved yet, still leaning against the frame, but something in her expression had shifted. Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed in quiet contemplation, like she was trying to place something just out of reach.

A flicker of recognition. A question forming before she even voiced it.

Then, she opened her mouth.

“Have we met before?”

Clark felt his entire body tense, a split-second rush of panic surging through his veins.

Her voice wasn’t teasing this time. There was no playfulness in it, no smirk. Just quiet curiosity, a thread of certainty in the way she said it.

Clark forced his shoulders to stay relaxed, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. He could feel her gaze pressing into him, waiting, searching.

His pulse roared in his ears.

“I don’t think so,” he said, his voice even, carefully detached—a weak attempt at deflection.

A beat of silence.

Then, just as quickly as the moment had come, her face shifted back into an easy smile.

“Yeah,” she said lightly, brushing it off. “I think you’re right. I would’ve remembered meeting my biggest fan”

She pulled the door open just a little wider.

“Goodbye, Clark.”

Clark swallowed, nodding once before turning down the hall.

–

It had been weeks since the interview, and Y/N hadn’t stopped thinking about Clark Kent.

It was ridiculous, really. She had given a hundred interviews in her career. Some routine, some personal, some tedious, and some even fun. Clark’s had been professional, straightforward. Nothing about it should have lingered in her mind the way it did.

But something about him nagged at her.

It wasn’t attraction, though she could admit—if only to herself—that he was handsome in a quietly unassuming way. No, it was something else. Something about his presence. The way he had held himself, the way he had studied her, the way he had deflected, just slightly, when she asked if they had met before.

The thing was, Clark reminded her of someone else.

Kal.

The boy who had plucked her out of a dark alley and tossed her into his strange world, the one who had been both reckless and careful, cocky yet distant. The one who had let her in just enough to make her wonder.

Y/N frowned, shifting in her seat as the town car moved through the streets of Metropolis. It was preposterous, really. Clark Kent was a journalist—a calm, mild-mannered, by-the-books kind of guy. He had sat across from her with a steady, unshakable presence, pen in hand, carefully gathering her words like a collector cataloging artifacts.

Kal had been wild. Sharp-edged. Untamed.

And yet…

Y/N sighed, pressing her fingers against her temple. You’re being ridiculous.

The problem was, she could barely recall the specifics of Kal’s face anymore. It had been a hard time in her life, and memories had a way of shifting in the years that followed. She remembered the feeling of him more than anything—the electric unpredictability, the way he had existed in the world like he was always somewhere else in his mind. She remembered the smirks, the sharp wit, the way he had looked at her when she played her guitar, like she was giving him something he didn’t know he needed.

But the details? The timbre of his voice, the exact shade of his eyes?

They were a blur.

It wasn’t like she had a photograph to remember him by.

Still, something gnawed at her. Clark Kent reminds me of Kal.

The idea was absurd, and yet, it had planted itself in her brain, refusing to be dismissed completely.

She let out a slow breath, watching as the familiar streets of Metropolis passed by. Streetlights flickered against the car window, smearing golden streaks across the glass. The hum of the city at night was something she had grown used to, but right now, it barely registered.

She needed to stop thinking about this. It didn’t matter. Kal was long gone. Clark Kent was a journalist who had done his job and moved on. There was no reason for her to still be thinking about him.

And yet—

Her gaze flickered outside, and her breath caught.

The car was passing the Daily Planet.

The illuminated logo shone high above the building, bold and unwavering, a beacon in the city skyline. The sight of it sent a jolt through her, instinctive and irrational.

Y/N hesitated.

And then, before she could think better of it, she leaned forward.

“Stop the car.”

The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Miss?”

“Stop the car, please” she repeated, already reaching for the door handle.

Grabbing a random T-shirt from the pile she had been signing, Y/N pulled it along without checking what it was. She barely hesitated before opening the car door and stepping onto the bustling sidewalk outside the Daily Planet.

This was impulsive.

Even for her.

Stepping into the lobby of the Daily Planet, she registered the way conversation screeched to a halt. People turned—some subtly, some not so subtly—as they took in the sight of her, standing there like she walked into national newspapers all the time.

She didn’t let it faze her.

Instead, she walked straight up to the front desk, her usual bright, easygoing smile already in place.

“Hi!” she greeted warmly, leaning slightly onto the counter. “I’m here to see Clark Kent. Is he in?”

The receptionist blinked up at her. Mouth opening. Then closing. Then opening again.

Y/N waited, tilting her head slightly.

The woman visibly gathered herself, then reached for the phone. “One second, Miss—um—”

“Y/N,” she supplied helpfully, still smiling. “But you probably knew that.”

The receptionist let out a soft, slightly dazed laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

As she made the call, Y/N rocked back on her heels, glancing around. The Daily Planet was a lot grander than she’d expected, with its sleek architecture and giant windows that let sunlight spill across the lobby floor. She imagined Clark working here—sitting at a desk, pushing up those glasses of his while he scribbled in that little notepad.

It suited him.

The receptionist set the phone down. “Someone will be here in a second.”

“Awesome, thank you!” Y/N said brightly.

A minute later, a young intern appeared—wide-eyed and visibly trying to keep it together.

“Miss Y/N, uh—I—I can take you to Clark Kent,” he stammered, standing a little too straight, as if afraid his knees might buckle under him.

Y/N softened, offering a gentle smile. “That’d be great. What’s your name?”

The intern blinked, like he couldn’t believe she was actually asking. “Uh—Elliot?”

“Well, Elliot,” Y/N said as they walked toward the elevator, “it’s nice to meet you.”

Elliot made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a gasp.

She continued, hoping to put him at ease. “How long have you been here?”

“A f-few months,” he stammered.

“Enjoying it so far?”

He nodded violently, like if he spoke, he might combust on the spot.

Y/N bit back a laugh. The kid was adorable.

As the elevator doors dinged open, she gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Well, I bet you’re doing great.”

The moment they stepped out, Elliot practically sprinted away, disappearing into the crowd of desks like his life depended on it.

And that’s when she spotted him.

Clark Kent, sitting at the farthest side of the newsroom, completely engrossed in whatever he was reading. Glasses sliding slightly down his nose, brow furrowed in concentration.

Oblivious.

A wicked grin spread across Y/N’s face.

“CLARK!!! I GOT THE T-SHIRT YOU ASKED FOR!!”

The newsroom came to a screeching halt.

Reporters stopped mid-sentence. Phones continued ringing, unanswered. Someone dropped a stapler. Perry White’s office door swung open slightly as if the sheer force of Y/N’s volume had rattled it loose.

Clark Kent’s entire body stiffened.

He looked up so slowly it was almost painful, his eyes wide with horror.

Y/N beamed, holding up the atrocious neon pink T-shirt she had grabbed at random—which had her own face on it.

Clark blinked. Once. Twice.

One of his coworkers visibly choked.

Y/N waved the T-shirt again, just in case he hadn’t fully absorbed the majesty of the situation.

“IT’S EVEN SIGNED!!” she added gleefully.

Clark inhaled deeply. Closed his eyes for one agonizing second. Then, very carefully, he put his paper down.

“…Miss Y/N,” he said, voice painfully measured. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Y/N skipped over, gently placing the T-shirt onto his desk like a gift. “I came to see the draft! It’s been a while, so I thought I’d stop by”

Y/N made herself very comfortable at Clark’s desk, leaning back in the chair like she worked there, completely ignoring the fact that the entire newsroom was still staring.

Clark could feel it—the weight of dozens of eyes on him, the absolute shock and confusion radiating from his coworkers. He had handled high-profile investigations, corrupt politicians, and last-minute front-page rewrites, but this?

This was a nightmare.

Slowly, he looked down at the pink T-shirt now sitting on his desk.He flipped it over, inspecting the size tag, and exhaled sharply through his nose.

“A women’s extra small?” he deadpanned.

Y/N glanced down at the shirt like she was seeing it for the first time. She blinked. Tilted her head. Then, with zero hesitation, she looked back at him and grinned.

“Well, you’re not my usual demographic, you know,” she said lightly. “But I had to for my biggest fan.”

A choked wheeze came from the far corner of the newsroom.

Clark didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Lois Lane.

His award-winning colleague. His sometimes friend, sometimes menace.

Clark turned his head just enough to confirm his worst fears.

There she was. Leaning against her desk, arms crossed, eyes glinting like she had just won the lottery. Her grin was catastrophic. Clark could feel the gears turning in her head. He had worked with Lois for years. He knew her better than most people. Which meant he knew exactly what was about to happen. She was going to milk this for all it was worth. Clark could already hear the insufferable teasing. The jokes. The headlines she’d make up on the spot. The fact that this would never die, that she would bring it up for the rest of time.

No.

Absolutely not.

Before she could get a word in, before this entire situation spiraled into an irreversible nightmare, Clark abruptly stood.

“Meeting room,” he announced.

Y/N blinked. “Huh?”

Clark grabbed a report off his desk and marched past her. “If you want to see the draft, we’re discussing it somewhere private.”

Y/N, clearly entertained, hopped up and followed him. “Oooo, very professional.”

Clark ignored her. He ignored the stares, ignored the smug delight radiating off Lois, ignored the way half the newsroom was already whispering.

This was damage control.

And the sooner he got Y/N out of the newsroom, the better.

—

Y/N sat down, her fingers lightly tapping against the cool glass table, her gaze flickering around the pristine meeting room.

“Fancy,” she murmured, raising an eyebrow at the walls of glass surrounding them. “Makes me feel like I’m about to be interrogated.”

She glanced up at Clark, who sat across from her with his usual composed, professional air. He slid the printed draft across the table toward her.

"You wanted to see it,” he said, his voice even, unreadable. “So, here it is.”

Y/N took the pages, flipping the first one dramatically between her fingers before settling into her seat.

Clark watched her closely, pretending to be relaxed, pretending this was just another routine part of his job. But inside, his thoughts were rapid-fire chaos.

She’s just reading the article. She won’t recognize you. She has no reason to.

Y/N, oblivious to his internal spiral, started reading. Her lips pressed together, brows furrowing in concentration. Then—

“Oh, wow,” she muttered, glancing up at him. “This makes me sound so pretentious.”

Clark exhaled sharply through his nose, already tired. “Y/N, that’s a direct quote.”

She gasped, clutching her chest like he had just personally insulted her. “You’re telling me I sound pretentious naturally?”

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m telling you that you said—” He leaned forward, reading straight from the page, “‘Art is only as good as the truth behind it. Without vulnerability, creativity is nothing but empty sound.’”

Y/N blinked. Then she snorted. “Yeah, okay, I did say that. That’s on me.”

Clark just nodded, resigned to his fate.

She continued reading, flipping through the pages at a leisurely pace, pausing only to make random commentary.

“Oh, I like this part.”

“Good.”

“Actually, you could’ve made me sound a little cooler here.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “I refuse to fabricate quotes.”

“Boring,” she muttered.

Another pause.

“Oof.”

Clark glanced up. “What?”

“This part.” She pointed at a paragraph. “The way you wrote this makes me sound so deep.”

He crossed his arms, tilting his head. “Are you saying you aren’t?”

Y/N smirked. “Oh, I absolutely am. I just didn’t expect you to capture it so well.”

Clark shook his head, letting out a quiet, amused exhale despite himself.

She was infuriating. But at the same time…

She made this easier.

As long as she was joking, as long as she was comfortable, she wasn’t suspicious.

And Clark?

He needed her not to be suspicious.

As Y/N flipped through the pages, making little comments, Clark tried his best to sit still, to act natural. But his thoughts wouldn’t settle.

The girl he had met all those years ago had been quiet. Thoughtful. She had carried herself with a kind of deliberate caution, as if she was still learning how much space she was allowed to take up in the world. Back then, every word she had spoken had felt measured, intentional. There had been something raw about her, something unguarded—like she was still in the process of figuring herself out.

This woman in front of him was something else entirely.

She was louder now. Bolder. She moved through the world like she belonged in every room she entered. Her energy was effortless, commanding, like she had not only learned how much space she was allowed to take up, but had decided it wasn’t enough and demanded more.

She was chaotic, teasing, almost cocky in the way she tossed words around so easily. Like she knew exactly what kind of reaction she was going to get before she even said anything.

Clark had not been prepared for that.

And, honestly?

He had barely survived the last hour.

Y/N laughed at one of her own comments, shaking her head as she flipped another page. Clark forced himself to keep his expression neutral, even as a single, crushing thought ran through his mind.

Never again.

Never again would he be in this situation.

Because the second she walked out of this meeting room, she would go back to her world, and he would stay in his. This was a one-time thing, a bizarre collision of past and present that would never happen again.

And thank God for that.

Because sitting across from her, pretending to be a stranger, pretending that he hadn’t once known her as someone else—

It was exhausting.

And then, just when he thought he had her figured out—

Y/N set the draft down, exhaling softly. When she looked at him, all the playfulness from before had faded.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said, voice quiet now. “You got me very well.”

Clark blinked.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do with that.

The sincerity in her voice caught him off guard. Clark hesitated, gripping his pen just a little tighter. Then, finally, he nodded. “I just wrote what I heard.”

Y/N studied him for a second, then tilted her head slightly. “Still. I read some of your other work. I know this isn’t what you usually do.”

Clark exhaled slowly. “No, it’s not.”

She smiled, small and knowing. “Maybe next time, you can sign something for me.”

Clark blinked. That—he hadn’t expected that.

Then, finally, he let out a quiet, almost relieved laugh. “I’ll think about it.”

Y/N grinned, standing up, gathering the pages as she made her way toward the door. Clark followed, holding it open for her, already mentally preparing to never deal with this again.

But as she stepped out, Y/N turned slightly, giving him one last look. And for just a second—barely even a second— Clark swore she looked like she was still thinking about something. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Then she flashed him one last playful smile, and the moment was gone.

Clark exhaled, watching the door swing shut behind her. And for the first time in weeks, he finally let himself think: It’s over.

—

Y/N exhaled, rolling her shoulders as the final note of the song faded into the quiet hum of the recording booth. She pulled the headphones off, running a hand through her hair as she stepped away from the mic.

Through the glass, she could see her producer giving her a thumbs-up, the rest of the team murmuring to each other while adjusting sound levels. It was late, and the session had stretched longer than planned. Her voice was tired, but she knew they got what they needed.

She should’ve felt good about it.

But as she pushed open the heavy soundproof door, stepping back into the main studio, the feeling didn’t come.

She loved music. She always had. But sometimes, being in a room full of people—even people she trusted—felt lonely. Like she was here, but not really part of anything.

Before she could dwell on it, her manager, Sam, approached, a knowing look already on her face.

Uh-oh.

“I don’t like that expression,” Y/N said immediately, swiping a water bottle off the console.

Sam smirked. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I know that look.” She unscrewed the cap, taking a sip before narrowing her eyes. “That’s the ‘I’m about to make you do something you don’t want to do’ look.”

A few of the producers chuckled. Sam didn’t deny it.

“Okay, hear me out,” she started. “The label wants to do a documentary.”

Y/N froze mid-sip. Then, very slowly, she swallowed, recapped the bottle, and set it down.

“No.”

Sam sighed. “Y/N—”

“Nope.” She turned to leave, fully prepared to escape the conversation entirely, but Sam grabbed her wrist, expecting the reaction.

“Okay, at least pretend to consider it before storming out,” Sam said, amused.

Y/N turned back, crossing her arms. “I don’t like cameras in my face all the time. That sounds miserable.”

“I get it,” Sam said. “But this would be different. Not a reality show, not a tour diary— a real documentary. Fans want to see more of you. The real you.”

Y/N scoffed. “The real me? You mean the one who eats cereal straight out of the box at 3 a.m. and impulse-buys weird lamps online?”

Sam ignored that. “Look, the label thinks this is important. Your music means a lot to people, but they don’t really know you. This would be a chance to show them something deeper.”

Y/N pursed her lips, already feeling cornered. “I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.”

“I know that. But you could control this,” Sam said, voice gentler now. “If you agree, you get full creative control. You decide what gets shown. What gets cut. The whole thing would be yours.”

That gave her pause.

“Full?” she repeated.

Sam nodded. “Full.”

Y/N glanced at the floor, shifting on her heels. That changed things. She hated the idea of being put under a microscope, but if she had control… maybe she could shape the narrative on her own terms.

And then, an idea clicked.

Slowly, she looked up, her mind already made up before she even spoke.

“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’ll do it.”

Sam blinked, startled by how quickly she agreed. “You will?”

“Yes.” She lifted a finger. “But—there’s a condition.”

Sam exhaled, already bracing herself. “Of course there is.”

Y/N grinned. “I want Clark Kent to be the lead journalist.”

Sam blinked. Then blinked again.

“…Clark Kent?”

“Yep.”

“As in The Daily Planet’s Clark Kent?”

“The one and only.”

Sam stared at her like she had grown a second head. “Y/N, I… that’s not his thing. He doesn’t do celebrity interviews. He writes about corruption and crime.”

“Exactly,” Y/N said, unbothered. “I don’t want an entertainment reporter. I want someone who actually listens.”

Sam still looked bewildered. “I—okay, why Clark Kent?”

Y/N hesitated.

Because he was normal with me.

Because he was nice.

Because he reminds me of the first friend I ever had.

She didn’t know how to explain it. She had people in her life—team members, industry friends, producers—but no one outside of it. No one who wasn’t tangled up in the fame, the business, the expectations.

Clark wasn’t impressed by her status. He had treated her like a person. And after so many years of feeling like a product, that had been… nice.

Maybe she could be friends with him.

Maybe she wanted to be.

She shrugged, playing it off. “I just think he’d be good at it.”

Sam sighed, rubbing her temples. “This is the weirdest request you’ve ever made.”

“Not true.”

Sam gave her a look. “You once demanded only blue M&Ms backstage.”

“That was one time, and I was testing if anyone actually read the rider.”

Sam shook her head. “Okay, whatever, we’ll reach out to him. No promises, though.”

Y/N smirked. “Oh, he’ll say yes.”

Sam narrowed her eyes. “How do you know?”

Y/N stretched, grabbing her water bottle again. “Because he won’t be able to resist a highly interesting investigative project.”

Sam snorted. “Right. That’s definitely why.”

Y/N ignored her, taking a sip. “Plus, I think Perry White is a secret fan. Some account named Perry_NotWhite has been liking all my instagram pics the second they come out for months”

Sam choked on her drink. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I am. And the best part? He leaves comments like ‘real music’ and ‘finally, some talent’ under my posts.”

Sam covered her face. “Oh my God, at least you get your wish.”

—

Clark Kent sat at his desk, typing up notes for a story when he heard it.

The sound that never led to anything good.

“Kent! My office. Now.”

Clark groaned internally. Not again.

Keeping his expression neutral, he saved his work, straightened his tie, and headed toward Perry’s office. He could already tell, whatever this was, he wasn’t going to like it.

Perry didn’t even glance up as Clark stepped inside, instead tossing a thick folder onto the desk.

“You’re covering a new assignment,” Perry said gruffly.

Clark frowned. Red flag. Perry wasn’t looking at him directly, and that never meant anything good.

Cautiously, Clark picked up the folder and flipped it open.

The words at the top made his stomach drop.

Y/N – Documentary Proposal

Clark froze.

No.

No, absolutely not.

“Perry,” Clark started, already shaking his head. “No.”

“Yes,” Perry said, not even entertaining an argument.

Clark set the file down like it was radioactive. “I already did one story on her. That was more than enough.”

Perry scoffed. “Yeah, well, she specifically requested you.”

Clark’s eye twitched. “She what?”

“You heard me,” Perry said, leaning back in his chair. “Label’s doing a documentary. She has full creative control. She picked you to be the lead journalist.”

Clark stared.

His brain short-circuited for a full three seconds before he managed, “…Why?”

“How the hell should I know?” Perry huffed. “Maybe she likes you. Maybe she thinks you’re good at your job. Maybe she just wants to see you suffer.”

Clark was strongly leaning toward that last option.

Perry sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, Kent, this is a big deal. Exclusive access, behind-the-scenes, high-profile stuff. The kind of thing that would bring in serious readership.”

Clark folded his arms. “I cover real news. This isn’t—”

“This is real news,” Perry cut in. “A story about one of the most influential artists of our time, written by one of my best reporters? I can already hear the Pulitzer people whispering.”

Clark deadpanned. “I can assure you, they’re not.”

Perry ignored him. “Listen, Kent. It’s a few months of work. A couple interviews. A few trips. You do your job, write a damn good story, and then you never have to see her again.”

Clark exhaled slowly.

A few months.

A few months of being around her.

Of hoping she never really looks at him. Never puts the pieces together.

Clark glanced back down at the file. Y/N.

She had been chaos incarnate the last time they saw each other. She had bullied him in front of his entire newsroom. She had grinned as his dignity died a slow, painful death.

And now, she wanted him to work with her for months?

Absolutely not.

Clark closed the file.

“I’m not doing it.”

Perry laughed.

Not a ha-ha funny laugh. A that’s adorable that you think you have a choice laugh.

“Oh, yes, you are.”

Clark gritted his teeth. “Perry—”

“Let me put it this way, Kent,” Perry interrupted, voice dry. “You can either spend the next few months interviewing one of the biggest stars on the planet, or you can spend them covering every city hall budget meeting in a fifty-mile radius.”

Clark stared.

Perry smirked.

“…That’s evil,” Clark muttered.

“Thank you,” Perry said, completely unbothered.

Clark sighed deeply, dragging a hand down his face. He could feel the last of his resistance evaporating.

This was happening.

Y/N was going to be in his life again.

And this time?

He wasn’t sure he was going to survive it.

#clark kent x reader #clark kent #smallville #smallville clark kent #smallville clark kent x reader #clark kent imagine #dcu #superman #superman x reader #kal el

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lullabyes22-blog · 5 months ago

Text

Snippet - Ghosts - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi finds connections between past and future...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx's room, though. That's a different story.

Vi pushes the door inward. The hinges creak. Pale greenish matchsticks of light fall through the widening gap. They strike the mobiles of scrap-metal and colored glass hanging from the ceiling. Fractals of hypnotic blue and pink dance everywhere.

In the shifting ambiance, Vi makes out the room's dimensions. A vanity, a wardrobe, a chaise and a desk. The bed's an extravagant four-poster fit for a princess: all curlicued brasswork and flounced trimmings. The sort of bed Vi and Powder used to dream about as little girls, staring awestruck at old Piltie glossies scrounged from the junkyard.

Except there's a sad, abandoned quality to the fittings: pillows jammed against the headboard, sheets stirred into restless disarray, stuffed animals taking refuge under the mattress.

It's as if the owner's been snatched from slumber in the middle of the night.

Or swallowed by her own nightmares.

Vi steps inside. Her bare feet sink into the plush rugs. Between her toes, there's a ticklish layer of dust. The room, colorfully cozy, is nonetheless steeped in neglect. Either Jinx hasn't spent much time here the last few days, or Silco's staff have orders not to intrude.

Both, Vi guesses.

Crossing inside, she can't help but stop to pick up the sheeny black leather jacket, dumped in a heap on the carpet, and straighten it. It's the same one her sister routinely sloughs off in her frenetic pacing through the Aerie's corridors. The weave of the silk lining is redolent of chemicals. The acrid whiff of gunpowder, the piercing bite of turpentine, the waxy fug of crayons—all overlaid by the musk of a wild night out.

Yet beneath the olio of adult grime, a sweet, soft note persists.

Eau de Urchin.

A pang of longing seizes Vi's heart. She lifts the jacket, burying her face in its folds. The scent that fills her nostrils is pure Powder. Redolent; unmistakable. For the briefest moment, the years fall away. Powder is in her arms, her heartbeat is music against Vi's ribs, and the world's a safe place.

It's a wish, and Vi holds on to it with every fiber of her being.

Then she sneezes, and the moment shivers away.

Laying the jacket aside, she refocuses on the room. It's a Jinxian miscellany: cluttered, crammed, kaleidoscopic. But also nothing like Jinx at all.

In Vi's mind, she'd conjured a tiny replica of the Aerie. A hotbox of destruction, filled to the rafters with lethal gizmos. A mirror, in short, of Jinx's psyche: distorted and dangerous and dazzling.

Instead, she's fallen into a time-warp. The décor is a mishmash of hard-edged glamor and girlish whimsy: pastel plushies warring with bold posters of sultry-eyed cabaret stars; an antique dollhouse next to a pair of neon-pink go-go boots; a rosy little lampshade offset by a skull-themed lava lamp.

And the walls.

Good gods, the walls.

Every square inch is plastered with pictures. Many are Powderish crayon drawings, exuberantly signed with a monkey motif. Others are Jinxian marvels, surreally skewed. The subject-matter is a grab-bag: comic book heroines kicking ass and flaunting cleavage, cute little animals cannibalizing each other, fiendish caricatures of chem-barons reduced from bloodthirsty tyrants to fawning buffoons.

There is also a riot of photographs. The sort that'd give Caitlyn's forensics team a conniption. Plenty are polaroids Jinx obviously snapped as she'd stalked the streets, their backgrounds murky with the suggestion of flaming wrecks, smoking guns and dead men. Vi imagines she kept a record of her most prolific heists, back when she'd been Silco's top gun, and the Lanes had quaked in terror at the mere mention of her name. Others, more innocuous, are a potluck of the crew—Ran, Lock, Dustin and sometimes a shadowed Sevika—in moments of hilarity, brutality, or simple, undistilled banality: target practicing with beer-bottles, ghoulishly lit with neon during poker games, posing like big game hunters with oversized trophies of squid at the harbor or sump-vole at the Deadlands.

In all, there's a dysfunctional joie-de-vivre. Not family, but the camaraderie born from different lives bound by a single cause.

Not, Vi senses, that Jinx cares.

Each photo, badly angled, imprecise, speaks of a childish ardency to be included in the fun, even as she's excluded from the frame. The crew's not her focal point; nor is the cause. Only a bone-deep dread of being left behind.

Then there's Silco.

Silco, Silco, Silco.

His presence dominates the walls. Even in the smallest scrap of artwork bears his imprint. A set of mismatched eyes coalescing from a cloud of stinging-red ink. Somber graphite slashes of a scarred profile in chiaroscuro. Impressionistic smears of an upturned collar, a pristine cravat, a long-fingered hand. In one, he's a long-legged sprawl on a throne of skulls. In another, an elegant silhouette by a window. In a third, a floating shadow at sea, the city rising up to engulf him like teeth.

A man, a monster. Sometimes both.

But always, always there.

In the photographs, his face is never in full focus. He's a blur of movement, half-turned away, or angled just out of reach. A trick of shadow, a distortion of light. In the rare instances Jinx captures his face, his expression seems caught in a series of fractured emotions: a grimace of annoyance, an unguarded frown, the tail end of a smile.

It's as if he's trying to escape from his own portrait. And Jinx, in turn, is trying to hold him in place. To capture a single, solitary truth, in a single, solitary moment.

It never works. Silco always slips away.

Except once.

It's a photostrip, like from a booth at the carnival. Four squares, two bodies. Jinx, plainly perched on Silco's knee, her arms passed around his neck. Her eyes are sparkly as lit fuses; her smile is ravenously wide. In her embrace, Silco is more subdued. He sits, not idly slouched but straightbacked, as if to keep their faces on a level. In the first square, he's plainly irritated to be there. His expression is walled-off, the shark-eye a chilled blank. In the next, something in his temperature shifts, so infinitesimal that Vi wouldn't have caught it if not for the contrast between the frozen frames. A softening of the good eye, a thawing of the bad. By the third, his arm's encircling the slipping weight of Jinx's giggling body, as if to keep her from falling. By the fourth, their heads come closer, temple-to-temple, and he's smiling.

Smiling.

It's a gut-shock, that smile. Not the smile of a schemer biding his time, or a monster slinking through the dark. It's a smile of simple, unqualified human happiness, stolen from a man unwilling to be caught off-guard but unable to resist the thrill.

And it's not Silco's smile.

Not entirely. There's something about the curve of his lips, the way it softens the eerie luminosity of his shark-eye, and melts the scarred angles of his face, that's so familiar it hurts. Vi's seen that smile before. Seen it refracted through the lens of a whiskey glass in dreams, and split into a swarm of flaming facsimiles in nightmares.

It's Blut's smile.

And Jinx's, mirroring, is Powder's.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #asks #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane jinx #jinx #arcane vi #vi #arcane violet #violet

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foreverl0stinmymind · 3 months ago

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Obey me! Alphabet NSFW headcannons!

Character: Lucifer

A: aftercare (What they're like after sex)

He becomes unusually gentle. Makes sure you're okay, he didn't hurt you, and you enjoyed yourself. B: Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and their partner's)

He loves the way his partner's eyes go wide when he thrusts in. C: cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He doesn't really play with it, but he loves to give creampies. And his loads are big, since he doesn't cum often. D: Dirty secret

He's fucking Diavolo. E: Experience (how much experience do they have?)

He lacks experience, but is very skilled despite that. After all, he must be flawless in all areas. F: Favorite position

Mating press, or bent over his desk. Doggy style is another he enjoys. G: Goofy (are they more humorus? Or serious?)

Dead serious. H: Hair (how groomed are they? Shaved? Trimmed? Does the carpet match the drapes?)

He shaves, and there's no way anyone knows what color that hair would be if he didn't. I: intimacy (how romantic are they?)

It's very intimate, but not in the way it is with Asmo. You just feel so connected as he roughly pounds into you. J: jack off (masturbation)

He doesn't. He simply controls his libido. K: kink

He's a Dom, for the most part. You can make him flustered and subby, but its so much easier to let him top. Leather, whips, bondage, all the sterotypical BDSM stuff. He wants to control his partner.

Also, he's a Daddy Dom. L: location (where do they like to do it?)

His bedroom, but if you're really cute, he'll do it in his office. M: motivation (what turns them on?)

He's pretty easy to turn on, due to being so pent up all the time. The issue is relaxing him into expressing the fact that he's turned on. N: No (Things they won't do, hard limits)

He isn't into anything involving his humiliation. O: oral (do they prefer to give or receive? Are they good at it?)

He loves oral. There's so much power in it. He prefers receiving, but only slightly. Having someone on their knees in front of him just does something to him. But at the same time, watching someone gasp at the pleasure he's giving them, and attempt to scramble away... And of course, he's amazing. P: pace (how fast are they? Slow an sensual, or fast and rough?)

Fast and rough. This man is pent up, he needs to just use his partner's body for some relief. Q: quickie (how do they feel about quickies?)

They make up 99% of his sex life. Fast sessions with Diavolo, quick times with whoever he can find... He doesn't like them as much, but he has no time for more. R: risks (how likely are they to take risks/try something new?)

He's willing to try something new, as long as he understands it. S: stamina (how long can they last? How many rounds?)

Forever, it feels. He's pent up, after all. He can usually cum pretty fast if he wants to, or can last longer. And he can go load after load after load. You're the perfect toy for him to absolutely drain his balls into. T: toys (do they own any toys? Do they use them on a partner, or themselves?)

He doesn't own toys, but enjoys using them on others, if his partner has some. U: unfair (how much they like to tease)

He teases a fair bit, once in the moment. It makes him feel powerful. V: volume (how loud they are/what sounds they make)

He's almost silent, Apart from some muffled breathy moans. Also, he whimpers, but he finds it super embarassing. W: wild card (random NSFW headcannon)

He likes to wear his gloves during sex. X: X-ray (what's under their clothes?)

There is no way he's under 8 inches. Massive, and thick. It'll rearrange all your intestines. Y: Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Very high, since he rarely gets relief. But he controls it. Z: Zzz. (How fast they fall asleep afterwards)

He makes sure his partner is okay, but then this poor exhausted man usually gets up to continue work. IF his partner is super clingy, and he's not busy, he'll cuddle them while he sleeps.

Links for other characters:

Mammon

Levi

Satan

Asmo

Beelzebub

Belphie

Diavolo

Barbatos

Simeon

Solomon

#obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me headcannon #obey me nsft #alphabet nsft headcannons

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keravnous · 2 years ago

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the hunter! ; tangerine x fem!reader (smut, 18+)

read pt. 1 here | read pt. 2 here | read pt. 3 here

Tangerine expected someone else - but he'll do just fine with you, too.

(Based on that one scene from the Kraven The Hunter trailer where he turns around in that chair with the loaded crossbow)

warnings: kids, this is dark; this is like the darkest version of tangerine my brain has cooked up thus far; he is a sociopath by source sooo: manipulation; dub-con/non-con, coercion, gun kink, anger issues, crying, blood, murder/injuries, daddy kink, masturbation, slight dumbification, name-calling, pet names, corruption kink, spit kink

SO I SAW THE KRAVEN THE HUNTER TRAILER AND I REALLY COULDNT HELP MYSELF

"You fucking asshole!", you scream at the top of your lungs, bursting through the large door of your husband's office. It slams back into the lock just as you come to a halt on the expensive fur carpet in the middle of the spacious room.

His chair is facing the wall, a lit cigarette slowly glimming away in the ashtray. It lights up your rage like a match to gasoline.

"I am fucking speaking to you, you fucking dickhead! Can't you keep your dirty-ass dick out of that disgusting bitch you call a secretary for one day?", you are fuming, heart racing as you stomp down with your left heel, throwing your expensive and ridiculously small purse at him, missing the chair by nearly a whole foot. It crashes into the massive painting hanging behind the desk, where it leaves a nasty cut before falling to ground uselessly.

Your husband does not react and that, oh that, that get's you going alright, makes your blood race through your veins so hard you can hear it in your ears.

"I am fucking speaking to you -- turn the fuck around you coward!", you yell, hands clutched to tight fists, your jewellery cutting into the flesh.

Slowly, comedically slowly even, the chair turns. The man sitting in it puts his feet up on the table, legs clad in an expensive navy pin-stripe as he crosses them. And that --

That is not your husband.

The man, sitting in a chair that clearly isn't his, in an office that surely doesn't belong to him, is lean and a lot more handsome than the man you so reluctantly married a few years ago. His face is expressionless, bland like piece of paper, except for the anger pooling around his eyes. He is wearing an expensive looking pin-stripe suit and his hair is neatly combed back, 70s porn stache trimmed just as carefully - the only thing that looks out of place is the blood splattered on his face like freckles, one large splatter on his left cheek.

He is also pointing a gun at you. An actual fucking gun.

"And who the fuck are you, Lady?", he says, casually, but a little irritated nonetheless.

You choke on your own tongue, backing up a little. This is not good. It has your fight or flight kicking in, muscles in your back and legs tensing up and brain going numb, fingers starting to tingle.

"Don't ya move an inch", he growls, his gun following your movement. You freeze. You wonder if he will actually shoot you. You wonder what he is doing here.

"I-, I--"

The man rolls his eyes at you - pretty, pretty eyes; blue like the sea - and huffs out an exasperated sigh.

"Fuckin' answer me." His tone sends shivers down your spine and, if you did not already do so by his gun, you now know for sure that he is not playing around.

"I-", you take a deep breath, voice shaking and thin, "I- I am Markov's wife?"

It comes out more like a question, than an answer, really. You hope it will do; you hope he is happy with what is the - for you, rather sad - truth.

Tangerine cocks an eyebrow, leans back in the leather chair, gun still pointing at you. "'S that so?"

"Y-yes", you gulp.

"Didn't know he had a wife", he mutters, more to himself, really.

Tangerine can feel how the wheels in his head start to turn - the intel didn't suggest a marriage. It genuinely surprises him - not only because people in this profession rarely have spouses - but also because the young lady in front of him is way too pretty. Angelic, even. Too good for a boastful, careless cockroach of a criminal like Markov is. And he wants her, wants to own her. Wants to take take take. He wonders just how quickly she will break.

You, in the meantime, sense an opening.

"W-what do you want? I can g-give you money", you hastily stumble over the words, anxiety crawling up your spine, "A-all of it!"

The man raises his eyebrows, snorts amused. "No, love, I don't need your money."

"A-anything, p-please - just, just", and the dam breaks, eyes tearing up as your eyes zero in on the gun, "Just please d-don't kill me."

Something in his eyes changes, a dark shadow dancing over his face, eyebrows shooting up in surprise and then he pulls back the hammer of his revolver with his thumb. Your knees buckle a little as you hear the bullet snapping in place.

"Care to say that again, eh?" - Anything for your life, really.

"P-please don't kill me", you nearly sob, voice small and quiet, and you are ready, willing to put it all in there, "Please, I am begging you, Mister. I- I don't know why you're here, this - this is one big misunderstanding, I don't know anything about my husband's business. J-just let me go, please."

He does not move. You don't want to die, you are young, you still have a life to live. Maybe you will finally file for divorce. Maybe you will buy a house in Europe. Maybe, maybe, maybe -- You don't want to die.

"Please."

Tangerine says nothing for a moment, then his lips tilt up. "Tell me, love, d'ya beg for him that prettily, too? Or 's that just f'me?"

You blink. "What?", you blurt out.

"Jus' lemme hear it again, sugar - sounded so sweet, that."

You do not know what game he is playing but you really aren't ready to die yet either, so you give in.

"Please", you beg, looking at him with big, teary eyes - the barrel of the revolver stares back, a small black hole of ultimate death -, "Please, let me live." His lips tilt up and you decide to make a move on it, catch him off-guard.

"I-I'd do anything, I give you whatever you want!", you are growing desperate now, your brain trying its hardest to come up with something that will safe your ass. And that, that has his eyebrows knotting together.

The man seems to mull it over for a short while, eyes you up and down. Your skin tingles with it, feels numb and like it is on fire at the same time. "Did ya just say Anything, love?"

"I-I did, y-yes", and your voice grows desperate, "I'd do anything - just don't kill me, please, what do you want, I'll do --"

You ramble on and Tangerine rolls his eyes at you, exhales annoyed.

"Fuckin' shut up", he growls and you do, chin quivering a little with the tears still pooling in the corners of your eyes. You blink them away, sniffling a little.

"Here's what we're gonna do, love", he smiles cooly, shows his teeth like a predator, eyes drilling into you, "We're gonna have a little fun. And once we're done, I'll let ya go. How does that sound? Agreed?"

You have a suspicion what fun means, both, painfully clear and enforced by the way his gaze wanders over your body and you gulp. You really don't have a choice now, do you?

So you can hear yourself say: "Y-yes."

"Yes --?", he lifts his gun a little, gestures with it, "C'mon be a good girl."

Your eyes widen. You are not stupid; you know what he most likely wants to hear - you have met men like him before your marriage - and despite it making your stomach tingle a little it also makes painfully clear what he is imagining as A little fun.

Your voice is small, fingers fumbling with the hem of your tweed blazer. "Y-yes, Daddy", shivers run down your spine as his eyes turn dark dark dark, gaze transfixed by you and then he barks out a mean laugh.

"Fuckin' hell", what?, "I wanted you to thank me, you dumb fuckin' thing, not be a complete 'n utter slut about it."

Shame burns on your cheeks and you scramble for words - anything to say, to excuse or justify yourself - as mortification swallows you whole, crawls up your spine and mingles with your fear, has your head swimming.

"What a poor lil' airhead ya are", he grins at you meanly, "But I like it, go 'head, keep callin' me that. Probably gets you all wet, dunnit?"

You shake your head wildly - "N-no" - bottom lip quivering a little and he knows you are lying.

And Tangerine starts to grow bored. He has been feeling quite bored for a good while - since he blew Markov's lights out to be exact. He wishes he had not done it so soon, would have rather tied him up and let him watch how he has his way with his wife. Tangerine sighs, puffs his cheeks and let’s go off a breath dramatically, looks you straight in the eye.

"Alright, listen. I just don't have all day, so ya better get going, before I pop ya too", he waves his revolver at you, "Get undressed. 'n do it slowly."

You nod - I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die - fingers brush over the first button of your blazer, as he interrupts you: "Ah ah ah, what d'ya say?"

Your eyelids flutter and your knees feel like giving in. "Y-yes, Daddy."

Tangerine hums deep in his throat. "Atta girl - now keep going."

With shaking hands, cold sweat pooling between your fingers, you start to slowly unbutton the first few buttons of your costume's blazer. It's a Chanel tweed set, since you had just been out with some friends for lunch, before one of them told you about what had she'd seen yesterday. Part of you wishes you had never left the restaurant, just shrugged it off and ordered another drink instead. You don't even know why you fight for this marriage - you never really spoke to him; he never touched you or even really looked at you - not that you minded that much. But it's losing your status, the money he brings in, that you'd miss and thus, you had grown a nice pair of manicured claws over time.

See where that got you.

Your blazer falls to the ground with a thud and Tangerine licks his lips. And that is when another part of you, very quietly at the back of your mind, is a little glad you came here. It's in his eyes mostly, a strange and unknown hunger, like an animal gone wild. And it ignites something in you, shoots pleasure straight down your loins and has your breath hitching.

No one, no one has ever looked at you like that, like he is close to dashing over the desk and swallowing you whole, eating you up and ripping you apart with razor-sharp teeth.

Your blouse follows next, as you pop open the first few buttons, pulling the thin fabric out of your short tweed skirt. It flows to the ground shortly after, leaves you in your bra, skirt, and heels. Tangerine does not give you as much as a few seconds to accommodate to being partially exposed to him, his eyes gleaming dangerously.

"Skirt's next, darlin'."

You inhale audibly through your lips and Tangerine chuckles quietly at that as you unhook the clasp on your skirt, slooowly pulling down the zipper at the side. You feel ridiculous, like a very bad caricature of a housewife stripping for her husband. It's nothing like you imagined it to be, fingers buried deep inside of you, imagining your husband to be someone else, someone prettier, someone who valued you - someone who you'd love to get dirty for. You don't feel sexy or tempting - but to him you certainly do look the part, the way your body quivers and shakes, all shy by avoiding his gaze.

The expensive tweed falls to the floor and you step out of the fabric of your clothing, pooling around your feet. You gulp, carefully looking up at him. You wonder if he likes what he sees, if it's enough for him to spare your life, to --

Tangerine's heart skips a beat, a sharp noise erupting in his ears. The lingerie you are wearing, a stunning pale-pink lace set, hugs your curves nicely and leaves nothing to the imagination - with the way your nipples poke through the bra, the string cupping your cunt, dipping a little into the cleft of your folds.

He can also see the damp patch on your lacey string and it makes his dick rock-hard, pressing against his slacks. He lifts an eyebrow, as he looks at you. "Who would've thought", and you blush, swallowing, "He married a common whore."

The humiliation burns on your cheeks, turns them red and your mouth goes dry, but there's also fresh wetness pooling between your legs at his words. Oh, you are fucked.

He reads you like an opened book, watches you shifting uncomfortably. "Say it", he whispers softly.

You swallow, licking your lips, before replying quietly: "I am a common whore - Daddy."

"That you are, darlin', aren't ya", Tangerine grins, "Get that bra off, show me what ya got."

You reach back and unclasp the soft lace, pulling the strings over your shoulders and down your arms, carelessly throwing the fabric to the side. Tangerine tilts his head a little, his eyes assessing your tits. He seems satisfied, waves his revolver at you.

"Touch yourself, I wanna see those pretty tits movin'", swallowing, your hands come up, damp with cold sweat and cup your tits, bouncing and squeezing them a little, pressing them together. You do not dare looking at him, gaze focussed on the desk instead, hands brushing over your breasts.

You just started rolling your left nipple between your index finger and thumb, gasping quietly, the slight pain and pleasure running straight between your legs as he suddenly moves. You flinch, arms immediately clutching around your exposed chest while he gets up, deliberately strolls over to you.

Maybe he is not satisfied, he surely isn't, it must've been too little, not enough he's gonna kill you, kill you, kill you --

"Such perfect fuckin' tits", he weighs his revolver in his hands, the metal of it clinking against his rings, and closes in on you. "Have ya been touched often?", the barrel of the gun hooks underneath your chin and your lift your head with it obediently, looking up at him. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, your eyes big and teary again. You don't think he's one to slip on the trigger but it still has anxiety crawling up your spine - don't kill me, don't kill me, don't kill me --

"Answer me, ya stupid twat."

You just wish he would take that fucking gun away from your face.

"N-no", you answer truthfully. The last time you had sex was literal ages ago, in your time at Harvard. Since your parents had married you off you haven't been touched by another fucking human being, assured so by the constant observation of your husband's men. He was allowed to cheat, but God forbid you had some fun. So, you had retreated to fucking yourself, lacking any physical contact, making every single time you masturbated feel shallow and incomplete. Tangerine watches the way your face changes as you reminisce.

"Oh, ya poor thing", he coos, his hand coming up to cup your cheek and you look up at him, "Bet that felt horrible, didn't it?"

And you nod, his thumb caressing your cheek and you get a first good look at him. He is really pretty. The blood looks good on him, bright red in a glooming contrast to his blue eyes. Your head swims with it a little. "How did that make ya feel, eh?"

"Lonely", you croak, before you can stop yourself, a few tears running down your cheeks, pooling between his fingers and rings.

He hums in his throat. "Bet it did", something dances across his eyes, "D'ya want someone to take care of ya? D'ya want to stop feeling so bloody lonely all the time?"

The truth behind his words runs you over like a freight train, barely leaves you wondering with how he got that about you so fast, brain erupting in a static noise.

You do. You feel lonely, locked up in a golden cage of money and bodyguards, with no one opening its door to spend some time with the little bird inside.

"Y-yeah", you whisper, blinking away the tears.

"Wanna know something, love?", and you nod, carefully, not to spook him into shooting, "I could be that person. How's that sound, eh? I could keep ya safe -"

Tangerine's hand leaves your cheek and touches your waist instead, a feather-light touch that has goosebumps spreading all over your body.

"I could touch ya -", his hand sprawls over your lower back, "'N keep you happy, get ya lots'n lots of pretty, sparkly things."

Your breath hitches, brain slowly growing mushy because - because, despite the gun underneath your chin, that does sound heavenly. It sounds easy. Painless. Better. A little exciting even.

"C'mon, how's that sound?", he coos, hand running over your back, to your side again, thumb toying with the hem of your string.

"Sounds so good, Daddy", you sigh, images of a new life, a different life flashing by.

"Mh, I know it does. I could take you with me, make ya mine. You'd love that, wouldn't ya?", his fingers dance over your abdomen, dipping lower and between your legs. His thumb presses down on the damp patch, rubs over your clit, his bracelet rustling.

And it is like your brain has completely given up, surrendering yourself to this very handsome man. But you just can't since - "I-I am married", you croak, a little helplessly, like you don't quite know what to make out of that either.

He does, anger flickering behind his eyes like someone pulled a lighter out and ignited his gaze.

Tangerine growls, the barrel of his revolver pressing against your temple roughly, thumb rubbing smaller circles over your clit through your dampened string, "You belong to me now, d'ya understand? There's nothing he can do about it, y'hear me?"

"Y-yes Daddy, I do", you whine, eyelids fluttering and small tears running down your cheeks.

"Oh, stop fuckin' crying - I can feel how wet ya little cunt's gotten, fuckin' slut", and you blink up at him, a small gasp escaping your mouth as your gazes meet through teary eyes.

You just look so fucking hot to him. Adrenaline from his kill still pumps through his veins and it makes him so so mad, his ears ringing. He feels like he is about to fucking burst and your tears only spurr him on, making something in his stomach growl, stretching its claws out.

Tangerine is too far gone already, everything tinted red red red and he just wants to lash at you, bury his teeth in your throat and end your life like that, bury his dick deep inside of you and feel you twitch around him while blood spurts from your open wound, flows from your mouth. He wants.

But you are also so very very pretty to him, tears running down your cheeks, lips plush and quivering a little and nipples hard like glass, testing his patience with the way they poke out at him.

"Or actually, don't", his lips curl up into a cold smile, "I like to see you cry, hm? Y'real pretty like this."

And you sob heavily, his words making your head swim. Pretty pretty pretty - when was the last time someone called you pretty?

"Oh, darlin'", Tangerine whispers, gun grazing your temple, thumb rubbing small and hard circles on your clit, "Don't be hurt by Daddy, hm? I don't mean to hurt ya, now do I?"

"N-no", you shake your head a little, "Di-didn't hurt m-me."

"Mhm, you are such a good girl, aren't ya? Never hurt by your new Daddy, eh?"

You shake your head again but this time, his face grows stern. "Ah ah ah, words, love. Use your words."

"N-no, y-you could never hurt me."

"Yeah, I couldn't, how could I? I can say anything to you, call you whatever I like and you would never be hurt, would ya?"

And you do not want him to be angry, do not want him to think that he could hurt you - so that he doesn't accidentally slip and does just that - and you notice that fresh tears stream down your cheeks.

"I-I wouldn't, no", you blink away the tears and Tangerine smiles at you.

"That's right. I can call you whatever I like", his thumb speeds up and you moan sweetly, "What d'ya think? Doesn't slut fit you well?"

He says it with such adoration that you cannot help but sigh, nodding. "Y-yeah, it does", you reply quietly, ready to wear it with pride.

"Alright then, slut - take that sorry excuse of a panty off."

You follow his command, shaking fingers hooking underneath the hem of your string, pulling it down slowly.

"Faster, you dumb fuckin' slut."

"Uh-huh", you mumble, nodding, and hastily shoving your string down your legs until it falls down and pools at your feet - a pretty pink on a bright fur carpet. Now, with being fully naked, you feel incredibly vulnerable.

You still wonder if he really won't hurt you. You decide that if you stick by rules, he most likely won't.

Tangerine slowly walks around you, like a predator surrounding its prey, then comes to a halt behind you. The barrel of his revolver presses against the nape of your neck and then glides over your body - down down down - cold metal against warm skin, and then he reaches around your waist. The gun grazes your abdomen and slips between your legs, barrel running cooly through your folds. And you can't hold back the moan crawling up your throat, parting your lips, has you inhaling sharply.

"Yeah, that's more like it, innit?", he rubs the cold metal along your folds, "I can fuckin' smell how wet your cunt is."

And you can hear it, too - the way your pussy squelches obscenely around the barrel, wetness dripping down your thighs. Your knees buckle as the metal rubs along your clit, has you moaning shyly.

Tangerine wraps one arm around you, holds you upright with your back pressed flush against his chest and your heartbeat starts to pick up as you feel his hard dick pressing against your ass, hotly through his slacks.

"Lift your leg, love", he whispers, moustache brushing over the shell of your ear and you comply like you are a fucking robot, and his large hand wraps around the back of your knee, holds your leg up. You mewl as the gun wanders further, barrel brushing against your hole and then dips in with barely any effort, so so slick by your juices and your breath hitches, whole body trembling as the cold metal enters you.

"O-oh", you gasp dumbly, your body sacking back against him. The barrel isn't too big, barely larger than a finger, and rather short but it still feels - good? Tangerine starts to fuck you with it slowly, moves the gun in and out of you and your head swims with the thought, that he could just pull the trigger and blow your lights out, could leave you here bleeding to death.

Your legs start to shake, anxiety and lust mingling dangerously, and in a desperate attempt for any leverage your hand shoots up, reaches back and finds the back of his neck, clutches onto it, fists the pristine white banker's collar of his shirt.

"Yeah, that feels fuckin' good, dunnit?"

"Uh-huh", you breathe, the cold metal pumping in and out of you has lust pooling your stomach and you look down to where his tattooed arm wraps around your waist, where the black sparrow and the golden bracelet vanish along your pussy - watching the way you can see the grip and trigger moving against your folds.

You should be scared, afraid of him and afraid of the gun fucking into you - but you just aren't. Lust washes over your brain, makes everything go just a little hazy, wraps you in cotton candy - hot and syrupy, sweet.

"My god - shit", you breathe, your cunt aching to be touched and you wish for the barrel to just be a bit longer, able to fuck you properly, reach the parts only his cock could - the one that's pressing against your ass hotly, pulsing through his slacks. Instead, you roll your hips once, best you can with his iron grip on your thigh, meeting the thrusts of his gun.

It has you whining, the way the cold metal presses against your hot and slick skin, throwing your head back, resting on his shoulder. Tangerine moves in, like a hungry animal, lips and stache brushing over your exposed shoulder, tickling the naked skin while his eyes wander down your body - taking in your desperate thrusts, bouncing tits and hard nipples. You are fucking hot, maybe the hottest thing he has seen in a while, hotter than the tarts he fucks sometimes.

You seem clean - innocent and virginal and it nearly makes him bust a nut thinking about you: on all fours crawling towards him, sucking his cock until your throat bruises and you are a crying mess, tied to the bedposts taking him like a good fucking personal sex doll would. He groans against your skin, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your leg.

The sound has you vibrating. It leaves you wanting, wanting to feel more, to feel full; to hear more of him, more of where that came from. You can't hold yourself back. "D-daddy", you moan, the feeling of his hard dick pressing against you and the warmth that his firm chest radiates leaving you a little dizzy, "N-need your cock."

Tangerine chuckles against your shoulders. "Oh, now you're wantin' something, eh? What about me, love? What about our little deal?"

"'S for y-you, too", you whine helplessly.

"Oh no no no", he sounds genuinely amused, presses the gun snugly against your aching cunt and your legs tremble, "Don't ya try to get me all soft 'n shit, hm? You'll lose, love, you'll lose."

His tongue darts out, licks a fat stripe over your neck, testing your sweat mingling with your expensive perfume. It takes all his willpower not bury his teeth into your soft flesh until he draws blood and life fades from your eyes.

"N-need m-more", you gasp, hole clenching around the short barrel, cunt needy and aching and squirting against his fingers and the gun in anticipation.

"Well, then -- Why don't ya show me how you got yourself off all those years, hm? Show me how to work that sweet cunt of yours", his lips brush over the nape of your neck and your knees buckle at the soft touch, "Show Daddy how to do it."

Tangerine pulls the gun out of you and you gasp, eyelids fluttering, hole clenching around nothing at the loss, wanting the friction back and he slowly puts your leg back down. His hand brushes up your thigh and waist, rests on your shoulder, presses down a little. And you turn to puddy in his hands, knees giving in and you sink down, landing on your knees with a soft thud.

The fur feels soft around your knees and you lay your head back obediently, looking up at him through hazy eyes. You can see him swallowing, licking his lips. His revolver drips with your juices.

His hand grabs your chin, slight pressure on your throat and then he moves in, rubs his crotch over the back of your head. You can feel his hard, big dick against your skull and you can't help your mind from wandering there, wondering how might he taste.

"Feel that? That's what ya fuckin' slutty behaviour does t'Daddy", he bows down, grins at you and then, without warning, spits.

You flinch as his saliva hits your face, lands across your forehead and you cheeks. His thumb spreads it out, rubs it into your skin and you moan, humiliation pooling in your stomach and shooting down between your legs.

Tangerine chuckles, straightens back up and the hand leaves your face, your throat. "Spread ya legs, I wanna see what's gonna be mine."

You comply, sitting down on your ass and planting your feet in front of you, heels digging into the soft fur. He strolls around you, makes is way back to the desk.

"'N you fuckin' whore better put on a fuckin' good show for me, too", he growls, "It's what ya want, innit? Be a good girl f'me?"

It kind of is. The part of your brain that just doesn't want to die is oddly silent. There is something else, something that buries its claws deep deep in your mind and tears and tears and tears until everything is a little mushy and your brain complies - good girl good girl good girl.

Tangerine leans against the table, crosses his feet and places his hands on the edges, gun dangling from his slender fingers. "C'mon love, ya better don't wanna keep me waiting."

You look down at yourself and a surprised gasp leaves you mouth - you are incredibly wet, thighs sticky with your own juices. You run your fingers through your folds in awe, feeling your own slick, and you moan as you brush by your clit. You need more, body and cunt aching for it and your index finger starts to rub over your clit.

Squelching sounds erupt between your legs and you mewl at the sensation, your cunt so responsive, hole fluttering and your free hand darts out, grabs the fur beneath you.

"Such a pretty fuckin' cunt ya got", and your gaze darts up at him, stomach doing a funny little flip as your eyes meet his, breath hitching in your throat.

Tangerine licks his lips, gestures with his gun. "Rub faster, I wanna hear more of ya sweet moans, slut."

You comply immediately, rubbing your clit faster and you do moan for him, gasping with the pleasure shooting through your body, igniting your nerves. You throw your head back, not waiting for his next instruction, adding a second finger, rubbing large and quick circles around your clit, hips bucking and rolling against them, heightening the sensation.

Arching your back you moan and gasp, lust swallowing you whole and taking over your brain - eradicating anything and everything despite the need to feel more more more.

"C'mon, I know you wan'it, push one in and finger yourself", and your other hand flies to your wanton pussy; index finger briefly, impatiently circling your hole before eagerly dipping in, burying itself deep in one quick thrust. You hiss, quickly exchanged by a sweet gasp as you bottom your finger out.

You start to move it in and out of you, rubbing it along your walls and you can't help but sink onto your back, mewling as it enters you deeper, slips back in more easily. You feel so so dirty, naked in nothing but your jewellery and heels with his spit across your face, but you have never felt better either.

"O-one more, please", you beg, "Please, let me have one more."

Don't you just beg so prettily? He wonders if you will beg like that when he will shove a plug up your ass and fuck your throat, stuffing your cunt with a vibrator. He wonders if you will ask for another one to fuck your ass.

Oh, he will ruin you alright. "Since you ask so nicely", he coos, "Go ahead, slut. Whatever ya need."

Pushing a second finger in, the circles you rub on your clit become smaller and faster. You moan in rhythm with your fingers thrusting into you, curling them a little. Your legs go a little limp, knees darting away from each other, giving him an even better view of your assault on your pussy, the way your slick spreads up to your thighs. Your cunt gushes around your fingers as you force them in deeper, squirts against your hand.

Tangerine watches you coming apart smugly, weighs his revolver in his hands. Who would've thought a simple gun was enough to get you to buckle, give in and surrender yourself to him?

You are his now, he will never let you got. He will keep you and train you and make you needy and dumb for no one else but him.

The thought nearly makes his chest burst with the power trip it sends him on, and he spreads his legs a little, feels his hard cock pressing against his slacks. He can't fucking wait to get in that sweet sweet cunt of yours - show you how a real man fucks his wife, fucks what belongs to him. Tangerine can see, even from where he is standing, that you are fucking tight - the way your hole stretches around your delicate fingers has him licking his lips.

He can't fucking wait to claim you.

"Yeah, I can see he never fucked you properly", Tangerine rasps, shakes his head in silent disapproval as you mewl, arching your back, "I'd take care of you, y'know? Y'want that, don't ya?"

You nod nod nod, moaning as your fingers brush over your walls, stretching you out as you scissor yourself open - thinking about how good his huge fucking dick would feel inside of you instead - your hole fluttering around your digits.

"Bet ya do, lil' slut. Daddy's gonna take real good care of ya, ya'd never ever have to think again. Jus' lemme do the thinking."

"Shit, please, yes", you moan, rocking down on your fingers, pushing a third one in. You are so so full, juices squelching around your hole and wetting your hand and the fur underneath you but it's not enough. You start to pump the in and out of you quicker, deep thrusts hitting the spot inside of you just right.

"Yeah, I'd tell you exactly what to do", Tangerine hums, "I'd be coming home and tell my little slut to bend over the fuckin' kitchen table, stuff her tight 'n needy holes, 'n what would she say?"

"I-I'd thank y-you", you nearly cry out, your whole body feeling light and shuddering at the thought.

"Mhm, atta girl - and if I put ya pretty throat on a leash? Drag ya through the house and stuff ya full of toys? What would ya say to Daddy?"

"T-thank you, Daddy", you huff, chest heaving with your rapidly approaching orgasm, legs tensing up and toes curling.

"And what would ya say when I let ya cum, slut?"

"Thank you!", you sob, the two fingers on your clit rubbing mercilessly, your other hand fucking you hard and fast.

"That's a good girl. Lemme hear it then, cum you fuckin' whore."

Your orgasm hits you like a fucking train, your cunt pushing your fingers out as you convulse around them - a high pitched chant Thank you thank you thank you falling from your lips. Your arms fall to the side uselessly as you ride your orgasm out, wave after wave of warm squirt wetting the fur, as you moan and roll your hips, leaving you breathless.

Your eyes flutter open as you hear footsteps, see him approaching. He is still holding his revolver, the outline of where his large cock is pressing angrily against his expensive trousers.

"Too sad your husband couldn't just see that, eh?", there is genuine joy marking Tangerine's features, making his bright eyes gleam.

Oh shit - that reminds you of something.

"W-where is he?", you croak, legs still shaking with your recent orgasm, body sinking into the fur.

"Oh, love", he seems to smile at you, but his eyes don't join in on his lips tilting up, "He's right 'ere, ain't he?"

He points his revolver away from you, to the side and your eyes warily follow the movement. There is nothing there except the locked closet and --

And a dark pool of something on the ground, a trail of it slooowly creeping your way over the polished floor boards. It looks like-

You stretch your arm out, fingers darting out and the index finger dipping into the liquid. It's still warm and sticky.

And red. It does not take a genius to get what it is.

Tangerine licks his lips as he watches you, how realization creeps in, changes your facial expression. You look horrified and his dick twitches at the sight.

He closes in on you, bows down over your exposed body and grabs your hand roughly, pulls it in. "Would'ya mind cleaning that up f'me, love?", and your eyelids flutter and you do, like you are on autopilot, licking your dead husband's blood from your finger.

"Mhm", Tangerine hums and you gag a little around the metallic taste, which makes his face light up. He pulls his finger from your mouth, unbuckles his belt instead. "I think, I really might just keep ya."

"Y-you said you'd let me go", you gasp as his hand dips between your legs.

"Well, love - change of plans, innit?"

#tangerine #tangerine bullet train #tangerine x reader #tangerine x y/n #tangerine imagine #kraven the hunter #kraven #my writing #smut #bullet train #bullet train 2022

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rolfedewolfefan16 · 2 months ago

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Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

VILLAIN ROLFE AU OFFICIAL STORY

Chapter 4: “Here it is,” Billy Bob announced as Rolfe followed him into his apartment. It was a simple place. It had a murky green carpet, a wooden coffee table next to a mini television and a brown leather couch big enough for a fat bear and a looney bird. The kitchen had simple wooden cabinets and cupboards, a small white stove and a sink. There was a little ice box in the corner and a blue cooler next to it.

“It ain’t much but we can make it work for you, Rolfe,” Billy Bob said. Rolfe placed his things down. And followed Billy Bob into the kitchen.

“I’m going to make some supper, Looney will lead ya to our shed. We bought one separately for Looney’s experiments but I’m sure he’d be happy to let you use it!” Billy Bob explained. Looney Bird rolled his eyes.

“Follow me,” he grumbled. Rolfe reluctantly grabbed the roll of yellow fur he had bought, a plastic bag full of foam chunks, clay, plastic mats, thread and needle, wood, paint and pom poms. In the other bag he had a couple yards of denim cloth folded neatly into a pile as well as a tiny bag of brass buttons. The bird and wolf walked outside and headed towards a small wooden house, painted a creamy white with lighter trimmings and a grey roof.

“This is the shed,” Looney Bird said unenthusiastically. The shed’s walls had all sorts of tools hanging neatly on them. Saws and goggles lay on a counter and blueprints and saw dust scattered themselves on the ground. A long work table stood in the middle of the shed. With a swift sweep, Looney dumped all the things off the table.

“You could work here,” he offered, a grim expression on his face.

“Tha-” Rolfe began.

“But don’t touch anything else! Not a hammer or a nail or anything. I’m only sharing this shed because Billy Bob told me so. My workplace is very dear to me,” Looney bird squawked.

“I promise, I’m just working with what I got. Billy Bob doesn’t happen to have a sewing machine does he?” Rolfe asked. Looney Bird scowled.

“He does, we keep in the closet,” He said. Looney Bird stormed out and came back with it moments later.

“Here. I’ll let you know when it’s time for supper,” Looney bird said. He didn’t even try to hide his annoyance. The bird flew out of the shed and slammed the door shut. Rolfe felt quite ashamed he made the bird this way. He figured the Looney bird was just that, a looney bird, a bird of low intelligence and little survival instincts.

“In the wild, I eat freaks like you,” Rolfe mumbled under his breath. Rolfe brushed it off and got to work. He began by cutting a circle template with the plastic mat and folded it in half. He stuck foam to the template and began to trim it to shape. Rolfe figured this was a puppet he needed to make with extra care. It was of course the only puppet he was going to use after all. After much cutting and sawing and picking and sewing and finger nicking, the puppet was complete. He took it upon himself to call him Earl Schmerle. He took pride in his creation. He finished what would have taken him days, took a couple hours. He guessed ambition had something to do with it. It was only then when he realized how dark it had gotten outside.

“Rolfe!” He heard Billy Bob’s voice call. Rolfe poked his head out of the shed’s door.

“It’s time for supper!” Billy Bob announced. Rolfe quickly picked up the stuff from the table and placed it in a plastic bag. As he picked up chunks of foam from the floor he saw something glisten deep with a corner of the shed. Rolfe walked near it before accidentally slipping on one of Looney’s blueprints. Rolfe banged his head against the wall and down came the glistening object. Rolfe held his chest with panic breaths as an axe fell inches from his shoulder.

“JESUS!” He gasped. He swiftly stood up, grabbed the axe and gingerly placed it back where it belonged. Rolfe figured he should leave before he crashed something else…

“Here you go, Rolfe,” Billy Bob said, handing Rolfe a plate of hamburger helper and coleslaw. In the middle of them stood a pitcher of ice tea and baked apples. Rolfe thanked him and ate a spoonful. Billy Bob and Looney stared at Rolfe in surprise.

“What’s wrong?” Rolfe asked, placing his spoon down.

“Well it’s just that me and Looney usually say grace before eating,” Billy Bob confessed. Rolfe gave him a mouth shrug and quickly straightened up. Billy Bob offered his paw to Rolfe as he held onto Looney’s wings and Looney held on to Rolfe’s. Looney gave Rolfe a cold expression and loosened his grip on Rolfe’s paw.

“Dear lord, we thank thee for this food. Bless this house and the hands that made them, and nourish the souls who eat this meal. Amen,” Billy Bob prayed.

“Alrighty! Eat up,” Billy Bob announced. The trio ate in awkward silence, although Billy Bob didn’t seem all that bothered. The bear quickly caught on to the tension, though.

“So ugh, Rolfe. How did you, um…How do I put this,” Billy Bob asked.

“How did you end up homeless?” Looney Bird spoke for him.

“Looney!” Billy Bob said through gritted teeth, his face hot with embarrassment.

“What? That was what you were going to ask, right? I mean, we’re all wondering the same thing,” Looney explained.

“No it’s alright. So, uh. When I was very young, my father, Wolfman Jack, passed away due to a gang murder and he left me and brother and mother alone,” Rolfe explained.

“Wolfman? Like the Wolfman?” Billy Bob asked. Rolfe nodded.

“No kidding!? I’m sorry, go on,” he said.

“Anyways, My brother sort of became the one in charge and we all had our own duties. My mother worked as a waitress, my brother sold newspapers and washed cars and I cleaned shoes. As I grew up I took on an interest in the entertainment industry, puppet shows and what not, but my family never approved. As time passed my mother became an addict and my brother had more pressure, thus leading him to become more abusive. They found out about the gigs I would do and they kicked me out. So yeah now I’m here,” Rolfe finished, his voice breaking. He stared down at his plate trying to stop the tears on his eyes from coming out. He felt a heavy lump on his throat which ached everytime he swallowed. Billy and Looney must have noticed this because they didn’t talk to him anymore after that. After the crew ate some dessert, Billy Bob led Rolfe to the bathroom.

“Go ahead and take a shower. I already set a clean toothbrush for you to use. The cologne in the top left board and the combs are right over there,” Billy Bob explained. He handed Rolfe his suitcase.

“Grab whatever clothes you’ve got here for now and I’ll take you clothing shopping tomorrow. After all, you’ll need something new to wear for your performances if you’re gonna be part of the band,” he said. Rolfe gave him a small smile.

“Thanks again. And I- I didn’t mean to chicken out I just…I’ve got a lot on my brain. It just happened yesterday so…” Rolfe said, stopping himself from crying again.

“It’s okay, Rolfe. Now uh, curfew here is at 8:00 so I suggest you hurry. After you're done I’ll lead you to your bed,” Billy Bob mentioned. The bear closed the door and Rolfe heard as dishes clanked against each other and water poured. Rolfe slipped his clothes off and turned on the shower. He waited a little while for the water to warm up. As he did, he stared at himself in the mirror. He examined his face, his arms, his legs, his paws, his ears, his waist etc… When Rolfe looked hard enough, he swore he could see his father staring back at him. The father he knew so little about but has seen in pictures. If you ignored his brown eyes and lack of facial hair you would have thought they were the same person. Rolfe fingered the water droplets from the shower head. Once it was warm enough, he slipped inside the tub. Rolfe let out a sigh of relief as the water washed away the dirt from his fur. Rolfe could definitely get used to living here. After he was washed, dried, clothed and pampered he walked out and waited for Billy Bob.

“Hey! How was the shower? Hopefully it wasn’t too cold. It could get iffy when someone’s using the sink,” Billy Bob stated. Rolfe gave him a reassuring look.

“Oh no. It was amazing. I really needed that,"he replied. Billy Bob gave a small exhale.

“That’s good to hear, Rolfe. Anyways, I set up your bed. Looney Bird and I sleep in my room. He has his nest and I’ve got my bed. You can sleep on the couch. I laid out some blankets and pillows for you. The water dispensers and bathroom are nearby so feel free to use them whenever you please,”

“Oh and just so you know, my sister lends me to babysit her baby, Choo choo, cute little fella, on Saturdays so don’t be surprised if you don’t get enough rest those days,” Billy Bob laughed.

“Anyways, Goodnight, Rolfe!” Billy Bob waved. Looney Bird slowly followed from behind. Once Billy Bob was out of sight Looney bird stormed up to Rolfe.

“Listen, pal. Billy Bob might think you're all sweet and stuff but I’ve got my eye on you. I’ve got a bad, BAD, feeling about you. My feathers are all tingly, I’m certain of it. You can do whatever you want but once you get enough money for your own home, you’re gone. Stay away from me and Billy Bob,” Looney spat. He gave Rolfe an awful glare before flying inside his room.

“Bad feeling?” Rolfe thought. Rolfe didn’t want any of this and he certainly didn’t want the bird to hate him.

“Crazy bird,” Rolfe excused it. He snuggled up under the covers and fell sound asleep. The next day Billy Bob took Rolfe clothing shopping. They filled the cart up with a couple options. His wardrobe consisted of a glittery purple disco jumpsuit, a red cuban collar shirt, and a black tuxedo with a black tie.

“How’s it look?” Rolfe asked, displaying the jumpsuit.

“Well it’s-” Billy Bob began.

“It looks terrible!” Looney bird blurted out. Rolfe grimaced.

“I asked Billy Bob not you, bird” he teased. He turned back inside the dressing room. He tried on the red cuban collar shirt.

“How about this one?” He asked.

“It would look nice, if you were out at a house party! This is a professional job not some casual hangout. Go change!” Looney bird demanded, pretending to look disgusted. Rolfe growled and went back in. He tried on the black tuxedo. He looked at himself in the mirror.

“I look just like…” Rolfe began. He suddenly saw his father again, staring at him with sad green eyes. His hard stare seems to speak a million things to him. Things he didn’t understand. Secrets he kept within himself. He looked at him, as if Rolfe had just committed the most unforgivable thing ever. Rolfe breathed hard. The vision of his father wouldn’t go away.

“Stop it…Leave me alone!” Rolfe hollered. He shut his eyes and covered his ears as if he could hear him. His breathing became faster.

“Rolfe! Are you okay?” Billy Bob asked, knocking urgently on the door. Rolfe led out a few exhales, trying to calm himself.

“I-I don’t like this one very much, either,” Rolfe confessed….

“It’s a shame we couldn’t find ya anything, Rolfe,” said Billy Bob as they walked down the aisles.

“It’s okay,” Rolfe led out, his eyes looking down at his feet. He suddenly caught sight of a vest hiding within some shirts. He took it out and examined it. It was a red vest with various flannel-like stripes and red pockets. It even came with a matching red bowtie. Rolfe also grabbed a black dress shirt with rainbow spots.

“Hey look at this,” Rolfe beckoned the pair.

“I say it suits you quite nicely. Why don’t you go ahead and try it on?” Billy Bob suggested. Rolfe hurried back into the dressing room and put the outfit on. He took time to stare at himself in the mirror, at various angles before deciding he liked it.

“I think this one’s it!” Rolfe said confidently.

“I agree! It’s a bit loose but you’ll grow into it,” Billy Bob confirmed. The weird trio left the store, making their way to the pizzeria. Rolfe brought Earl along and began writing some skit ideas on a notebook as they drove on. Rolfe watched as they got closer to the building.

“We’re here!” Billy Bob announced. Rolfe, Billy Bob, and Looney Bird got off and walked inside, meeting face to face with the rest of the band.

“Gentlemen!” He heard a voice speak. A somewhat short man with a mullet of brown hair, red shirt and jeans walked up to them.

“Hiya, Manager!” Billy Bob greeted. The man shook Billy Bob’s paw.

“You must be Mr. Rolfe Dewolfe, right?” he asked. Rolfe shook his hand.

“I heard about you,” Rolfe replied.

“Likewise. A ventriloquist, huh?” The Manager asked.

“Sure he is!” Rolfe made Earl say in a raspy, deep throated voice. The Manager clapped and laughed in annoying barks.

“That’s funny! You're a funny guy,” he said through chuckles. His face looked as if it hurt to smile, his cheek tightly pressed against his piercing brown eyes as if they were made of plastic. His nostrils flared and his buck teeth bit his bottom lips.

“Make yourself comfortable, Rolfe. We’re just practicing right now for opening night next Friday,” The Manager explained. Rolfe got up on his stage.

“Hey, Rolfe!” Beach bear waved. Rolfe gave him and the band a shy smile.

“Hi,” He said simply. Mitzi’s face lit up.

“Is that your new puppet! Ooh what’s his name!?” She asked excitedly, running up to him and jumping up and down.

“My name is Earl Schmerle and this moron holding me is Rolfe DeWolfe!” He made Earl say.

“Earl, that's not nice!” Rolfe said before breaking character and bursting out laughing. Mitzi laughed with him.

“He looks like a muppet,” she giggled.

“Hey! I’m not part of that idiotic kiddy show! I’m a strong and independent puppet man! And I’ve come here to do my own thing! “Well, you can push me, shove me, turn me around, but I'm no girl's toy!

You can tie me, toss me, upside or down, but I'm no girl's toy! I sing my own sweet melody, I go my own sweet way. I won't beg 'round tomorrow for the kind of affection that was free today! Oh, you can squeeze me, tease me; say I'm your own but I'm no girl's toy! You can charm me, chase me, follow me home; I won't be coy!

You may not like it much but I'm my own best boy, And not some sugar and spicy, lacy and nicey, sissy you're gonna enjoy! No, I'm no girl's toy!” NOT ME!” Earl sang.

The band clapped and gave a few whistles.

“Not Raggedy Ann, Earl,” Rolfe complained. He made Earl give a chuckle.

“Whatever dork, that’s how you put on a show!” Earl spoke. Rolfe rolled his eyes in false annoyance.

“Earl, you're just terrible,” Rolfe spat out. Mitzi giggled, booped Earl on the nose and skipped back to her stage.

“Okie Dokie Gentlemen and lady! We have a big night on Friday and I need rehearsals set! We want to make a good impression, right?” The Manager asked. The band nodded in agreement.

“ ‘Kay cool! And Rolfe?” he spoke. The Manager walked up to his stage.

“The audience is going to love ya,” he winked. Rolfe couldn’t hide the happiness on his face as The Manager left the room. Those words echoed in his skull. The audience was going to love him! And he was going to do great….

#showbiz #rolfe dewolfe #rock afire explosion #earl schmerle #villian au #original story

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steviewashere · 5 months ago

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This is my @steddiebang2024 that was initially posted on AO3, but I figured I'd cross-post it to here, too. Featuring beautiful artwork by @maikaartwork, which you can find here on Tumblr, or here on Twitter. And beta'd by the wonderful and ever-patient, @billystarpip. ———————————————————————————————————————— Rating: Explicit | Genres/Tropes: Drama & Romance, Angst & Hurt/Comfort, Slowburn, Future Fic, Canon Divergence | WC: 56, 917 | Chapters: 11/11 | Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings ———————————————————————————————————————— Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson & Wayne Munson, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington, Past Steve Harrington/Original Female Character(s), Steve Harrington & Original Child Character(s) Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Wayne Munson, Steve Harrington's Mother, Robin Buckley, Original Female Character(s), Original Child Character(s) Tags: Cancer Diagnosis in a Secondary Character, Mentions of Past Spouse Death, Implied/Referenced Past Alcohol Abuse/Addiction, Implied/Referenced Past Drug Addiction, Parent Steve Harrington, mailman!Steve Harrington, retired rockstar!Eddie Munson, Second Chances, Getting Back Together, Middle Aged Steddie, Tender Sex, POV Alternating, Eventual Happy Ending

You are at Chapter One! Read Below the Cut!

———————————————————————————————————————— The alarm rings into the silence of his room at 5am sharp, just as he set it to be. It’s sound blaring—a marimba being played up and down from bottom of the scale to the top. His hand juts from under his blanket, grabs loosely for the phone vibrating against the bedside table, and brings it up close to his face. Light flashes very briefly as he turns the sound off and checks the time. Sure enough, it’s 5am. September 27th, 2015 spells itself out in blurry text. He’s got a normal day ahead of him, but it’s still difficult to wake up this early after all this time.

He peels the blanket from him, welcomes the cold as it kisses his bare thighs and tickles the soles of his feet. When he first bought the home he now resides in, he figured that hardwood flooring was going to be terrible. While he did enjoy carpet in the first apartment he had and the bedroom he grew up in, Steve’s perfectly content with being pulled into waking existence through the cold in his floor. He twists left then right, back and hips popping. And he stands.

Showers. Brushes his teeth. Dries his hair and slicks it back with a light layer of pomade, it has to fit under his hat. He trims up his mustache, handlebar, white haired, and tight to his top lip. Sets his glasses—thick and plastic black frames, square and magnifying lenses—on the bridge of his nose. It’s always a startling experience, to see himself in the mirror now, his vision being blurry and dwindling as time pushes. But he looks almost the same. Maybe a new deep wrinkle on his face. Or a few strands of dirty blonde he didn’t notice he still had on the top of his head. Got all his moles, thankfully none of them are new or worrying. And then he just stands in his bathroom for a few minutes. Wondering how he’s forty-eight, but looks to be ten years older. He’s still got his muscle, toned nicely on his arms and legs. A soft layer to his belly, earned with time and the stress of a normal working life. Doesn’t have the dark circles and eye bags that he carried in his twenties. But he’s older—older than he thought he could be.

In those few minutes, he takes the time to work his clothes on slowly. Joints aren’t all that replaceable and he’s going to need all his limbs in good enough condition to do his work. Underwear. Khaki slacks, straight cut, regular fit. Long sleeve, white undershirt tucked neatly into the waistband. His watch—wrinkled brown leather strap from decades of use, slight crack on the glass from being dropped during some roughhousing, and gently rusted. Dainty, gold chain cross necklace gifted to him by his mother, hidden away in the collar of his undershirt. A grey henley overtop. He emerges from his ensuite, down the hall because his bedroom is the farthest in the house, past his home office and a guest bedroom and a half-bathroom, takes a left corner into the kitchen, and flicks on the warm amber light.

Breakfast isn’t anything crazy. Doesn’t require any fanfare. But he makes two warm bowls of plain oatmeal, sprinkled lightly with brown sugar, topped with a handful of blueberries from his garden. He sets them on the table, where it’s tucked against the far side of his living room (there wasn’t a dining room when he bought the house and he didn’t care to make one), and goes to the guest room.

“Mom?” he softly calls out into the room. She startles awake anyway, but relaxes back into her blanket when she notices who’s calling for her. “Sorry to wake you up so early, but I made breakfast.”

She started staying with him five years ago. The arrangement came out of necessity. His dad had passed, left the house to her, but it was too much to deal with alone. And he didn’t want to move back to his childhood home, so he offered his empty guest bedroom. Packed her up, moved her in within a month. And the rest’s history. At first, he thought he made a mistake. Worried that she’d be the way she was when he was younger, uptight and in his space, stressing about doing well in the world, doubting him when he failed. But it wasn’t that way, surprisingly. In fact, she was grateful and happier than she ever had been.

The decision to let her stay very quickly grew on him. They were almost inseparable now, considering he’d been living alone and she would’ve been alone otherwise. He makes her breakfast, she knits him new beanies and sweaters, they watch Jeopardy! together, and he helps her back to bed.

Her mornings always start out with Steve carefully pulling her up into a seated position. Hands in his, they’re small, wrinkled, soft. She goes to the half-bathroom, uses it as usual, and changes into a pair of stretchy denim-like pants and a soft cotton sweater that Steve grabs for her. He helps her put on socks, sheer and like tights that slide easily into loafers. Every morning, he takes the time to comb through her hair, pin straight and completely white, thinning and falling to her shoulders. Sometimes he catches himself drifting to the mirror, caught up in how similar their eyes are to one another. It’s odd, in those moments, how he feels like a little boy again. Helping his mom brush her hair. When she was younger, with fine wrinkles on her face like he has now, put together by makeup she no longer wears. But he goes back to getting the last bit of sleep tangles at the ends of her hair and helps her back out to the living room.

Once she’s settled in her dining chair, he sets out about the kitchen again. “Do you want coffee, tea, or juice with your oatmeal, Mom?” he loudly asks from where his head is shoved in the fridge.

“A cup of hot coffee would be great,” she chirps. “With a tablespoon of that vanilla creamer that you like? You seem really happy every time you have it, I want to know what all the fuss is about.”

He chuckles as he leaves the fridge with the creamer. It shuts gently behind him. The pot is turned on, burbling as it pours the hot water over the coffee grounds. “I think it’s the sugar,” he relays, “It’s funny, though. I don’t even like this crap. Had a friend who showed it to me, reminds me of him, I guess.” Which is true. One hundred percent. Eddie Munson, the guy he knew all too briefly, liked cruddy vanilla creamer in his cup of coffee. So much that it went from a hot mug to a near chilled thing. Of course Steve remembered it. And of course, since Eddie left town all too abruptly all those years ago, he clung on to whatever remnants of the guy he had. Even if it made his coffee drinking experience become the ugliest thing he endured everyday.

The coffee is poured in two mismatched mugs. His: World’s Best Dad. And hers: a white mug with painted bluebells on it. He sets them out on the dining table, fills up a glass with water and sets a straw into the liquid, and grabs his mom’s daily pill sorter. When he settles in front of her, she begins taking her medications one by one.

“Remind me to refill that tonight,” he says, gesturing at the pill sorter. “I’ve gotta swing by the pharmacy for a few refills; yours should hopefully be ready by then, too.”

She hums, swallowing her last pill, and asks, “Work today?”

“Yup, should be my last shift until Monday morning. We’ll have the weekend to ourselves. It’ll be completely quiet, too.”

Her left thumb runs over the lid for Friday morning on her sorter. Eyes looking down at her oatmeal thoughtfully. “You know,” she murmurs, “while I appreciate your company, I really wish that you’d find a few friends to spend your weekends with.”

“Mom”—

“No, Steven, listen to me. I’m a seventy-seven year old woman who likes to spend her days knitting and reading and napping. You’re still young.” He sighs as she leans across the table to gently pat the back of his right hand. “I know you don’t like the idea of going out and meeting new people, but I think you should give it a chance. You’ve been through a lot in your life, I understand that. And you like things quiet and peaceful, which I can understand, too. But I can tell you’ve been doing alright for a while. Don’t you think it’s time to…get a couple drinking buddies or maybe go to some car shows? Could even try dating again”—

“I’m not doing that,” he grumbles. “That ship has sailed so many years ago. I’m perfectly fine with what I have now.” She gives him an incredulous look. In response, he rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Mom. Everything’s just to my liking. Now…How are your hands doing this morning? They still shaking like they were last night?”

She relents, holding out her hands to show off the heavy tremor to them. He scoots his chair closer, dragging his bowl to the new spot he’s made, and grabs for her spoon. Willingly, she takes the offered bite he scoops up. And that’s how breakfast goes. He feeds her the oatmeal, wiping away any bits that get on her lips, and transfers her water straw to the mug of coffee. Sure, his food congeals, gets a little cold, but he does what he must do.

Before he can get up to take care of their bowls, she stops him with a shaking hand on his wrist. “Is there something you need, Mom?” He checks.

“No,” she sighs. “But I just—Look at me for a second.” So he does. Her tone is serious and sage. Her eyes are wrinkled and drooping, shiny with unshed tears, dark brown and enriching. “Baby, I worry about you,” she says, but squeezes his wrist before he can interrupt. “Really, I do. Steve, what are you going to do when I’m not here?”

“That’s nonsense, Mom,” he murmurs.

She raises an eyebrow. “Is it? I…I’m only here because your dad is gone. And I know—I know—that you two had a very rocky relationship. But I can’t just ignore that he’s not in our lives anymore. If something happens to me, you’ll just be in this house. Alone,” she explains. “There’s nobody here to keep you company. You don’t really have neighbors. And I know that you’re friendly with everybody around town, it’s basically part of your job, but they aren’t your friends. Honey, most of your work stories are about people my age. Doesn’t that…You aren’t concerned about that?”

He sighs and places his free hand on the back of hers. Looks down at the table, zeroed in on a spot of paint that’s been there for years, not coming up with any sort of cleaner. Knows exactly what it’s from. An art project from when his daughter was a little girl. He doesn’t want to admit it, that his mom is right. There’s no partner that he shares his bed with. His daughter’s room is now a guest room; she’s in college, out of state, far from home.

Doesn’t allow himself to think about her mother, his late wife. He’s been a widower for over a decade now. It does get lonely around the house. There’s nobody that he encounters in the kitchen, ready to wrap his arms around their waist. He doesn’t have a partner to hold close on the couch and watch rom-coms with. Or his wife, who loved completing puzzles and would quietly and happily sit and do them while he watched baseball games. Who used to lean over and kiss his forehead just because. He misses her. Misses all of that. The companionship in that relationship.

And he does notice. The absence of his social life. Sometimes he does get bored of sorting out pills for his mom, watching rerun game shows, all that nonsense. Yes, he does talk with Robin and Nancy and Dustin over the phone still, they’ve been friends for forever. But they aren’t here in Hawkins. Not anymore.

His mom is company, though. He isn’t lonely if he’s with her.

“Being with you is enough for me, Mom. I’m not concerned because I have you,” he murmurs sadly.

She gives him a smile. A slightly upset one. Pats his cheek and runs her thumb under his eye. “I appreciate that, baby, but…” She sighs. “Never mind, okay? As long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters, right? Put our dishes in the sink and I’ll wash them. You get the rest of yourself ready for work.”

He nods once, setting their dishes in the sink. Slips on his blue postman’s jacket, zips it up, and sets his postal hat firmly on his head. “I’ll be home probably around eight, Mom. Our shows should record for tonight, so don’t watch them without me!” He calls out to where she’s clambering around the kitchen.

“Steve?!” She shouts. He looks back. She’s leaned over the sink, dish gloves over her hands and up to her elbows. Smiles at him. “Remember that I love you and that today is going to be a good day.”

He smiles, teeth and all. “Love you, too, Mom. Be safe. Call me if you need anything.”

And then he’s off. The mail won’t deliver itself.

———————————————————————————————————— The phone call rattled his bones. Tumor, was said. More times than the amount of fingers on his hands. He’s never bought road trip materials fast enough. It’s weird, to think of and to act upon returning to a place that seemed to be a shadow in his past. But he supposes that he should’ve expected to come back at some point. Hawkins, Indiana—the odd spot on a paper map.

There’s a million reasons to not come back. Being hunted for sport being one of them. Chrissy Cunningham and Patrick McKinney’s deaths being their own reason. And his short time with Steve Harrington is a mess in itself. But as his car gently rolls by the ‘Welcome to Hawkins’ sign, the nerves seem to dissipate.

A few spots never recovered from the Vecna battle aftermath. There’s several restaurant fronts still bordered up and condemned. An entire grassy field with nothing but dead plants and broken glass bottles, probably a result from teenagers going where they shouldn’t be. Family Video is closed, a lack of interest. A small Walmart that replaces the RadioShack that once stood tall and mighty. Never thought he’d feel nostalgic for a place like Hawkins, but the missing floods back into his chest like a sudden rush of water.

There’s a lot of rebuilt homes. With plastic grass in the front yards. Fences that are plain cedar wood and tall. Faces he’s never seen. Some young, others as old as him��forty-nine or older. Children at playgrounds with Justice tops from the mall, bedazzled to all hell, pink plaid shorts, and blue Sketchers. Younger dudes with red beanies threatening to slip off the top of their heads, fake black glasses, cuffed skinny jeans and Timberland boots. Hipsters.

But he turns down familiar roads, non-replenished and cracked still. Spots the sign for Forest Hills Trailer Park and slows over the non-existent drive. The gravel clinking against the underside of the car, which he loathes. It’s a nice one, too—one of those BMW Sedans, all black with leather interior. Named her Carla after a suggestion from one of the Corroded Coffin boys (who were all drunk out of their minds, sans Eddie), but it stuck. And it cost a good chunk to purchase, but it’s gotten him safely over state borders, so he can’t complain that much. It still sits oddly in the trailer park, though. Next to Wayne’s old and well-loved pick-up truck—a baby blue Toyota. Tried and true. Hasn’t put anybody out, not yet at least. Still…Something crawls up his spine as he notices he’s the odd one out now.

He parks unceremoniously and takes a deep breath. Eyes trailing up to Wayne’s home. The mess of miscellaneous books. An empty ashtray, a little ceramic thing, painted bright orange; something Eddie made when he was in middle school. There’s the orange sofa, old and rusting on the legs, sun-bleached. A little dark blue rocker sitting in the corner of the porch, also sun-bleached, but the fabric is matted down. His hands come off of the steering wheel, grabs the keys roughly from the ignition, and hefts himself out of the driver’s seat.

Doesn’t even have to knock on the door before Wayne’s ushering him inside.

“Let me take a good look at you, boy,” his uncle’s brittle voice demands. Lets him put his weathered hands on his shoulders.

And Eddie does look drastically different from the last time he’d been home. A good decade ago, when he caught the time during a tour break. His hair is close cut to his scalp now, just above his ears, curly and dark brown with a few baby grays at his temples. Face creased with good wrinkles, crows feet and smile lines, a few creases under his eyes from how he’d squint on and off for years before getting contacts. Doesn’t have any facial hair, could never grow any that was good enough. Clean shaven with a five-o’clock shadow. His ears are pierced, but he’s stopped putting anything heavy in their holes, so for now there’s just a plain pair of black studs. Got more tattoos on his arms: bluebells and a nailed bat on the left bicep, robin’s nest just below on his forearm, a d-20 die at the soft give of his right wrist, and his Warlock to cover up the bats. Scars that he received are now silvery and pale. Body still lithe and lean, more muscle on his arms and legs from lifting around equipment over the years. Fundamentally, he’s changed on the outside. But inside, he’s still the same wild child boy that used to give Wayne a run for his money.

“Now, that’s the face of an award winning musician,” Wayne drawls.

Eddie chuckles. “It’s not the face that got the awards, Wayne. It’s the fingers. Didn’t earn these callouses on my fingertips for nothing,” he says, wiggling his fingers where Wayne can see them clearly.

He hums. “Think it’s that creative brain of yours, too,” Wayne surmises. “You wanna beer or somethin’, considerin’ the circumstances?”

“No,” he answers, “quit drinking about ten years ago. Wasn’t good to me anymore, remember?” Wayne’s face dawns surprise, a grand raise of his eyebrows, the squinting of his eyes, small purse to his lips. “Seriously, Wayne. Have a little faith in me, old man. I quit for good. I’ve got smokes, though, if you want one.”

“Ain’t allowed to. Not if I wanna keep myself healthy enough to shrink that tumor.”

Right, Eddie remembers, he’s gotta get on track to get surgery, you idiot. He nods slowly. Sucks on his bottom lip. “Then I’ll just have a pop, if you got it. Water if you don’t.”

As Wayne leaves towards the kitchenette, moving slow and careful like, Eddie looks around the living room, same as it’s always been. The mugs and hats on the wall. Old magazines and instruction booklets splayed out on the coffee table. He has the landline phone on the wall, above the small dining table. Garfield is still proudly displayed on one of the shelves by the front door. The only differences: TV replaced for one that’s slimmer and sleeker, a few throw blankets that appear brand new are placed over the back of the ugly floral patterned sofa, his clothes are put away in Eddie’s old bedroom, and it’s less cluttered on the kitchen counters. Otherwise, it’s remotely the same. Brown carpet, red curtains, four odd lamps, washing machine tucked by the fridge, old fold out bed from when Wayne slept in the living room. It’s still home.

Except, Eddie doesn’t live here anymore. Doesn’t have his clutter mingling with Wayne’s. Something twinges in his chest when he notices. But he ignores the sensation, sitting down on the sofa instead. Lets Wayne disappear to his reclining chair in the corner and sips on the can of Coke he’s given.

“So…What’s my rockstar nephew been up to?” Wayne asks into the silence.

Eddie shrugs. “I mean…Not much these days. Touring is over for me now. Corroded Coffin has put up our instruments for the last time. Now I just spend a lot of time at my house, writing songs when I feel the need to, watch shows and such, maybe give advice to new artists.”

Wayne scoffs. “You act like that’s nothin’ compared to what a lot of people are doing. You’ve got—what—three Grammys? Bunch’a your songs gone platinum. Just actin’ like your dream ain’t exciting.”

“It is,” Eddie mutters. “But…It’s sort of a lonely thing, you know? Can’t go out in public all that often, unless I want to be swarmed. Or people take pictures of me without permission. Makes me look bumfuck when I don’t know it’s coming,” he explains. Chuckling a little at the absurdity of it. “I’ve got my friends, but we don’t see each other a lot. Lots of ‘em drink or do other things and that’s not my scene anymore. So…I don’t know, it’s not as exciting as it used to be.”

When Wayne’s silent for too long, Eddie glances over. Finds that he’s being looked at, perceived like a bug under a microscope. “Could always come home,” he offers. “Or at least closer than damned Los Angeles.”

“Maybe,” Eddie murmurs. “Do you think—Is it safe for me to come back?”

“Lot of those bastard adults that chased you around are dead, Ed,” Wayne states bluntly. “The kids that used to bully you, they ain’t around. All the people who live in Hawkins, either they’re from that group of folks that you were with in ’86, or they’re new. In fact, the only one that I still see around here is the Harrington’s son and his mama.”

Eddie winces. “Didn’t think he’d still be here,” he grumbles.

“Don’t act like you’ve got the right to be ugly about him living here, Eddie. You’re the one that up and left all of us, mind you,” Wayne states rather agitated. “Besides, that kid…There’s an air about him that tells me he’d suffer somewhere else. Like a haunt to him.”

Instead of answering, Eddie takes a long pull from his can of Coke. Maybe he should’ve taken the beer if they’re going to sit here and talk about the ghosts of his past. If they were going to talk about the one guy that Eddie actually loved despite everything. Who made the perfect bowl of oatmeal, something that even Eddie can’t replicate after two decades. The guy that Eddie’s been pining and yearning over for all too long. The one he ran away from.

He stands abruptly with his empty can. Gestures loosely to the front door. “I’m gonna go have a smoke by my car. I’ll—We can talk about you know what when I get back inside. Can practically feel a headache coming on.” And he goes outside before Wayne can say something logical like: “That cigarette will do you in for a headache, boy. Stop running away from me.”

———————————————————————————————————— In a small town like Hawkins, there aren’t many mailmen to go around. Steve is one of them, on duty more often than not, but he’s just one of a handful. He spends the first couple hours in his early mornings training new post office employees. How to scan a package, where to put said package, making sales on stamps and envelopes, assigning P.O. boxes to those who need them. Those training mornings are some of his favorites. Where he’s respected for his career and not because of his age or his notoriety in town. The people who come to work are easy to get along with, smile at him, make small talk, and appreciate when he pulls out photos from his wallet—gesturing to a new one received from his daughter or an old small print from Robin in 2004. The mornings aren’t anything grandiose. But they do come to an end.

And then he’s on his own in his mail truck, Betty as he calls her. He’s able to use the radio, flip it to whatever FM station he wants, even try his hand at finding out how the aux works, but never takes advantage of that. Listens to the oldies—which are just the songs he listened to in his twenties—and drives through the scenery. Places packages full of staples on the counter at Melvald’s. Fills Claudia Henderson’s mailbox with too many cat themed magazines and personal coupons for the salon up her street. He drives up the off-beaten path to Hopper’s cabin and hands personal letters from El and Jonathan and Will—sometimes he’ll stay for a few minutes just to hear how Joyce is doing if she isn’t home. Makes his way to the Sinclair home and gets to hear about how Lucas is doing in Arizona with Max, or how Erica’s ripped apart another defendant. Visits the Buckley’s and gets to squeal about his Robin’s exciting translator career up in Seattle. He’ll meet new faces, compliment their gardens or simply place mail in their box if they aren’t home. When it’s a family with little kids that always scream that “Mailman Steve is here!” he’ll hand over stickers that he brought out from his own collection, ones that weren’t used up before his own little girl went to college. Pet the fur of dogs that are getting up there in years. Carefully tiptoe around easy to agitate cats, where they’ve fallen asleep on their owner’s porch.

He loves his job. Loves the community that comes with it. Even if the interactions are small. Even if the relationships he comes to create are majorly unimportant or too much of nothing to structure in his life. He still enjoys what he does. And is pleasantly surprised every single time he’s on route.

Today is no exception. He trains like usual in the morning before making all his normal stops. The last one on his route, though, is Wayne Munson’s home. He drives down the full length of Forest Hills Trailer Park, makes a small U-turn when he reaches the end, and parks near Wayne’s. There’s a figure standing outside, leaned against the bumper of a very nice car, smoking, but he doesn’t know who it is. Or if Wayne even knows this complete stranger is there. However, he chooses to ignore the stranger…for now.

Grabs the stack of mail that he needs, but realizes he also needs to grab a hefty package. He clambers into the back, hefts the last package in his truck, and gently grasps the rest of the mail, stacking it on the very top of the box. When he finally places his feet on the dirt and gravel path, he makes a steady effort to keep his head up, line of sight straight on. But then the stranger’s head whips up from where they’ve been looking down at their feet.

Steve is a very graceful person. Has been. Continues to be. Needs to in order to do his job. The sight of this stranger, though, nearly makes him drop the contents in his arms.

He’d recognize those damn soft brown eyes anywhere.

Stopping himself from going further, he stands roughly five feet away from the guy. Blinks. Blinks harder when said guy doesn’t stop staring at him. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “Eddie…is that you?”

Eddie—or who he believes to be Eddie, he can never trust his vision these days—raises a tentative hand. Wiggles his fingers in a gentle greeting. “Uh…Yeah, it’s me. Eddie. Eddie Munson. Who are—“ And then he stops talking altogether. Squinting. The cigarette dangling between his fingers drops to the ground. His right hand falls away from where he’d been smoking, drags itself over his face, pushes up into his very noticeably short hair, and he laughs incredulously. “Oh. My. God. Steve Harrington! As I breathe…You’ve—wow—You’re so different from what I remember. But holy shit, it’s you!” He exclaims, voice pitchy and scratchy.

Steve giggles. “Yeah, guess I have changed. Could say the same about you, Eds. Lots of things have happened, you know?” He shrugs, but his sore arms remind him greatly that he’s still working. “Shit, hold on. Let me put these on your uncle’s porch and then…We can talk for a little bit? I’ve gotta head back to the post office and clock out afterwards, but I can spare some time. Give me—Just give me a second.” Carefully, he carries the package closer to himself, but he moves faster up the porch steps. Sets down the stack in his hands on one of the cluttered shelves outside, and knocks. When Wayne answers, Steve smiles bright and big. “Hey, Mr. Munson,” he greets. “Brought some mail for you. There’s a package, it’s a little bit heavy. Could…I could bring it in if you need me to.”

Right back at him, Wayne smiles just as big. “Don’t worry about it today, boy. As long as it doesn’t need to be refrigerated, it can stay out here for a little bit,” he states softly, “Eddie’s back in town, he can get it. Maybe you guys can catch up for a little bit?”

There’s something in his belly that tightens and loosens wildly. A crisp edge to his posture, something in him heavier yet lighter at the same time. He’d run a hand through his hair if it wasn’t blocked by a hat. “Think I will,” he says quietly, “I’ve missed him, despite…Well, you know.” Instead of answering, Wayne nods once, smile softening, and gestures behind Steve.

He climbs back down the steps and stands closer to Eddie, but not quite in his space.

Eddie looks fantastic. Clothes nearly all black: dark blue denim jeans with gentle rips in the knees, black quarter sleeve t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, white Reeboks that are fresher and newer, chains and rings per usual. Lean body, bright eyes, the same beautiful dark brown hair. He’s older, sure. But he’s still got the same air and poise to him that Steve came to know twenty-nine years ago. His arms covered in beautiful tattoos, a splash of color on a few of them. But when he zeroes in on the flowers on Eddie’s arm, the sleeve just above them gets tugged down. Trying to hide the tattoos rather unsuccessfully.

In front of Steve, Eddie visibly shifts from side to side. A nervous habit he’s always done. “So you’re still here,” Eddie gently starts. “Thought that…Well, I honestly thought you’d follow Robin or something.”

Steve’s eyes jump to Eddie’s face. Leans his hip into the bumper of what must be Eddie’s car. “I thought about it very briefly,” he admits. “But there were—“ Well, he was busy mending a broken heart. Then, he stayed behind for the girl he fell in love with. Stayed for his child. For his mother. Stayed because his job was actually good. He enjoyed how he lived. That’s a lot, though. “—There were things that kept me here. Like my job, I really enjoy what I do here. But uh…You’re back in town. How’d that happen?” A part of him wants to be bitter. Ask something insensitive like: “Why’d you come back? Why’d you only come back after us…Why couldn’t you be here during us?” But knows better of it. He’s in his forties now, he should have at least a sliver of etiquette.

Yet, Eddie swallows heavily. With enough force to take down his teeth. “I…That’s not a conversation I’m ready to have,” he answers honestly. “I’m back, but not for the greatest reason. Is it okay with you if we leave it at that right now?”

“‘Course,” Steve immediately responds. “We’ve all got things that we gotta keep close, right? I know that I certainly do,” he says nonchalantly. Chuckling a bit with it. But that makes Eddie frown. His eyebrows furrow. A tilt to his head. Concern, Steve recognizes. “Nothing awful,” he scrambles hastily to add. “Just…Something brought you back here and it must be unpleasant. I’ve got shit, too. That’s all I’m saying.”

Eddie flashes him a gentle smile, one that lightly squints the corners of his eyes. They dart over all of Steve’s appearance. His uniform and facial hair, the hat on his head. He makes a cut-off surprised noise in the back of his throat. “Never thought I’d see the day that you’d be willingly hiding your hair,” he comments. “Do you have to wear the hat all the time? I mean…Like while you’re working. Not when you’re at—You get my point.”

Steve snickers. He bites back the foolish grin that tickles to make itself known. Relaxes completely on Eddie’s bumper, though. “Not in the summer,” he answers. “I don’t mind it, though. It’s not the worst uniform I’ve ever had to wear.” His hand rises up to his hat, carefully lifts it off his head, and runs his other hand through his hair. It’s slightly crispy from the product he put in this morning, but it’s otherwise pretty clean. Maybe not the softest, but it’s nothing like what Eddie surely remembers. “Still like doing my hair. It’s just not something I show off all that often. There’s not a lot of reason to. Not when I’m alo—“ But he stops himself with the shaking of his head. Mouth clamping closed. He could lay out all his cards, be completely honest to Eddie right now. Yet. It’s one thing, though, admitting to your ex that you’re lonely and another to admit the same thing to your mom. He sighs. “—It’s not my crowning feature nowadays. That’s my mustache, I think,” he states, stroking the back of his right index finger over his facial hair.

That gets a small laugh out of Eddie, something breathy, done and gone. Steve will take that as a graceful first step. Then, tentatively, Eddie grasps his cheeks. Fingers digging into the soft flesh. He twists Steve’s head left then right. Gently dragging his eyes over his features. “Think I’d say they’re both crowning features, Stevie,” he murmurs. With how close he is to Steve’s face, his breath mingles between them. Minty, a little sugary, with the end of a cigarette. Something in Steve craves. Fluttering and shifting within him. Tampers it, though. It’s not the time. Probably won’t ever be.

Eddie continues, “But wow…You’ve aged pretty magnificently, dude.” Steve ignores the butterflies that raise their heads in his stomach. Even though he knows they’ve surely risen from some deep hibernation within him. Hasn’t felt anything like it in an insanely long time. But before he can say anything, something surely stupid and too strong, Eddie drops his hand away. “Anyway,” Eddie sighs. “You’re a…mailman now. Said you like it. Maybe you can tell me more?”

Quickly, Steve checks his watch, hoping their time isn’t up. 6:45PM, shit. He looks back up. Stares at the face of a guy he once knew pretty intimately and lets himself spark with curiosity. And with a twist to his stomach, the way it is before it growls. Hunger lurks with Eddie, he notices. He wants to take a nibble.

“I have to drive back and clock out, but…You could follow me and we can grab some dinner?” He offers. Almost says something stupid like ‘Please.’

“Oh—uh.” Eddie shrugs. Steve wants to sour already, but he can be patient. Especially when Eddie looks over his shoulder to Wayne’s front door. Glances back at Steve very briefly. “I’ll check in with Wayne. Make sure he doesn’t need anything from me. Then, I’ll meet up with you? Where’d you wanna—“

“Benny’s Burgers is under new ownership. Apparently one of his sisters came back to town and bought it. Kept it mostly the same. We could—“

“Yeah!” Eddie agrees eagerly. He must be trying to reign himself in, judging by the way he softens and his cheeks flush in subtle embarrassment. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That sounds great, Steve. I’ll be over there in fifteen-ish minutes?”

Steve nods. Smiling gently. Lets himself spark a little more, prodding the butterflies in his stomach. They raise to his chest and he wants to do something ridiculous like scream. Stand on the edge of the universe and shout about how his day is glowing brighter, something cheesy like that. But he looks away to his truck, back at Eddie’s gorgeous eyes, and nods one more time. “See you then, Eds. I’ll order a vanilla shake for you.” Ignores how Eddie’s face colors with surprise, probably wondering how Steve remembered after all these years. But he wouldn’t know how to explain himself, without baring his complete soul. He puts a hand on Eddie’s right bicep, squeezes softly, and turns back to his truck.

When he pulls away from Forest Hills, he keeps the radio off. The silence like a warm blanket on his shoulders. But his chest is bursting like fireworks, crackling and popping, searing him on all sides, colorful flashes of light working through his fingertips. He hasn’t been this excited since his kid was born. That should say something about him, he’s sure of it. Whatever it means, though, surely isn’t something to analyze. It’s good. Something gooey he’s willing to stick his fingers in.

———————————————————————————————————————— End of Chapter One! Read the Next Chapter Here —>

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #drama #romance #angst and hurt/comfort #slow burn #eventual happy ending #read all tags above in the post #steddiebang24

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