#some of the things in lenny's room!!

[hylemorph]

Anna and Friedrich in Nosferatu (2024)

In a previous post I mentioned how important I think Friedrich is in the story as a representation of the patriarchal ideal, and how it/he crumbles when confronted by everything that has been suppressed in Ellen (manifested in the unavoidable, terrifying form of Orlok). I also think he is a mirror to Orlok in some ways: he says twice how he just cannot resist Anna, he subtly frames his desire for her as an unwilling "affliction." He also defiles Anna's body and his sacred marriage vows by engaging in necrophilia, because his appetite for her is so consuming - he can't resist her even when she's not even there anymore. Ellen's necrophilic act with Orlok represents her unification with the parts of herself that are suppressed/rejected by the men in her life, good and bad. It's dark and fucked up but metaphorically transformative, and consent is absolutely central. Friedrich's necrophilic act involves no consent, no Anna, and it lacks any metaphorical power. He didn't accomplish anything, he just succumbed to his own horror and amplified it.

Friedrich's unhealthy approach to his relationship with Anna consumes them both, and I think this theme is especially evident in the way Anna's pregnancy is discussed. Friedrich tells Thomas that they are expecting but doesn't want it mentioned in front of Anna or Ellen, probably because it wasn't supposed to be public yet. In victorian times people would rarely confirm a pregnancy before the woman was "showing" both because it was considered a private matter and because miscarriage was way more common. But Friedrich tells Thomas early anyways, because he is excited and proud, which is understandable but also selfish in this context. Furthermore, Anna says that "little Friedrich" is "very hungry, just like his father" and later on after Orlok has fed on her, she passes it off as feeling drained by the baby. Even though she seems happy and loves her family, she associates pregnancy with being drained.

This alienated way of understanding parenthood is also evident in the way Friedrich and Anna treat their girls (Louise and Clara I think?) They obviously both adore the girls, but they ignore their terror and assume the monster they see in their room is totally unrelated to all the other scary shit going on, because they're just silly little kids imagining things, right? One girl literally says "I can hear him breathing under my neck!" and they beg Anna not to leave them alone at night, but they are just hushed and told that they're totally safe. It's exactly the kind of dismissal Ellen has been getting her whole life, and so it's not surprising that the girls are haunted by Orlok before anyone else. It's not enough to adore little girls, they will never be safe until they are heard and believed.

Anna as a character apart from her role as wife and mother is a bit harder to parse out, but I think she is also a mirror for Ellen. Ellen's spiritual power is the catalyst for everything that happens, and von Franz says that "in heathen times you might have been a Priestess of Isis." Anna's spiritual inclination is less obvious, but it's there: she seriously listens to Ellen and believes that she is perceiving something real, she just assumes it must be God. Later when she lets Ellen stay with her for the night, she says "God is with us Lenny, I know it." On some level Anna is also in touch with that supernatural, suppressed feminine truth, and she seems to see through the patriarchal facade that Friedrich represents to some degree. But ultimately Anna wants to convince herself and Ellen that the night terrors were just caused by Thomas' absence, and that Ellen just needed her husband back and all would be well. When Thomas does return and Ellen has her faculties again, Anna is very eager to put it all behind them; 'no more talk of demons please, let's just focus on Christmas and being a happy family'. Anna's downfall is that she puts all her faith in the Christian patriarchal narrative even when she can clearly see that there's more going on. Her faith in the Christian God contrasts Ellen's "heathen" spirituality - both women have an innate spiritual sense, but one is more willing to make it fit into the values of their society. Ultimately Anna was consumed by the horror of their alienated position in society just like Ellen was, she just died with less agency.

[kayakiki]

MINE | Red dead redemption x reader

Red dead redemption characters reacting to you getting hit on

Characters included: Arthur Morgan, Dutch Van Der Linde, Hosea Matthews, John Marston, Javier Escuella, Lenny Summers, Charles Smith (In this order)

warning(s): threatening, mention of death

Genre: fluff

Arthur Morgan

The saloon was dimly lit, filled with the familiar scent of whiskey and sweat. You were just trying to enjoy a drink, letting the warmth of the fire and the buzz of conversation settle over you like an old, tattered blanket. But, of course, peace never lasted long in a place like this.

Arthur saw it before you did—the way the man leaned in too close, the cocky grin stretched across his face as he said something low enough for only you to hear. Whatever it was, it made your fingers tighten slightly around your glass.

He sighed.

He’d been in this business long enough to recognize trouble before it started. Didn’t matter if it was a rival gang or some drunk fool thinking he was invincible—trouble always walked in wearing the same damn smirk.

Setting his glass down, he adjusted the brim of his hat and stood, slow and deliberate. He didn’t need to be loud. Didn’t need to make a scene. When he moved, people noticed.

The man flirting with you didn’t, though.

Not until there was a shadow over him.

"Step back." His voice was calm, steady. Not a demand, not a threat, just a statement. But the weight behind it carried more warning than any drawn gun ever could.

The flirter, either too stupid or too drunk to recognize the danger he’d just waded into, gave a sloppy grin. "Didn’t realize this pretty thing belongs to someone, friend."

His jaw tensed. "She ain’t a prize to be claimed. Now move along."

Something about the way he said it—the quiet steel in his tone, the absolute certainty—made the man hesitate. But there’s always one idiot in every saloon who thinks they’re tougher than they are.

"Or what?" the flirter taunted, puffing his chest out like a rooster in a henhouse.

Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He was getting real tired of this kind of stupid.

"Or," he said, finally letting his hand rest on the holster of his revolver, "you’ll find out firsthand why I don’t waste bullets on warnings."

The man gulped, eying the gun. For a long moment, there was nothing but the crackle of the fire and the creak of old wooden floorboards.

Then the flirter swallowed, muttered something under his breath, and all but ran out the door.

Satisfied, Arthur finally turned to you, expression unreadable. His eyes, though—they were searching, checking, making sure you were alright.

"You alright?" He spoke softly to you.

You gave him a small smile. "I could’ve handled it. But thank you. You're a real gentleman, huh?"

"I know you could handle it." He nodded, lips twitching up at the corners. "But I ain’t one for lettin’ fools talk too long."

He was just a man. A man who made his choices, lived by a code, and—above all else—protected what was his.

Dutch Van Der Linde

The saloon was alive with music and laughter, the scent of whiskey thick in the air. His people were scattered throughout the room, celebrating some recent victory—another step toward the future he was building, a future he made them believe in.

Dutch sat at his usual spot, whiskey in hand, leaning back with that ever-present smirk playing on his lips. A man of ambition, a man of vision. A man who owned every room he walked into.

And then he saw it.

Some poor, oblivious fool had sidled up to you, leaning in like he actually thought he had a shot. The man was talking fast, trying to impress you, and—bless his heart—he really didn’t know whose woman he was trying to charm.

A slow grin spread across his face.

Oh, this was gonna be fun.

Rising from his seat, he adjusted his coat, took a slow sip of his drink, and sauntered over like a king approaching his throne. Confidence in every step.

He placed a hand on your waist first—a silent declaration.

Then, with a voice as smooth as the finest whiskey, he spoke.

"Darlin’—imagine my heartbreak, sittin’ over there all by my lonesome, watchin’ another man try to steal you away." His tone was playful, teasing, but his eyes? Oh, there was fire behind them.

The flirter blinked, clearly confused. "I—uh—I was just—"

He cut the man off with a chuckle, shaking his head like he was genuinely disappointed. "No, no. Don’t backpedal now. You were doin’ real well—real confident, too. Almost made me jealous."

That was a lie. He wasn’t jealous. Not even a little. Because jealousy was for men who weren’t certain of what was theirs.

The flirter, now visibly uncomfortable, mumbled something and practically disappeared into the crowd.

With that little distraction handled, he turned his full attention to you, his smirk softening into something more genuine.

"Now, tell me the truth, sweetheart, was he borin’ you to death?"

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. "You could’ve let me handle it, you know."

He exhaled a laugh, lifting your hand to press a slow, deliberate kiss against your knuckles.

"Oh, I know. But what kind of gentleman would I be if I let my lady suffer through such poor conversation?"

You shook your head, amused, but he could see the way your eyes softened for him.

"Now," he continued, voice dropping just a little, just enough to make your heart skip, "how ‘bout you let me buy you a drink, and I remind you why you chose me over every fool in this room?"

Hosea Matthews

The saloon was buzzing, card games in full swing, drinks flowing like a river after the rains. Hosea sat at a corner table, long legs stretched out, hat tipped just enough to give him a lazy, uninterested look—a man who saw everything without looking like he was watching.

And right now, he was watching.

Some poor bastard had decided that tonight was the night to try his luck with you.

He didn’t get mad. No, no. Anger was for men who didn’t know how to control a situation. Instead, he just sighed, swirling the whiskey in his glass as he observed.

The fool was talking big, flashing his best smile, leaning just a little too close for comfort. You looked unimpressed—which he found rather amusing.

He pushed back his chair and stood, adjusting his coat as he made his way over.

"Now, now," he drawled, sliding into the space between you and the flirter with the effortless ease of a man who had never lost a game of poker in his life. "I do hate to interrupt, but you wouldn’t happen to be botherin’ my lady, would you?"

The flirter blinked, clearly realizing that this wasn’t just some random man.

"I—uh—was just makin’ conversation."

"Oh, conversation." He nodded, stroking his chin like he was deep in thought. "Well, I do respect a man with a love for words. Tell me—what exactly were you hopin’ to achieve with this little chat?"

The flirter frowned, clearly confused.

"Were you hopin’ she’d find you more charmin’ than me?" He tsked, shaking his head. "That ain’t likely."

"Maybe you thought you could outwit me?" He grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. "That’d be a first."

The flirter opened his mouth, probably to argue, but Hosea lifted a hand, stopping him.

"Or—maybe you just enjoy flirtin’ with taken women. Now, that’s a dangerous little habit, my friend."

His voice was still light, still playful—but there was something underneath it, something just sharp enough to make the fool hesitate.

"So, here’s my friendly advice—take whatever dignity you got left, walk away, and count yourself lucky I’m in a good mood tonight."

The flirter didn’t need to be told twice. He muttered something and all but ran out the door.

Satisfied, he turned back to you with a grin. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he plopped himself into the seat beside you, resting an arm along the back of your chair.

"Now, how ‘bout you buy me a drink for my troubles? Savin’ my lady from unwanted attention is thirsty work." He mused jokingly.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

And no, he did not let you pay for his drink. He is too much of a gentleman.

John Marston

The saloon was dimly lit, hazy with cigar smoke and filled with the low hum of conversation. You were at the bar, waiting for your drink, when some nobody decided to slink up beside you, all smug confidence and cheap cologne.

“Well now, ain’t you just the prettiest little thing in here tonight?” the man drawled, leaning in slightly.

But before you even had to deal with it, you felt a familiar presence behind you—a looming, quiet storm.

John wasn’t one for scenes. He didn’t do flashy threats or loud outbursts. But when he was angry? You felt it.

A heavy hand landed on the bar beside you, just close enough to the man’s arm to make him notice. John didn’t say anything right away. He just stared.

The cowboy hesitated, then scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “Something wrong, friend?”

John let out a slow, tired sigh, like this was the last thing he wanted to be dealing with.

Then, in a low voice, he muttered, “Walk away.”

That was it. Just two words. But damn, did they carry weight.

The man chuckled, trying to brush it off. “Relax, I was just complimentin’ her.”

John’s jaw twitched. His hand flexed once against the bar. Then, just as calmly, just as quietly, he repeated, “Didn’t ask what you were doin’. I said, walk away.”

His voice was steady, deadpan, but his eyes? Cold as hell.

The cowboy hesitated, glancing between you and the muscular, very unamused man standing beside you. Eventually, he grumbled something under his breath and backed off. Smart choice. Your boyfriend didn’t even watch him go. He just exhaled through his nose, finally looking at you.

“You alright, love?” he muttered, voice still low, still gruff, like he was still shaking off the irritation. He then proceeded to sneak his arm around your shoulders, squeezing you tightly against him.

You smirked a little, nudging him lightly. “You gonna start throwing people out of saloons now?”

He scoffed, finally reaching for his drink. “If I have to.”

Then, after a beat of silence, he muttered, “Damn idiot’s lucky I was feelin’ patient.”

And that was that. No gloating, no dramatics. Just his usual, grumpy, quiet self—like scaring the hell out of some poor fool was just another part of his evening.

Javier Escuella

The saloon was loud, the air thick with cigar smoke and the scent of spilled whiskey. Javier sat at a table near the back, boots propped up, a half-empty bottle in front of him. His hat was tilted slightly forward, casting a shadow over sharp, dark eyes that scanned the room like a hawk.

He wasn’t in a bad mood. Not yet.

But then he saw it.

Some dumb pendejo had the nerve—the absolute balls—to sidle up to you, flashing some cocky smile like he actually had a chance.

He watched. For a moment. Maybe you’d tell the bastard off yourself.

But then the man had the audacity to touch your arm.

The chair scraped against the wooden floor as he stood. Oh, now he was in a bad mood. He walked across the room, boots heavy against the floor, zero hesitation in his step.

Before the flirter even knew what was happening, a strong hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back.

"Qué carajo te pasa, idiota?" Javier snapped at the man, forgotting to speak english thanks to how angry he was.

The flirter stumbled, eyes wide. "I—"

"No, no, no. You don’t talk. You listen." Javier's grip tightened, fiery anger sparking behind his gaze. "You think you can just walk in here and touch my woman?"

"I—I didn’t know she was taken!"

He scoffed, shoving the man backward with enough force to make him trip over his own damn feet.

"Scram"

The flirter scrambled up and bolted out of the saloon, leaving behind his pride and probably a little bit of his soul.

With that handled, he turned to you, still fuming.

"Qué chingados fue eso? Are you collecting dumbasses now, mi amor?"

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. "Its not like I want to, you know. Besides, I could have take care of it myself without the violence"

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair. "Sí, sí, cariña. But that doesn’t mean I have to sit there and watch some idiota put his hands on you."

His eyes softened—just a little—before he grabbed your chin, tilting your face up to his.

"Next time, just tell me first so I don’t waste time watchin’ before I break his damn nose, sí?"

Then, without waiting for a reply, he pressed a quick, fierce kiss against your lips—just enough to make a statement.

When he pulled back, he smirked.

"I don’t like wasting my time on dead men walking."

Lenny Summers

The saloon was buzzing, the low hum of conversation mixing with the clinking of glasses. Lenny sat at the bar, his legs dangling over the edge of the stool, playing with the rim of his glass absentmindedly. His quick-wit was always sharp, and his mind constantly raced with new ideas, but in moments like these, he found himself stuck in a kind of awkward silence, observing rather than jumping into the conversation.

He liked to think of himself as someone who didn’t need to make a big show of things—but right now, his attention was focused on you. You were laughing at something one of the other men said, your smile bright, and your eyes sparkling with amusement.

But then, a man he didn’t recognize leaned in a little too close, trying to match your energy and charm.

His fingers drummed nervously on the counter. Why was he feeling so uneasy?

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen men flirt with you before. But something about this one… he didn’t like it.

A quick glance to the side showed the man was pushing his luck, inching closer, leaning in with a confident grin that made his stomach twist.

There was a brief moment where he considered letting it slide. You could handle yourself; he knew that. He’d seen you put people in their place without raising a finger. But then the thought of that man getting too bold sent a rush of frustration through him.

With a deep breath, he stood up, adjusting his coat as he made his way over.

The man noticed him just as he was about to say something else, and he made the mistake of locking eyes with him.

"Hey" he said, his voice not quite as loud as he intended, a little unsure. "I think you’ve gotten a little too close."

The man shot him a confused glance.

"Come again?"

"I said… you’re a bit too close," he repeated, trying to sound calmer, more composed.

You turned to look at him now, a curious expression crossing your face.

He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, but he pressed on. This wasn’t like him. He’d spoken to men a lot worse than this. It was just—well, it was you. He hated seeing anyone else get too close to you.

"Hey, I don’t mean any harm" the man said, raising his hands in mock surrender "but I was just talking."

"Yeah, well," His voice dropped just a little lower. He cleared his throat and tried to appear more confident. "She’s not interested, alright? So, maybe it’s time to move along."

The man, realizing there was no point in arguing, just nodded with a lazy grin and walked off.

He stood there, awkwardly, unsure whether to feel relieved or embarrassed that he’d gotten worked up over something so small.

You were staring at him now, eyes narrowed slightly in amusement.

"Well" you said, a teasing tone in your voice, "you sure look scary mister"

He flushed, scratching the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. "I just I didn’t want you to be bothered by someone."

You smiled, stepping closer to him. You placed a gentle hand on his arm, trying to steady his nerves. "You don’t have to do that, you know. But I appreciate it."

His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he almost forgot where he was. "I’m just glad I could help."

You laughed softly, the sound making him smile more than he realized.

"Yeah sure did. Thank you" you said.

He felt the knot in his chest loosen, his shoulders relaxing just a little. "You have nothing to thank me for."

Charles Smith

The saloon was alive with noise—piano keys clinking, drunken laughter rolling through the thick haze of tobacco smoke. Charles sat at the bar, posture relaxed but never careless, one hand around a glass of whiskey, the other resting near the knife strapped to his belt.

He never spoke more than he had to. Words were cheap. Actions mattered. And right now, his attention was drawn to you. Or, more specifically, the fool who thought he had the right to stand too close, talk too sweet, and try his luck where he had no business trying.

At first, he waited. Gave the man a chance. Maybe he was just being friendly. Maybe he’d realize his mistake and walk away.

But then the flirter leaned in.

Your shoulders tensed ever so slightly. You weren’t scared—you could handle yourself, and he knew that.

Didn’t mean he had to let you.

Setting his glass down with deliberate ease, he rose from his seat and crossed the room in a few slow, measured steps.

The flirter didn’t notice him at first.

Not until a firm hand landed on his shoulder.

The man froze. Turned. Looked up into unreadable eyes.

"Step away," he said, voice quiet—but quiet in the way distant thunder warns of a coming storm.

The flirter blinked, surprised, then scoffed. "Didn’t realize she was taken."

His grip tightened—not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind the man that he could.

"You realize now."

A pause.

Then the flirter nodded, mumbling some excuse as he backed away fast enough to trip over his own feet.

Once he was gone, Charles finally turned to you, gaze softening just enough.

"You alright?"

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "I could’ve handled him."

His lips twitched, almost amused. "I know."

That was it. No gloating, no teasing. Just quiet certainty.

[stevie-petey]

track two: but youre such a tease

“Perfect,” he mouths at your ear, smile tickling the sensitive skin there. “Everything you do is perfect.” “Helps that I have a good teacher.” You shiver at the sensation, voice frailer than you’d like.  “In no time you’ll be replacing me in my own band.” The shell of your ear lands in his mouth and he bites down, hard enough to force a gasp out of you, but gentle enough to leave you leaning in for more.  You pull away slightly and shake your head. “No, I think I’ll stick to photography. Easier to remember where my hands go.” “As if I wouldn’t guide you through it.”

Summary: now officially the februarys concert photographer, you hit the road with them on tour. how bad can three months be stuck inside a small tour bus with steves needy hands and songs reserved only for you ?

Rating: general, some swearing, drinking, horny

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, steve is a slut (endearing), mentions of alcohol, underaged drinking, a bit smutty and mature content ahead

Words: 16.2k

Before you swing in: HAPPY CRUX DAY !! sorry this took so long i was on spring break and also battling academic demons. im back now ! hooray ! and the crux is amazing fly makes me want to collapse and i honestly envision fly for this series as well. gap tooth smile too. fly fits more for chapter 3 :) take that as you will ! anyways, i was really brave and wrote my own lyrics for this chapter so pls be kind and enjoy !

-

With three divorces, a multi-million record label company, and hundreds of performance legends who all owe their careers to his ear for talent: Leonard Branham is a force of nature. 

He shoves papers into the band’s faces and starts rambling off legalities that you don’t even try to keep up with. All you catch, at the very tail end of one of his spiels, is that the Februarys can make only small, miniscule edits to their EP at the studio. Nothing else. Nothing new. Nothing unexpected. 

“If you even think about tainting the green in your music, I’m suing you all for defamation.” Leonard warns them with a wave of his cigarette. “Minor edits to the music only. Anything bigger than my second wife and I’ll shoot you.”

While it’s unlikely the short, stout man has an actual gun, no one in the Februarys is willing to run the risk. They nod at his every word. Steve even audibly gulps as he signs along the dotted lines. 

“You won’t regret this, Lenny.” You shake the man’s hand again. “No big changes. You have their word.”

Leonard’s mouth pinches in displeasure, but he doesn’t say anything. He takes his hand from yours and brings his cigarette to his mouth. It’s almost down to the filter, a nub more than anything else. 

“Whatever,” he drops the nicotine onto the carpet. Rubs it in with his polished leather shoes. “Just do as I say. Ring me when it’s done so I know when to start harassing small businesses into selling your music.”

Then Leonard Branham leaves just as quickly as he appeared. The scent of cigarette smoke is the only thing left in his wake. 

“Did that just happen?” Steve’s question floats through the room, not particularly aimed towards anyone. 

You flick his ear to break him from his awe struck spell. “Sure did. Now you have all the time in the world to make imperceptible edits to the EP so that our pal Lenny can wrack up some misdemeanor charges.”

Years from now, when someone asks you how exactly Leonard managed to get every record store in the country to display The Februarys on their shelves and every radio station to begin rolling out the lead single, Tease, you’ll tell the person exactly what you told Steve: misdemeanor charges. 

Three divorces, millions of dollars, a knack for discovering talent: Leonard Branham really is a fucking force of nature. 

A month later you’re pressed against the kitchen counter. Steve’s chest lines your back and his hands rest on your waist. Dustin’s hair tickles your face and Robin’s own hands fiddle with your fingers as the impatience gnaws at her.

Will and Lucas stand against the fridge. Max hangs off her boyfriend’s shoulder and Mike paces the room. El sits to the side with Nancy, who has spent the entire hour-long wait gripping Jonathan’s leg, forcing him to sit still. 

There’s food scattered throughout the apartment. Cold pizza and cans of beer and candy wrappers all on the floor. The air inside the walls is thick and warm and brimming with anticipation. 

The clock on the wall flicks to 11:59PM. 

“One more minute.” Steve’s fingers twitch, tightening around your body. His chest is tight and you can feel his erratic heartbeat. 

A small, dented radio sits on the kitchen counter. Some unimpressive, generic bluegrass song drones through its shitty speakers, and yet the device sucks everyone in. No one dares to look away from it. In less than a minute it’ll sing the beginning chords of Tease for all of New York to hear.

“Do you think they’ll announce who we are first–”

Nancy’s hand stifles Jonathan’s words. He makes muffled complaints, tries to speak through her clasped hand, but she’s firm in her silencing. 

“I’m doing this for your own good, honey.” She smiles sickly sweet at him. “If you’re talking while the song starts, Steve will kill you and Robin will bury the body.”

“And we’ll help.” MIke points to him and Max, smirking at Jonathan’s eye roll in begrudging acceptance that for the next thirty seconds, all there will be is silence.

The small hands inside your watch tick by, agonizingly slow and calculated. You can feel Steve’s eyes staring down at the wrist that his lips have grazed a million times before. Only for once he isn’t imagining kissing the skin but rather how his voice will sound through radio waves. 

“And that was Margarete Joel’s Fishing on a Wire.” The nasally voice of the radio presenter cuts through the thickening silence. The clock strikes midnight. The only movement in the kitchen is the pounding of hearts. “Next up we have the, uh. The Februarys? Huh. Happy February I guess.”

“Told you your band name is stupid.” Dustin grumbles, already dodging the punch that he knows Robin will lay on him. 

“Shut up!” She hisses at him, leaning even closer to the radio now.

The presenter clears his throat, excuses himself, before continuing. “My apologies, folks. Anyways, here’s the Februarys and their new song, Tease!” 

And even through the shitty and dented speakers that are five years past their prime, the beginnings of Steve’s acoustic chords intermixed with Mike’s electric strings sounds as beautiful as rain and thunder on a summer day. Soft melodies colliding with harsh grandeur. 

Everyone screams. Loud, unabashed, prideful and exhilarated and happy. 

Nancy jumps into Jonathan’s arms and Mike throws himself at El and Lucas and Will and Dustin jump around in a circle as Max and Robin scream into each other’s faces and Dustin is cheering and your body gets thrown over Steve’s shoulder in a dizzying rush and you only have seconds to grab your camera before he’s running around the apartment in a victory lap worthy of Greek chariot racers. 

“We’re on the radio!” Steve twists and turns throughout the apartment, hands securely on your legs, careful you don’t fall.

You’re giggling in his infectious glee, stomach warm and light with endless pride for a group of people you’ve only known for two months; it feels like you’ve known them all a lifetime. 

They’re the closest family you’ve ever had and the rush of your love for them vibrates your body. Steve flings you around and everyone is still screaming and you’re laughing so hard that it’s almost impossible to take the photos that you want. 

No one is quite in frame in any of the photos. Half of Robin’s smile in one image, parts of Max’s red hair, Jonathan’s scrunched face and Mike’s pink gums. The images end up blurry and overexposed. 

Still to this day they’re your favorite pictures that you’ve ever taken. 

“Mark my name into your skin,” Steve wails through the chorus, harmonizing with your uncontrolled laughter thrown over his shoulder. “Coax it inside your wrist.”

Jonathan’s fingers rap against the counter and he’s drumming along as Mike pretends to shred the guitar strings that project through the speakers. Robin’s head bounces to the beat and she’s pressing her own fingers into the countertop as if the entire world is her keyboard while Max simply sways to the music and imagines she’s playing her bass to Lucas.

An impromptu performance of the Februarys in your overheated kitchen. For one night only. Come one, come all. 

El cheers and dances along. Will and Dustin try to mimic Mike’s erratic movements. Lucas and Nancy watch their lovers as if the performance is real and the warm light above them are stage lights. 

As you’re trying to take a picture of Robin’s pink hair flying with every head thrust, you’re suddenly thrown onto the couch with Steve toppling right above you. The air knocks from your chest and he breathes his own into your skin. 

“Tease! Tease! Tease!” He accentuates each lyric with a kiss to your face. 

You choke his name out in between laughs and it only drives Steve forward. Sets his skin more on fire. 

“Mark your name into my skin,” he nips your collarbone playfully and you think you hear Robin’s teasing whistles. 

Everything is blinding. The lyrics, the heat of Steve’s skin. His lips. The Februarys’ eyes all on you, all on him, playing along to the performance. 

“Don’t know how to resist,” Then Steve’s skin is gone and he swings you off the couch, onto your feet, spinning you around and around and around, leaving you gasping for air. “Tease! Tease! Tease!”

On the last syllable your body stills. You’re face to face with the boy in front of you. His smile is wide, cheeks a wonderful rosie, and your heart feels so full that it threatens to burst sickly sweet grenadine. 

“Tease,” he whispers, as if now, finally, he’s become breathless as well. The music builds, Steve doesn’t look away. He doesn’t move, doesn’t loosen his hands from your tender flesh. Your chests brush together and you know that if you look up, if you give into the temptation, that the final notes of the song will haunt you forever. 

Then the radio cuts out. The song is over. The applause begins. Childish cheering and praise for the band from their most beloved audience. The Februarys’ own cheering for their song being on the radio. For doing it together as a band, as a family. 

The applause rips you back to reality. Reminds you that the performance is over. The show is done. Curtains are drawn, lights are about to go out.

Clearing your throat, you’re the one who steps away, out of his grasp, and yet it’s Steve who pulls you back in, presses a single, gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist. Coaxing his name into the skin just as he’s written into his lyrics. 

“Tease,” he says, song long over, before finally letting you go. 

It’s the closest you’ll ever get to an admission to the question that you’re too terrified to ask. 

– 

The EP does well. Better than anyone could’ve ever thought possible. Almost overnight copies of the tracks sell out. Record stores are met with a demand for more. More music from the Februarys, more EPs, more information about who the band even is. 

More, more, more. 

Leonard is so consumed with his financial glee that he sends a crate of liquor to the apartment with a note consisting only of, You beautiful bastards have made America love green again!

“What’s with this guy and thinking our music is green?” Robin hesitantly opens one of the liquor bottles, sniffs if, then recoils with a gag. “Holy fuck, is this what he drinks?”

“Rumor has it he killed his first wife with homemade liquor.” Mike pops open his own bottle and pours himself a glass, which Nancy promptly takes away from him. He shrugs, having expected this. “Figured I’d try.”

You frown. “Wait, the guy has a dead wife?”

“Made headlines a few years back. I’m surprised you didn’t see any of it.” Jonathan takes a cautious sip from Mike’s stolen glass. You watch his face turn red, then ghostly white, before he stumbles out of the kitchen and into the bathroom.

“Who the fuck did you guys sign with?” You ask in horror, the sounds of Jonathan’s retching floating through the walls. 

Robin closes the crate. She definitely isn’t making the same mistake as her bandmate. “A man who really likes green, apparently.”

Steve wanders into the living room, hair messy and shirt hanging off his shoulder. His blurry eyes take in the scene before him until they settle on the crate of liquor. He jolts awake at the sight and rushes over to Robin’s side.

“Holy shit,” he opens it up, whistling at how full it is. “You guys want any of this?”

“No.” Everyone in the kitchen says at the same time. 

Steve blinks at the odd response. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” you hand him the glass that nearly killed Jonathan. “Here, try some. It’s really good.”

Robin’s mouth twitches and you have to bite your own lips to keep from smiling. Nancy and Mike are quiet, watching, as Steve, bless him, trusts you blindly. 

He takes one sip. Drops the glass. Soon his retching join’s Jonathan’s.

It takes three hours before Steve is willing to talk to you again. 

–

The Februarys gain a large audience faster than they can keep up with after the unexpected success of their EP. Their weekly performances at their regular venues become sold out every night. Crowds scream their name, more than ever before. Flashing lights and stuffy concert halls and crowds that would do anything for them.

Steve feeds into it. As if he was born for it.

In a way, you suppose he was.

His usual array of girls he sleeps with grows almost as quickly as his success does. Dustin says there’s a correlation there. A positive one. He’d do an equation on it if it wasn’t so goddamn obvious in the first place. 

“That’s the fifth girl tonight.” Robin’s untrusting eyes never leave the girl who sits in Steve’s lap. She’s painted azure and shimmering under the dressing room’s dim lighting. The four other girls cram to be as close as possible to him, each painted their own bright colors. “His room is barely bigger than mine. Where the hell is he going to fit them all?”

You hand Robin a cloth to wipe her makeup off. The rush of the show is just beginning to exit your bloodstream. Tonight had been a good gig, a great one even, given the fact that there are currently five girls pawing at Steve’s chest. He’s still sweaty from the performance but he doesn’t bother trying to wipe the grime away. It must add to the rockstar facade that he knows the girls are here for. 

“I really don’t want to think about that. We share a fucking wall.”

“Sorry, babe.” Robin scrubs her lipstick off. “If you get too traumatized, just come to my room. I promise I won’t keep you up too late.”

You snort at her overly flirtatious wink. “The day I fall into your bed is the day I fall into Steve’s.”

“So I’ll see you next week?”

“Oh, definitely.” Sarcasm stabs your voice. “Be next in line for all the girls he sleeps with. What a dream.” 

Robin smears at her eyes, clumps of mascara falling out at the harshness. She looks back in the mirror and finds Steve again. His lips are wrapped around a bottle. She isn’t sure where it came from or how many he’s had since the stage lights have gone out. You watch as her disapproving frown slowly melts into concern. Uncertainty. Worry.

“You don’t…” she hesitates, swallowing back a growing wave of cold concern. “You don’t think it’s anything to worry about, right? I mean. The girls. It’s… there’s been a lot. Even for Steve’s standards.”

The girl’s worry for her friend makes you swallow back your own uncertainty. Robin looks at you through the mirror and her blue eyes look so small without their stage makeup. Fresh faced, pale pink streaks through blond hair you’ve run your fingers through during late nights together talking about art and music. 

“I’m sure he’s fine, Robin.” You pinch her cheek, reddening the skin to elicit the squeaky laughter you’ve come to adore. “An EP, insane manager, and adoring fans is basically Steve’s wet dream.”

Only Robin doesn’t look convinced. You sigh, tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You guys are finally getting to live out your dreams,” she smiles at the small reminder and you kiss the crest of her cheekbone. “And Steve is enjoying every second of it. You should be enjoying every second of it.”

“I guess you’re right.” 

You pretend her smile is more genuine and assured than it really is and tangle your fingers through her hair once again. Robin’s eyes close at the touch, practically melts, and you end up braiding the strands as a way to distract her. 

As you braid Robin’s hair, the conversation loops over and over in your head. A lot has changed in the last few weeks, faster than you’re willing to admit. The crowds are bigger and the venues are flashier and people have even started recognizing you whenever your camera is in your hands. It’s a whirlwind, fast and loud, and Steve is right there in the crosswinds with you.

More girls, more substances, yet the moles on his face still pinch together when he smiles. He still crawls into your bed most nights to play guitar and sit quietly developing film. You’re both still doing what you love, performances and photographs. 

Steve still calls you angelface. That’s as good of an indication as any that things are still the same, though maybe shinier, superficial, but the image itself is still intact. 

–

A few weeks after the release of The Februarys, Robin demands that you and the others celebrate its release without the labor of smuggling underaged adolescents into a bar. 

“We need to get shitfaced and not worry about possibly traumatizing the children we choose to live with for some classified reason.”

No one argues with her. Since moving in with them, you haven’t spent a night out with only Steve and the other legal-aged adults. Somehow Mike or Max or Dustin or anyone else in their group manages to tag along, and while you’ve come to adore them, you’re growing paranoid that you’ve somehow wound up on a watchlist somewhere for how many venues you’ve broken into these last few months. 

That, and Lucas got lost in one of the prohibition tunnels last week and Nancy had to form a small search party. 

The club Robin ends up dragging everyone to is called Webster Hall. You’ve never been, but Steve promises you a round of drinks and you’ve never said no to free liquor before. On the outskirts of the East Village and almost always surrounded by NYU students looking for easy hits, the club’s famous nightlife and live performances quickly pulls you under its tide when you stumble in.

“Holy fuck,” you gasp out, feeling your eyes widen at the overwhelming sights and sounds. On the stage performs a band you’re vaguely familiar with, recognizing their lead vocalist from gigs with the Februarys. Lights flash fluorescent red above you and the band’s vocalist screams a grand crescendo as the floor goes wild. 

“Pretty intense, right?” Steve has to scream in your ear in order to be heard, though he doesn’t waste the opportunity to grab your waist and pull your chest to his. “Don’t worry angelface, you’re all mine tonight.”

And you are. 

You feel safe in Steve’s embrace. He holds onto you just tight enough to remind you that he’ll go wherever you go, without any hesitation, and he’s just as much as yours are you are his. 

Steve buys everyone round after round of drinks. He never strays far from you, he doesn’t allow his hand to leave your waist the entire night. The cold metal of his ring cools your flushed skin and the graze of his bracelets send pleasant stings to your flesh. 

Sometime after the third round of drinks you lose Jonathan and Nancy in the crowd. He’d been wanting to get closer to the stage and she’d been wanting to get closer to him. 

The fifth round you’re dancing with Robin and the press of Steve’s rings still dimples in your skin. She spins you around and around and the music soaks your body alongside the alcohol and Steve’s smile looks like liquid sex in the red lighting. 

The sixth round Robin is gone and Steve’s hands are everywhere. His fingers slip between the straps of your lace bra, dig into your ribcage at the skin just at the crest of your breast. His hands slide up your stomach and pull up the thin sheer shirt that hardly covers an inch of skin. 

“Someone’s touchy tonight,” your voice shakes slightly, your neck is exposed and you gasp when Steve’s lips maul it. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t consider that he’s never done this before, that he’s never kissed you quite like this. “Fuck.”

“Can you blame me?” Teeth bruise your veins, he pulls you even closer hearing your pretty sighs. He cups the lace of your bra and fingers the fabric that’s been begging him all night. “Wearin’ something like this and expecting me not to want to touch.”

His whispered praise sets your skin on fire and you know you shouldn't be doing this, but the film of alcohol that soaks through your bloodstream weakens what little denial that remains in your body. The thin lines that trace through Steve’s freckles into your pulse snap with every kiss he lays against your skin. 

The seventh round of drinks and you find your spine digging into a wall, shoved into a dark corner with Steve’s teeth marring your neck. Normally so gentle and soft with you, his desperate mouth greedily bites any inch of skin it can reach and you’re weak and wanting. Putty in his hands, all you can do is cling to Steve’s shirt as his knee shoves itself between your legs.

“That’s it,” he says when your body collapses into the hardness of his knee. The deepness of his voice makes you bite back yet another moan. “That’s my girl.”

Then Steve’s fingers pinch the hardened nipples that press against your bra and any resolve you once had is gone. You’re his girl. His angelface. 

“Excuse me!”

Steve’s lips are pried away from your collarbone and the cold air that replaces his lips stings. You open your eyes, unsure when you even closed them in the first place, and see a girl shoving her way between you. She’s shorter than you, her eyes darkened by streaks of black eyeshadow and liner, and the tinsel in her hair creates a cascading illuminance that leaves you wondering if she’s truly real. 

“What the fuck?” Only Steve’s affronted reaction tells you that she’s very much real and that he’s very much pissed off by her interruption. 

“I’m sorry,” the girl has to stand on the tips of her toes in order for her shouting to be heard by Steve. She’s completely standing in front of you now, uncaring of the fact that your thighs were only moments ago encased with his. She shows no remorse, instead clawing at his shirt to get his attention. “But are you Steve Harrington?”

Steve steps closer to you, tilting his head at the girl with curiosity and apprehension. “Yeah, why?”

“I love the Februarys!” The girl squeals and throws herself at him, too lost in her ecstasy to realize that Steve has gone entirely still. “Can I get an autograph?”

“I…” Steve’s mouth opens and closes as stares at her, unmoving. His chest doesn’t rise with breaths as the seconds pass and you watch as the disbelief on his face melts into surprise before warming into a smile. 

Outside of performances, no one has ever recognized Steve enough to ask for an autograph. Now here he is, at a club surrounded by rock and jazz and music that makes his heartbeat spike and a pretty girl knows who he is and loves his music. He told you once that he was going to be a rockstar. Now he’s starting to believe that it’ll actually happen.

The girl smiles sweetly up at Steve. “Well?” She nudges her head closer to his chin and the droop of her lined eyes warn you of what’s about to happen.

You see it in the creases of his smile first. The lines mold together to fuse Steve’s lips into the cocky, self-assured smile he reserves only for performances. Then you see it in the way his warm eyes darken to a bitter dusk as he looks the girl up and down, lingering on the cleavage she presents to him. 

Steve’s hand falls from your waist before landing on the girl who has taken your place and you know he’s found himself someone else to call his girl for the night. 

“Anything specific you’d like me to sign?” Unashamed, his eyes drop down to her exposed chest and your throat tightens at the idea of staying in the humiliation any longer. 

“I’m gonna go find Robin,” you grab at Steve, forcing him to finally remember your presence. His eyes are unfocused, he isn’t really looking at you but rather at his newfound attraction and you want to wipe that stupid fucking smirk off his face. Angry that you’re even upset in the first place, you spit out, “Don’t wait up.”

And then you’re gone, shoving through the crowd of people who seem to have someone to dance with and call their own. Behind you, despite the obscenity that is the volume of music in the small area, you still somehow manage to hear Steve’s fucking breathy laughter as you leave.

The sound only burns the open wound of the hurt you know you have no right to feel. Steve isn’t yours, even if for a few drunken moments the two of you allowed the lines to blur into something more. 

That’s all it had been. A few drunken moments. Nothing else. 

But the heat on your neck, leftover remnants of Steve’s pink lips, won’t leave. The heat grows warmer and warmer until your skin blisters at the sensation. You blindly stumble towards the bar with hot tears in your eyes before colliding into someone new.

He’s tall and handsome with red hair that’s shorter than Steve’s and he kisses your neck with more fervor than desperation and he’s everything you’re aching to forget. His hands are softer than Steve’s calloused ones from years of playing an instrument and he sucks the alcohol regret from your lips yet you don’t bother to ask for his name.

You’re shoved against the bar and the hard surface digs aggressively into your back, but the guy bites back your pained sounds with overly eager flicks of his tongue and your eyes close at the sensation. 

He says something into the skin of your neck, but it’s impossible to hear him over the alcohol and music and sex that lingers in the air. His lips drag over your jugular, forcing your head to fall back, but as your eyes squeeze shut once again, you feel a familiar burn on your skin.

You’re being watched.

Steve’s eyes reflect the pleasure that must paint your own face. He’s watching you, eyes dark with the girl he left you for wrapped around him. She hangs off his neck, pressing messy kisses to the smooth skin that you’ve traced your fingers against, but Steve’s eyes remain only on you.

His gaze creates a burn in your core that licks at the heat already there from someone else’s lips. 

You bite your lip, suppressing a moan at the idea of Steve watching you writhe in pleasure. The guy beneath you mistakenly assumes the moan is meant for him and he nips even harder at your neck. There will be a bruise tomorrow from his teeth and you know that Steve will pretend that he was the one who left the mark.

Spinning on that dizzy edge. Kissed her face and kissed her head. 

Muffled singing breaks through the sound barrier between you and Steve. He never takes his eyes off of you and you can’t bear to take yours off of him. His chest heaves a moan that you’re aching to hear, to elicit yourself, to swallow, but he’s across the room wrapped around someone else and all you can do is pant against a stranger’s mouth as you watch Steve’s tongue dance in a mouth that isn’t yours.

Dreamed of all the different ways I had to make her glow.

You imagine that it’s Steve who grinds into you. That it’s him biting your collarbones and marking you as his. That it’s his voice that whispers aching words to you, telling you how beautiful you are, how he’s been waiting for you all night. 

“Why are you so far away?”, she said, “Why won’t you ever know that I’m in love with you?” 

Steve watches you get off with another guy, throat tightening with every moan you know he wishes he could hear, and you watch him, dripping and craving for your own release, as a girl who isn’t you gets him off. 

“That I’m in love with you?”

– 

Lines of people overflow out the venue’s doors a month later. Security refuses to let you and Nancy inside. 

“Packed house,” the gruff man blocks the door. “No one else is allowed in.”

Nancy scoffs at him, holding up the small backstage pass that Steve had given you before the show. Your names are written on them and the silver lettering flashes in the security guard’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” she shows him the pass yet again. “But we’re supposed to be at the front with the band. I’m not sure what else you need from us.”

The man shrugs, indifferent. “Not up to me. It’s the law, miss. Fire codes.”

You pick at your camera’s strap and feel impatience gnaw at your skin. The show starts any minute and you’re not even close to the barricade. Inside the venue you can hear the crowd growing louder and louder as the anticipation eats away at them. You should be in there right now, capturing the moment with your lens to encase forever in an image. 

“C’mon,” your voice draws out in a whine that you aren’t necessarily proud of, but you’re desperate. You’ve never missed a show and you refuse to start now. You shove your camera in the guard’s face, “I’m the band’s photographer, and if you don’t let us in, I quite literally will lose a paycheck tonight.”

“Not my problem.”

“But–”

“Why are you ladies outside?” Leonard shoves the backdoor open, surprising both you and Nancy and the security guard as well. His eyes are hidden by the sunglasses he refuses to take off, even in the dead of night, and his frown takes in the scene before him. “Well? What the hell is going on out here?”

The security guard is the first to recover. “Sir, I can’t let them inside. The law is the law.”

“Says who?” Leonard licks the greedy smile on his face. “The law is whatever I fucking say it is. Let them inside.”

“New York’s fire code clearly states that–”

Leonard slams his hand down on the door, his rings creating an echo like a gunshot. “I don’t care! I’ll pay the damn fire marshall myself, he owes me a favor anyways.” Steve’s voice trails through the venue’s walls and Leonard shoves a fat finger towards the sound. “But you hear that? That’s the sound of you wasting my fucking money that trickles down to her,” he points at you now. “Let them in. Now.”

The veins in the security guard’s neck strain, but even he knows that it’s no use arguing with a man like Leonard. Squaring his shoulders, he steps aside and gestures for you and Nancy to walk through. 

“Enjoy the show,” he says through gritted teeth. 

You and Nancy quickly step inside, weary of the aggression brewing between the two men. The backdoor slams behind you and Leonard claps his hands in amusement once you’re inside. “Well, that was fun.”

“Thank you, Mr. Branham.” Nancy says, ducking her head to avoid his eyes. 

“Thank my wallet by getting your asses out on that stage floor.”

Not needing to be told twice, you’re sprinting through the endless hallways behind the stage. Steve’s on the third song of the night and you’re not wasting another damn second away from him and the music. 

Bursting through the stage-side entrance, you shove past the drunken audience and jump over the fence barricade, right into the small strip of security meant only for you and Nancy. Front and center, Steve finds you and smiles, settling your uneven heartbeat. 

Nancy accompanies you eventually, but you’re too lost in the performance to notice. The crowd is electric tonight and Robin’s excited giggles get caught in the mic and you’re in love with the life that has fallen into your hands. 

After the show you meet up with the band backstage like normal. They greet you and Nancy with eager conversation to relive each second of the gig—a tradition now that you both adore. Mike talks Nancy’s ear off and Steve’s gripping your waist the second he sees you. 

“You were late tonight, angelface,” he pouts into your hairline, kissing it to tell you that he isn’t upset, more worried that something may have happened. “I missed you.”

You stroke his cheek to erase the frown that makes his delicate features even more devastating. “Sorry, rosie. Had some problems with security.”

“Even with the passes?” Robin jabs at the lanyard around your neck. “What’s the point of these things, then?”

“They can only do so much against overcrowding of adoring fans.” Nancy tells her. “You guys are threatening fire codes, now.”

“Are we still bitching about the law?” Leonard’s cigarette smoke enters the room before he does. 

Steve’s posture straightens the moment he sees him. “Mr. Branham, sir, what are you doing here?”

“What, I can’t check up on my investment?”

Max glares at him. “We have a name, you know.”

“I know, little red. Ease up,” Leonard takes a drag and blows the smoke up at the ceiling. “Anyways, fire codes are such a fucking waste of money. Back in my day, fires were admirable.”

Jonathan clears his throat, uncomfortable with the man’s presence. “Sir, with all due respect, we would prefer not to be a fire hazard.”

“Boring.”

“I… I’m sorry?”

Leonard sighs. “No, I suppose it’s my fault. I’m old and slow now, should’ve booked you guys a tour sooner.”

Lightning silence strikes the room. It happens quickly, violently, leaving only bodies stunned in perpetual stillness. 

“Did you…” Robin gulps at the air, her pale skin nearly translucent. “Did you just say ‘tour’?”

“Of course I did.” Leonard seems to realize that he’s left everyone paralyzed and looks around. “What? Did you guys think you’d just drop an EP and call it a day?”

“No!” Steve’s quick to step in, not wanting the man to think they never considered the possibility, that they aren’t ready for the possibility. “No, it’s just… This is all happening so fast, sir.”

“And?”

“It’s been a month, Lenny.” You’re less polite. “They can’t just pack up and abandon their old lives that quickly.”

Behind Leonard’s sunglasses you can feel his unhappy gaze burning your skin. Everyone else in the room holds their breath, not wanting to agree with you too quickly, but not also not wanting to say that you’re wrong, either.

It all feels like too much too soon. They only barely have gotten used to the attention brought by their EP. They interact with fans. They perform shows as if they’ve been doing so for years. They work themselves to the bone to please the demand that they’ve always dreamed of.

But their ears still ring after every show. Some nights the strain of the lights pound a migraine into Robin’s skull. Mike and Max struggle to keep up with their assignments on top of lyrics and notes and chords. Jonathan’s bruised fingers prevent him from using his hand most days. Steve’s chapped lips drip blood down his chin. 

The Februarys are still adjusting to the life they’ve been pistol whipped into, smiling at the bruises and marks, but a tour was never something on their mind. 

“But they will.” Leonard eventually says. “They’ll do anything for their tour.”

Touring would mean Mike and Max dropping out of college entirely. It’d mean leaving Dustin alone in an apartment at only eighteen after swearing to his mother that they’d take care of him. It’d mean Nancy and Jonathan committing to the distance, separating from one another because she won’t be able to follow with a job in New York. More girls, more attention, and more alcohol accessible to Steve’s already deluged lifestyle. Longer days and nights for Robin’s already exhausted body. Trusting that your own career will be safe in the hands of a band that’s still learning, stumbling alongside you.

A tour would mean change. A lot of change. Rapid and staccato and unforgiving if they’re not careful. 

But Steve looks around at his bandmates. He studies their faces, having memorized the hidden crevices of their emotions etched onto them when he was only a teenager with dreams that they all shared. They’re looking at him, too. They all know what their answer will be.

“We will.” Steve finally responds. His usual boyish glee is somber. When he swallows, it’s almost as if he swallows down the naivety. “We’ll do it.”

Leonard smiles. He knew what their response would be.

“Then I guess I’ll start making some calls.”

– 

Later that night Robin lays in your bed, inhabiting the space normally reserved for Steve, only he’s in the room next door with a thudding headboard and drunk feminine giggles. 

You have one of your old records playing in a vain attempt to drown out the noise. Robin offered to go to her room, but you have film that you need to develop and you’ve rigged the lighting in your space to best suit its chemicals and Robin doesn’t want to leave you alone. 

A harsh slam against your wall shakes your desk and the developer mix for the film almost spills. “Shit!”

“Do you think that’ll follow us on tour?” Robin scrunches her face, watching as you manage to salvage the mixture and spare your desk its harsh chemicals. “Because I really fucking hope not.”

“Steve will be in a new city practically every night. Of course it’ll follow you on tour.”

Something about your response upsets Robin. She bites her lip and closes her eyes, as if trying to wash away whatever it is that causes her displeasure. 

“Talk to me, Rob.” You abandon the film and lean over the girl. “I’m here.”

“His drinking is getting worse,” she whispers, ashamed of the words that build in her throat for release. “And the girls don’t fucking help.”

You suck in a breath. “We talked about this, Robin. Steve’s just enjoying himself.”

“And what happens when we go on tour? What, do we just allow him to overindulge and hope he doesn’t hurt himself? He’s fucking drunk on fame already. He doesn’t need more.”

“He’ll be fine,” you promise her, though you both hear the apprehension in your words. “I mean, he’s Steve. He can handle a little more.”

“Okay, fine, Steve can handle it,” Robin sits up, shoves her face into yours, “but can you?”

You flinch away. “I-what?”

Robin stares at you, long and hard, the clench in her jaw only releasing when she finally decides on what to say. “We’ll be locked inside a tour bus for weeks on end. Nowhere to go to escape Steve’s descent into biblical lust and gluttony that you inevitably feed into whenever you fucking smile at him.”

She sees right through you. “Will you be able to handle it?”

Your throat tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? Because the way I see it, the two of you have been dancing around each other the moment Steve set his carnivore eyes on you. Which is fine! I want you guys to be happy together! But Steve’s going through girls faster than I can count and he’s drinking more and you’re hiding in my room most nights pretending it doesn’t have any effect on you.”

The words come spilling out of Robin’s mouth in a rapid succession that makes you wonder just how long she’s kept it all in for. How long she’s seen through the lines and boundaries that you thought were only visible to you and Steve. 

“Y/N, what I’m trying to say is that I’m scared this tour will drown you,” Robin’s soft hands wrap around yours. “I’m worried about Steve, I always am, but I’m also worried about you.”

“And I’m telling you not to worry about me,” your interlocked fingers twist together, but Robin doesn’t let you pull away. “I promise I’ll be fine. Steve and I…” there are no words to describe the gummy tenderness that coats your relationship with the man.

“I refuse to be a hookup, okay?” You find Robin’s eyes and hold her gaze. This is the only thing you’re sure of when it comes to Steve. He may leave your mouth craving his. The dizzying heat that accompanies his lips may leave you wanting. But you know, above all else, that the heat cannot ignite the wick that he’s soaked through with his fingers. 

There will not be a match for the flames. 

“I won’t be another girl that Steve sleeps with.” 

“That’s what scares me,” Robin’s sad smile extinguishes any fight you have left. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, her touch lingers on your cheek. “How stubborn you are and how lonely Steve is.”

Sobering words for addicted thoughts. 

One day you’ll look back and wonder when Steve’s loneliness stifled the stubbornness.  

The rest of the month passes in its usual haze, only now between performances and rehearsals, any remaining free time is spent making phone calls and storing items into boxes. With Leonard’s terrifying connections, he manages to plan an entire tour within a few weeks. It takes Steve’s begging and Max’s threats to get him to agree to allowing the band a month of breathing room before the first city. 

Nancy is left to call her parents to inform them of Mike’s decision to drop out of college. Steve calls for Max while you and Robin are tasked with breaking the news to Dustin’s mom about your three month absence. 

None of the parents are happy at the start of the phone call, but with some convincing, they slowly accept that this is something inevitable. 

“I can’t believe you’re abandoning me.” Dustin throws a stack of Robin’s keyboard cables into an empty box. 

Steve flicks the kid’s hat. “We’re coming back, doofus.”

“Yeah, in three months.”

“As if you aren’t excited to finally get rid of us,” Robin snorts. She hands him some of her extra sheet music, “can you toss these in my rehearsal bag?”

Dustin rolls his eyes but takes the papers from her and puts them where she’s asked. He sits in the center of Robin’s now neat and empty room and lets out a low whistle. “This is depressing. I never thought I’d miss your mess.”

You knock your shoulder against his, hoping to lessen the sting of seeing his friends getting ready to leave him. “I’m sure Lucas will find a way to wreck the room.”

Dustin’s mom, Claudia, had only agreed to you leaving as long as Lucas moved into the vacant apartment. Seeing as how the kid lives in shitty student housing, he’d been quick to accept the offer. He moves into Robin’s room the day you leave for tour, so Dustin won’t be on his own for too long. 

“If my room smells like sweaty basketball shoes when I get back, I’m telling Max that it was Lucas who broke her last bass.” Robin threatens, pointing a guitar pick at Dustin. “You got that?”

“Why are you threatening me?”

“To deliver my message, oh small one.”

Dustin grimaces at the nickname and you chuckle, leaning against the kid. “Won’t you miss us, Dusty?”

“Please get evicted sooner.”

Everyone laughs and the once cold room warms at the noise. No one says it, but you’ll miss living together, just the four of you, across the hall from one another with the outside world forgotten. 

The night before it’s time to leave, Dustin and Nancy rope the others into throwing the Februarys a surprise going away party. 

Lucas is in charge of decorations, placing messy blue and purple streamers throughout the apartment. A misshapen, crooked inflatable disco ball hangs from the ceiling and spins at a comedically slow pace. El bakes cookies shaped like italicized F’s and Will helps her with the icing. 

Nancy supplies the alcohol and Dustin is tasked with distracting you and the band members for the three hours it takes them to set up. 

“I still don’t understand why we had to help you deliver soldering tools in the goddamn rain.” Steve flings the front door open, but in his struggle to undo his umbrella, he doesn’t notice the apartment’s decorated state.

Max follows right behind him, shaking her wet hair out. “I don’t understand why we had to all go.”

“Maurice needed my help.” Dustin herds the rest of the band inside, shielding them from seeing anything else.

Mike scoffs. “Who the hell names their kid Maurice? That’s such a stupid name,” he walks inside, brushing past Dustin and falls against the couch, rests his head back, and then says, “why is there a disco ball in your apartment?”

Robin looks up. “What disco–”

“Surprise!” Nancy and the others come out from their hiding spots. You think they say more, but Steve’s startled scream drowns it out.

Jonathan sweeps Nancy into his arms, laughing despite his drenched state. “What’s all this?”

“Did you think we’d let you guys go without one last party?” Lucas shoves party hats on everyone’s head. He places a particularly pink one on Max and winks, blowing her a kiss when she blushes.

The wire of your cone hat snaps around your chin and you smile at the sting. You look around the apartment in disbelief and love. “You guys really did all this?”

“I baked cookies.” El nods, proud, and Mike kisses her head fondly.

Will licks sugar off his fingers. “I iced them.”

“I’m guessing you were in charge of distracting us?” Steve narrows his eyes at Dustin, shivering in his damp shirt. He had you hiking through Manhattan during a literal storm. 

“Yup!” 

You hold Steve back from rounding off on the kid, sliding your hands around his waist and trapping him in your embrace. Plucking a hat from Lucas, you push it into Steve’s mess of hair and kiss his cheek. “Care for a dance?”

Steve spins you before you can even finish the question.

The night is spent licking icing off of sugary cookies and chasing it with whatever liquor concoction Robin comes up with. Music blasts from the radio and the boxes that litter the floor go ignored. No one wants to acknowledge that come tomorrow, you’ll be separated from one another. 

For now, you sing along with El and challenge Will to a drunken drawing contest and show Dustin how to work the aperture on your camera and capture Lucas’ wide grin as Max kisses his shoulder and Nancy shares the last of the cookies with you. 

Laughter and reminiscent joy. That’s how the last night is spent in the apartment.

– 

According to Leonard, he chooses fifteen cities and twenty performances for the Februarys’ first tour because it’s “enough to please the demand but not enough to jeopardize the divorce settlement in case it tanks”. 

He’s strategic in his planning. Each venue is big enough for an excited crowd but small enough to guarantee a sold out house. The cities selected have younger demographics and populated tourist attractions to ensure a draw in. 

Leonard Branham spares no expense for the Februarys’ first ever tour.

Except for the tour bus itself. 

“It’s… definitely travel sized.” You stare at the vehicle before you, wincing at its compact size. While you hadn’t been expecting a grand vehicle, you had at least thought there’d be room to breathe.

Robin drops her head in her hands. “We’re gonna kill each other.”

You want to argue with her, but when Steve excitedly ushers everyone inside to tour the bus, you see that there’s even less room inside. A line of bunk beds on both sides, six total, with a kitchenette smushed to the side accompanied by a pathetic pull out couch and a fridge so small it can only hold five items. 

While everyone stands to the side and wonders how the hell you’ll survive the close proximity for three straight months, Steve is bouncing off the walls.

“This is insane!” He strokes the mini-fridge as if it’s some mythical creature.

“This feels like sleepaway camp,” Max sniffs at one of the bunk beds in disdain, gagging. “Holy shit, it smells like sleepaway camp.”

“I call top bunk!” Mike jumps onto the nearest bed he finds and lands with a thud so terrifying you fear for a moment that he’s broken the bus entirely. The landing knocks all the air out of his body and he rolls to the side, wheezing. “Fuck that hurt.”

“Careful!” You run over to the boy, who’s about to roll completely off the small twin sized mattress. “Dude, you’re way too tall for that lanky body of yours.”

“Hurts,” he slaps you away, clutching at his back. “God, I’m gonna die.”

“Guess I’m with him, then.” Jonathan steps between you and places his things on the bed beneath Mike’s. “Nancy gives me one job and five minutes in her brother already gets hurt.”

Robin throws her things onto the top bunk on the other wall, head narrowly avoiding hitting the low ceiling. “I call Max for my bunkmate!”

Max shrugs at this, setting her bag down at the bunk beneath the girl’s. “As long as I’m not with Mike, I don’t care where I sleep.”

You cross your arms, hurt that Robin chose Max over you. “Well, what about me?”

“You’re bunking with me, angelface,” Steve drags you to the end of the bus, already all over you. “I called dibs on you the second I found out we were getting a tour bus.”

“It’s true.” Robin pokes her head out from her bunk. “Fucker ran into my room at like three in the morning to announce it and everything. He wouldn’t stop talking. It was really annoying.”

Your face burns at the idea of Steve being so excited to share a bunk with you that he woke his best friend up in the middle of the night to tell her.

“What can I say? I know what I want.” Steve throws you onto the bottom bed and crawls on top of you, collapsing once he’s situated himself. He curls around your body and sighs happily. “I can get used to this.”

“You do realize there’s an entire top bunk that I can sleep in, right?”

“We both know you’ll be crawling into my bed every night.” You pinch his side and Steve squirms away, laughing, but he doesn’t leave. Not entirely. Instead he sits up, looks down at you with soft eyes, and brushes the pad of his thumb against your jaw. “I promise I’ll be the best bunkmate. I’ll even let you have all the blankets.”

A large part of you knows that you should tell Steve no. You should grab your bag and place it on the empty bed above you because in the small space you can feel all of Steve against you. This will only create yet another blurred line between you, but his body is warm and the weight of it kisses your ribcage. 

Will you be able to handle it?

Robin’s words taunt you. 

For months now Steve has been driving you insane. His lips against your neck still paint your veins. How hot he felt beneath you that night at the club and the way his eyes darkened when you moaned someone else’s name. How the next morning he greeted you with soft humming and gentle touches that left you reeling. 

Now Steve’s chest lays against yours and the bridge of his nose skims the base of your neck. The metal of his nose ring soothes the blistering flesh. There is no room for you to escape to. No walkman to drown out the screaming of your desire. 

“Tell me about the first city we’re going to.” You poke Steve’s cheek to get his attention away from your sensitive neck. It’s all you can do to keep from melting into him. 

Luckily Steve takes the bait and unwinds his body from yours, exhilarated to talk about what he loves the most, music, and you want to revel in his love for it as well to escape the other love that lingers in your bones. 

And as Steve’s eyes light up as he describes the setlist and venues and chord sequences you wonder how you’ll ever make it out alive.

Fifteen cities. Three months. A short amount of time to bite your teeth and bear the weight of this excess within you and Steve’s ever delicate skin; but It’s only fifteen cities. You’ll be fine. 

A lot can happen in fifteen cities.

– 

It takes a total of twelve hours before you’re considering jumping out the moving vehicle.

The first night on the bus is fine. Jonathan and Mike pass out before you’ve even left the state of New York while Max reads some comics in her bed. Steve has his head in your lap, not once letting go of you since the bus’ engine roared to life, and Robin crawls into the spare bed and challenges the two of you to a game of poker. 

She throws the deck of cards in front of you and you don’t miss the way her eyebrows furrow when she sees Steve’s hands wrapped around your thighs. 

“Extra touchy.” She whispers into your ear the minute Steve is distracted with his cards. 

“It’s only for tonight,” you whisper back, scared that you’ll be overheard. “Just play your king already.”

Robin gives you a tight lipped smile, calling your bluff in more ways than one, and plays the cards in her hand. 

Only Steve’s enamored affection with you doesn’t lessen the next day. If anything, he only gets worse. 

He wakes you up with frenzied kisses and tickles your sides to brighten his early day. He follows you into the small bathroom, hangs off your side as you brew some coffee with the shitty machine left in the bus. If you sit on the pullout couch, he sits on top of you. If you want to lay in bed to rest your eyes, he’s already wrapping you into his chest. 

It’s as if living with you hasn’t been enough for Steve. Now, with less square feet than a hotel bathroom, he’s inhaling all of you at a pace that threatens to choke you. 

By hour twenty, you’re hunched over a map desperately trying to find any goddamn roadside attraction to escape to. You need fresh air that isn’t exhaled from Steve’s sugar-sweet lips. 

“Why don’t we stop by the Delaware Water Gap area?” You’ve spread the map out on the small, tilted table for the rest of the band to look at. After hours of driving, everyone is anxious to get off the crammed bus as well. “It’s only a fifteen minute detour. Can’t hurt to take a look.”

“Is it a park?” Max squints at the paper.

You nod. “It’s big enough for us all to spread out. Honestly, for the next three months, I think it’ll be best if we try and stop at whatever parks or attractions we pass. Stretch our legs, ignore one another for a blissful thirty minutes.”

“Count me in,” Robin twists her neck, cracking it obscenely. “I feel like I’ve aged fifty years since leaving New York.”

“Parks are nice.” Jonathan agrees, nodding.

“I’m gonna piss in every place we stop at.”

Steve flick Mike’s head. “Shut up and go tell the bus driver to stop at Delaware Gap.”

By the time you get to the park, the midday sun peeks out from behind the mountains. The early May weather casts a dewy glow around the greenery. The trees stand tall and vibrant and the scent of wildflowers satiate the yearning in your chest for something tender. 

“Not bad, Y/N. This place is fucking magical.” Robin pats your back, then turns to Max. “Care to frolic in some fields with me?”

The younger girl purses her lips, uncertain, but before she can say anything Robin is already grabbing her hand to chase her though the vast hills and landscapes.

“Don’t go too far! We’re leaving in thirty minutes!” Steve calls after them.

Robin’s quip is fast. “Whatever you say, dad!”

You laugh at the remark and Steve can only shake his head, hiding his own amusement. He grabs your hand and tugs you towards an open field. “C’mon, let’s go before Mike pisses everywhere.”

Mike sticks his middle finger up, which Jonathan promptly shoves down. “Please don’t make me call Nancy.”

“You’re such an annoying snitch.”

Their arguing fades in the distance the further Steve takes you. The field itself is empty despite the beautiful weather. Clouded skies with a hint of sunlight to warm your cold skin and the melodic buzz of bumblebees lazily flying past. Towards the edge of the green-laid field is a riverbank of lazuli water that bubbles and splashes and Steve finds a rock for the two of you to listen to its harmony. 

You sit and listen to the water rushing past for a while together, enjoying the serenity of the moment without anyone else. Your bodies next to one another and the water splashing your faves.

Eventually Steve pulls you into his lap. He’s brought his guitar with him and uses the instrument to push your back into his chest. His hands hold yours, outlining your fingers with the strings, helping you form the right patterns to play the beginnings of Tease.

“Now place your finger here,” he pushes your ring finger down alongside your middle. “Good, now do you remember how you get the sound to come out?”

“Like this?” With your other hand your thumb grazes the strings at the hollowed center. Remembering Steve’s gentle instructions, you’re careful with the motion, soft, and you’re rewarded with a clear, beautiful sound.

Steve kisses your shoulder and cheers. “That’s my girl! God, you’re a natural. Do you remember how to play D?”

Your pinky falls to what you hope is the right string. “This one?”

“Play it and see, angelface.”

You stick your tongue out at Steve for his lack of help, though you know he really is trying to teach you how to play the guitar. Learning the instrument had been his idea. He insisted you needed something to do during the endless downtime you’ll have between shows and you’ve never been good at telling him no. 

That, and Steve is a surprisingly good teacher. He’s patient with you and explains the intricate notes and hand placements in a way that eases the complexities. He doesn’t rush you, he never gets upset when your finger catches on a lone string, and he always showers you in praise for every correct chord. 

Steve’s expectant and encouraging smile prompts you to press your fingers down, strum at the tension, and fill the empty space in the chord of D.

“Perfect,” he mouths at your ear, smile tickling the sensitive skin there. “Everything you do is perfect.”

“Helps that I have a good teacher.” You shiver at the sensation, voice frailer than you’d like. 

“In no time you’ll be replacing me in my own band.” The shell of your ear lands in his mouth and he bites down, hard enough to force a gasp out of you, but gentle enough to leave you leaning in for more. 

You pull away slightly and shake your head. “No, I think I’ll stick to photography. Easier to remember where my hands go.”

“As if I wouldn’t guide you through it.”

The shift in Steve’s features mirrors the shift in the breeze around you. A sudden heat cuts through the once pleasant cold and festers between you. Yet underneath the heat of his gaze and the warmth of the air is a sickly sweet tinge of something more.

More more more.

“And how would you guide my hands?” Your raw throat cracks at the edges of your words. You leave your back against him. It feels safer this way to speak. 

Only Steve unwraps himself from you, crawls on his knees to face you. “Well,” he says, hungry eyes on you. “I’d place your hands here,” he grabs you, settles your left hand upon his chest. “And here,” your other cups his face, the stubble rough on your fingertips.

“And your hands?” The sigh dissipates in the air.

“Mine,” he whispers, “Would go here.” Heavy hands cup your own face, holding you as if you’re made of glass, heating the crystal with their molten tenderness. 

The guitar lays forgotten between your bodies.  “Steve…” 

In the palm of his hands nothing else exists. You’re weightless, falling forward, bracing for impact that will only devastate you. Steve leans into the fall, his body relaxes, unabashed. His nose dips down and his lips exhale upon your own and just before the collision of the inevitable, you turn your head, force his lips to graze the apple of your cheek.

That’s what scares me.

The words smear the edges of Steve’s hurt confusion on his face when he pulls back to look at you

“Y/N…?” The crack in his voice, shameful. The flex of his aching hands on the cheek his kiss crash landed into. 

How stubborn you are and how lonely Steve is.

“Hey!” Robin’s shout echoes over the roar of the water, over the chasm that divides what once was and what could’ve been. “Lovebirds, we’re leaving!”

Hands fall from your face and suddenly you’re cold again. The heat vanishes. The only air left is the withheld sigh that lingers in your lungs. 

“C’mon,” Steve grabs his guitar, offers to help you stand up. “That’s our cue.”

His voice is the same as it was before. Neutral, teasing. No evidence of the vulnerability only moments ago that laced it. The way Steve’s body moves doesn’t reflect the hurt that flecks his eyes that he refuses to place on you. 

Releasing the sigh stuck in your throat, your hand finds his and he pulls you back up, back to the before. The reality. 

Neither of you speak the entire walk back to the tour bus. Your footsteps leave marks in the grass beneath you and Steve’s guitar thuds softly against his side. 

The kiss that almost was hovers like a lonely ghost. 

– 

Hours later you’re in a venue somewhere deep in Pennsylvania. A bit run down, paint chips flick off its mauve walls. The venue isn’t the most glamorous place for the Februarys’ first performance on tour. A sold out show and an audience that packs itself in front of its stage, however, more than makes up for it. 

It’s also just nice not having to illegally smuggle Max and Mike into the twenty-one only venue. 

“Has anyone seen my jacket? Bright red, real trenchcoat vibes in a Bowie way?” Robin runs around the dressing room, her tattered tie half-way tucked into the hem of her pants. Her hair hangs in her face, strands messily meshed together with a nearly dangerous amount of pearled pins. “I swear I packed it!”

The iridescence of the pearls catches in the light and you quickly take a picture, the blues and pinks nestled in her framed hair. “Did you check your bag?”

“Yes!” She runs past you and throws open one of Steve’s suitcases. “I swear, if that fucker tried stealing it again I will kill him–”

Max undoes the first few buttons of her collared shirt and two twin braids frame her face. “Can you look for my vest while you’re at it? I think Steve is just trying to hide all our shit from us because he’s too cheap to buy his own.”

“The rich kid is a thief. Can he be any more stereotypical?”

Steve sits at the mirror and glares at them both. “At least pretend to consider that I’m a decent person.”

“No time. Need my jacket.”

Robin runs off and you spot Jonathan fumbling with a pair of deep brown cowboy boots. You zoom your lens in, laughing under your breath. “Howdy, partner.”

“Nancy said I should try out a new look.” He blushes, shifting away from the camera. “Is the sweater too much?”

“I think it’s just the right amount of southern charm and obnoxious drummer.” You reassure him.

Mike, however, doesn’t spare Jonathan the same kindness. “Who the fuck wears a sweater at a rock concert?”

“You’re wearing a janitor’s suit, dude.” Max throws a cord at him.

“It’s a work shirt,” Mike scoffs. “Not a janitor’s suit.”

“You look like a mechanic.”

“That’s the look I’m going for. At least I don’t look like a lesbian bartender.”

The two go back and forth in their insults and you smile at the familiarity of it. Pennsylvania venues don’t carry the same charm as the ones you’ve grown fond of in New York. There’s hardly any graffiti on the walls or messages left from past performers. No luck wished to the others or curses thrown to the public. 

You sit at the mirror next to Steve. The tension between you lingers, but you do your best to ignore it by facing the others to try and catch any moments to photograph. Max finds her vest, its black contrast harsh against the white of her shirt, and when she flashes you a pleased smile, it’s captured onto film.

Robin pops up behind the girl and jumps onto her back for a photo, only the weight startles Max and they fall to the ground, squealing, and your camera follows their every movement. 

“Why did you do that?” Max rolls onto her side, laughing hysterically.

Robin laughs just as hard. “For Y/N’s art!”

Their limbs tangle together on the carpeted floor, but before you can raise the viewfinder to your eye, a hand lands on your wrist. You flinch away, looking up to find Steve holding up a thick silver bracelet and a shy smile. 

“Can you, uh. Help me?” He motions towards his own wrist. “Forgot how hard it is to put this shit on.”

“Of course.” You set your camera down and take the bracelet from him, draping it against his slim wrist. He hisses at the contact. The cold metal must sting. “Sorry,” you murmur.

He shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

The soft reassurance echoes something else unspoken. Is he telling you not to apologize for what happened earlier? That he isn’t upset with you for pulling away? A part of you wants to believe that there’s more to his words than just a minuscule parting for an apology. 

Words claw at your throat, pleas and explanations, but the only three that come out are, “I’m still sorry.” 

“Y/N,” the hand that isn’t encased in yours comes up to your face, landing the same way it did in the field. His eyes fix on you with downturned lips. You’re not used to seeing him this way. Serious, weak, simultaneously foreign on his normally carefree face. “Why did you pull away?”

And he isn’t asking for an explanation to be cruel or imply that you owe him anything. Steve doesn’t ask you because he wants to tease you or scorn what you’ve done. He asks you with vulnerability, with an openness that startles you. 

Even though it shouldn’t, the question still catches at your ribcage. He’s always managed to surprise you. 

Your silence eats away at the lines that tie you to each other. Steve watches you in the mirror, patient as he was when he was teaching you the guitar, features soft and quietly expectant. 

Just as they did the first time you spoke them to Robin, the words burn your tongue on their way out. “I won’t be just another girl you sleep with.” 

Minutes before Steve’s very first show on his very first tour. 

He doesn’t react. Not how you expect him to, at least. He stares into the mirror, face stoic, jaw clenched. Something seems to settle over him, then. With every passing second of silence grows something else. Something darker. 

Unsure what to say, your fingers trace over the veins in Steve’s wrist. Maybe you do it to warm the metal that’s been placed upon it. Maybe you do it because you’re not quite ready to give this pleasure up yet. 

Steve swallows. Nods. “You’re doing it wrong.”

You look at him, surprised he’s even said anything at all. “What?”

“To warm the skin,” he takes his hand from yours, grabbing your own hand instead. He opens your palm, traces the lines within it with the tip of his nail, before slowly, ever so slowly, his hand encircles your wrist, turns it so the flesh underneath is exposed. “You do this.” 

He kisses the vulnerable skin. A sacred vow that he’s written about. 

And then Steve’s carefree and charismatic smile is back. Your hand gets dropped. As if nothing has happened. But when he winks at you in the mirror, makes a whole show of it, deep down you know he can only look at your reflection because he isn’t quite ready to face the version of you next to him. 

The change is disorienting. The performance is bitter; Steve doesn’t falter in the dizzying bitterness like you do. 

Instead he spins to his bandmates, cheering. “Who’s ready for our first show of the tour?” 

Robin and the others scream right back, clapping and prodding each other on. Steve’s smile is wide and manic. His own clapping enthusiastic. “Why don’t we all take a shot before we go on?”

Mike dives for the bottle of vodka left on the table courtesy of the venue. The bottle sloshes around as he beckons for the others to join him. Jonathan snatches it from the kid’s hands with the roll of his eyes and takes over pouring the drinks one by one. 

The scene before you is perfectly curated for your profession. The lighting bright enough for everyone to be visible. The Februarys smile at one another, youthful and vibrant, yet your shaking fingers struggle to get them all in frame. 

When you look back at the photos one day, you’ll notice Steve’s pained smile blurred into the image. 

“Just us!” He shouts, glass raised, beginning the pre-show ritual meant only for them. 

“Just us!” The Februarys echo. 

The vodka drips down Steve’s neck. His lips glisten. He exhales the fiery afterburn of the liquor and quickly throws his arms over his bandmates. Their heads brush together in the huddle of their bodies and the pounding of your heart reverberates Steve’s “showtime!” 

Despite everything, the Februarys’ first show is fucking fantastic. What Pennsylvania lacks in style, the crowd screaming back every lyric fills the void. Purple lighting floods the stage interspersed with white and pink and hints of blue in the smoke. 

Unlike their original four songs and handful of covers, the setlist of songs from The Februarys are energetic and fast and edges on overwhelming. 

Steve screams into the mic every chance he gets. Robin pounds her keys to Jonathan’s crescendos and Mike screeches chords through his electric guitar alongside Max’s rounded bass. 

The audience feeds into the band’s raw and tenacious joy. Bodies sway to the music and bounce off of each other in the deeper parts of the chaos. Their reactions are enamorating to watch, and while you’re lonely without Nancy’s grounding presence, you distract yourself with learning how to elicit reactions from the crowd yourself. 

You figure out how to get the crowd to cheer for you, to look through your lens and shout their praise for the band on stage and into your camera. The photos come out livelier, intimate, a snapshot of the unfiltered devotion for this one night only. The attention you get from the crowd, though small, is exhilaratingly reeling. 

Yet it’s only a taste of the rush that Steve must feel; you wonder how he’s able to handle the full bottle of it. 

“Pennsylvania, it’s fucking scorching in here!” Sweat drips from Steve’s face and onto the sheer black shirt that adorns his torso. The fabric clings to his soaked body, its sheer interlace offers hints of the chest underneath and glows in the stage’s light. 

People scream back their agreements. The venue’s temperature is hot enough that the glass of your lens has started to fog, though the band’s final song ends and still they demand another. The unbearable heat only ignites the desire for more. 

“Excuse my appearance,” Steve runs a hand through his damp hair, silver bracelet catching in the light. His perfectly rosie face breaks into a smile. “Is my face really red?”

Even though you know the question is directed at the crowd, you still nod, still feel the need to respond to his every word. The crowd, however, says what you can’t, shouting that he is indeed red. 

“I’m red?” Steve mocks disbelief. He knows that he’s red. He hears your whispered nickname for him every time he closes his eyes. He has the photo from the first night you ever called him rosie hidden away in wallet; only for him to see. 

More screams and amused cat-calling and Steve’s gruff chuckle drawls on. “You know, an angelface once told me that I get all rosie when I perform. She even calls me ‘rosie’ now. Isn’t she sweet?”

Hearing the name fall from Steve’s performing lips strikes into every overwhelmed cell in your body. 

“Now, she doesn’t know this, but I figured that for our last song I’d perform her name for me tonight.”

Rosie. 

“I’ve had this song written for a long, long time.” Steve looks directly at you now. Down the barrel of your loaded camera. “Are you ready?”

Jonathan’s knowing wink is the only warning you receive before his drumsticks count down. And then he pounds on the drums and Robin’s keys ring in the air, her laughter hinting at something more. Mike whistles and Max blows you a kiss. Their reactions tell you everything you already know.

They all knew what Steve’s closing song would be. 

An unreleased song dedicated to rosie. 

And it’s a fucking beautiful song. Bashful with youth interlaced in its harmonies that resemble lullabies you grew up on. Raw, innocent and overwhelming naivety that clashes with a bitter tension in its chords. 

Rock-a-bye-posie? 

No, maybe it’s ring-around-my-baby?

Or could it be rosie and falling down with you?

Rosie pink light creeps onto the stage, its saturation an exact match of the shade you long ago fell in love with. 

The melodic strain of Steve’s voice infiltrates your senses, hijacks your body, leaves you with only the knowledge of your name and how he loves to whisper it when you’re alone. Your camera rests forgotten at your side; there will be no photos of this performance.

He stalks across the stage towards you. No mercy, no sympathy for the onslaught of lyrics that chip at the cracks of a foundation built on hasty stilts. 

Mixed up all inside my head the rush of lullaby blues.

Yes or no? Or is it maybe?

Or could it be forever rosie?

Steve will be your rosie for as long as he allows it—forever, if you’re lucky. The shade of pink will always be a reminder of the boy. The scent of roses will one day leave marks in the grenadine heart of yours. 

Rosie closes the show. The final note cuts to the finish and all lights go out. 

Screaming. Endless screaming. A thunder in the too small venue that rattles the walls. 

But you don’t register any of it. The cheering falls deaf on your ears. Body humming with the need to touch and kiss and soak your love into another’s like an itch, you’re jumping over the barricade before the Februarys have even left the stage. 

Backstage you search every hallway for him. Pushing past curtains, stumbling over wires and giant lights, swiping past confused security guards, you search for him everywhere. 

Steve finds you first. Of course he finds you first. 

He collides into you. You’re in his arms and he’s spinning you around and around. A ring around its rosie. Your rosie. Flushed face, sweaty and whole. No one else exists in this world of yours. 

Your feet find the ground and Steve’s earthy scent hovers over you. Hands on your waist. Eyes on your lips. His own lips lowering down, edging closer and closer, until his hot breath touches your skin. 

A mirror image of hours before in a field with river water. 

Only this time you don’t pull away. You don’t bite at the hand caressing your ribcage. 

Close enough to feel the heat that radiates off of them, Steve’s lips whisper against your own, “Can’t just be another girl I sleep with, right?”

And then he’s gone. Pulling away entirely, tearing apart from you to deal with the wake of the wanting left behind and the words that ice your skin. 

Head spinning, you stumble back, grasp at the air that’s been forced from your lungs. You’re disoriented and confused and Steve, unable to hurt you, brings the lips that were cruelly taken from you to your forehead. 

“Thank you for coming tonight,” his lips linger, soft, as if apologizing for the body they’re attached to. “I hope you enjoyed the show.”

“Steve–” But the lump in your throat catches at the desperation in your veins. 

It isn’t enough. 

“Harrington!” Steve rips away from you, head turning to the source of his name, and finds a security guard with a hoard of girls being held back. “Want me to let them into your dressing room?” 

You watch the overly saturated, performance ready smile return to Steve’s face. He straightens his shirt out, fixes his hair, before nodding at the guard. 

“Send ‘em my way.” He leaves. 

Not once does he look back at you.

The dressing room’s door opens and Steve lets the girls in. The door gets left open. You can hear the rest of the band talking to each other inside. An unintentional, painful reminder that your job tonight isn’t done.

Left for want and nothing, you swallow down the hurt that stings your tongue. You grab your camera, inhale once, twice, cutting a smile into your glass face, and then walk into the dressing room to take the pictures you get paid for. 

– 

The rest of the tour follows this way. 

Hours, days, weeks, and eventually months pass like an exhaled gumdrop breath. Sweet, satiating, but the jagged candy leaves cuts inside your cheek that fester if you pick at them. 

Every night Steve dedicates Rosie to you. Every night he says something different into the mic. Every night the words are meant for only you to understand. 

“Winter in New York was lonely until I packed up some boxes.”

“She plasters my photos all over her walls and I write her songs she’ll never hear.”

“Who knew the face of an angel could stand someone like me?”

All for you, yet the second the lights go out Steve falls into someone else’s arms. A new girl in every city. Robin doesn’t wait for you to say you told her so; you don’t want to claim the prize of being right. 

During the day Steve’s yours, wrapped around you with an easy smile. He still calls you angelface and he’s still rosie. The suggestive comments and teasing flirting doesn’t diminish or lessen. You play into it just as much as Steve does, each of you holding onto what little familiarity that’s left between you. A back and forth with no chance of a winner.

Nothing changes, not visibly, at least, but an unease saws at the strings you’ve attached to one another and everyone holds their breath.

Then the nights come and you lose Steve again. He stumbles into the bus smelling of alcohol and women more often than not. No one knows where he goes. No one wants to ask. No one wants to be the one who brings the growing concern into the light. 

Instead the Februarys focus on their tour, on enjoying the sights of new cities and bleak roadside attractions and the knowledge that they’ve somehow made something tangible with their water-colored dreams.

They throw the excess fear into writing their first real album. Full length, explorative, narratives not yet written down. Bigger than their EP, bigger than anything they’ve ever done before. Though the fast progression feels natural to them now. Familiar. 

The tour bus fills with the arguments you heard in your apartment all those lifetimes ago. Robin’s poetic lyricism clashing with Mike’s metaphors and Steve’s unfleshed melodrama.

“For the last time, El’s eyes being ‘marooned embers soaked in coattails of whiskey’ makes no fucking sense.”

“The line has layers! It’s symbolic of being love drunk with someone’s brown eyes while her eyes are literally brown!”

“Wheeler, stop talking before Robin leaves you at the next rest stop.”

Only now their arguments are interspersed with Jonathan’s own sensitive songwriting and Max’s clever play on words.

“What if instead of ‘soaked in coattails of whiskey’ we change it to ‘soaked in cocktailed whiskey’?” 

“I think that’s beautiful, Max.”

And hearing the Februarys’ arguments, seeing the entanglement of their vastly different minds coming together to create something honest, beautiful, reminds you that the brighter, less heavy aspects of touring still exist. 

During their fifth show Mike comes up with the idea of creating new dares every performance. Stage diving, launching water at the crowd, racing across the stage mid-show every time the key of E is played. 

One night Max dares Steve to shove his mic in his mouth and for an entire song it’s stuck in the hinges of his jaw and Robin has to push him backstage to get it out. Nothing else has topped that dare since. 

“I really thought I could get it out,” Steve complains later that night. “Jesus, I thought I was gonna die.”

You brush his hair from his face. “Would’ve been a really embarrassing way to die.”

“Thanks, Y/N.”

“I only get paid to photograph you. Nothing in my checks cover being nice.”

As much as you enjoy watching the dares on stage, your favorite part of tour is traveling around the country with the band. They grow closer than ever before in the hectic blur that has become their life. 

Lazy writing sessions in national parks. Wandering around cities they’ve never heard of together. Bizarre roadside restaurants that serve possum. Passing giant semi trucks on the interstate and pissing off their drivers by demanding them to honk their horns every chance they get. 

And you’re a part of it all. Following the Februarys blindly wherever they take you, camera always aimed at their shining faces. 

Playful memories with Mike and Max, helping them pull pranks on the older band members. Moments with Jonathan when there’s no one else in the bus, just the two of you, reminiscent of your college days. Sleepovers in Robin’s bunk and shared whispered giggles.

And Steve. Always Steve.

One night, about halfway through the tour, he crawls into your bunk. You’ve long since stopped sleeping in his bed on the bus, the smell of everything you try to ignore kept you awake for nights on end. You finally had to leave. 

You’re not sure what time it is when Steve crawls back to you. The performance tonight was livelier than usual with an even larger crowd of girls waiting for him at the stage door. You’ve learned to pack your things up in the bathroom to avoid watching him leave with them. 

Only tonight when Steve wakes your sleeping body up, he smells of rainwater and green earth. No traces of metal alcohol or floral perfume linger beneath his scent. 

He wakes you with butterfly kisses to the skin he dreams about, moving closer when you don’t pull away. Instead, you open yourself to Steve, grabbing at his shirt to pull him into your bed, and he falls asleep as the boy that you know, deep down, he truly is. 

Kind and gentle. 

Rosie and wonderful.

– 

Leonard didn’t believe the band when they told him they were from Indiana. According to Max, he hadn’t even known that the state existed until they asked to perform close to Hawkins. 

“I don’t understand how he’s made so much money if he doesn’t even know all fifty states.”

“To be fair, I also try to forget that Indiana exists.” Robin tells Max. 

“Yeah, but at least you have a reason to.”

You look at the two of them in concern. “Do none of you have a happy homelife?”

Max snorts. “Why do you think we formed a band in the first place?”

“Not a very reassuring answer.”

In the end, Leonard books them a performance in Indianapolis. Two hours from Hawkins, it’s the closest he’s willing to get to their rundown hometown, and no one complains about the distance. It’s better that way, just outside of Hawkins without ever really stepping back inside. 

As you’re all getting ready at the venue, conveniently located at the heart of Indianapolis, the door to the dressing room swings open and reveals a mess of curly hair and a gummy smile. 

“Did you assholes miss us?” Dustin’s nasally and endearing voice fills the room almost as fast as you engulf him in a hug. 

“You’re here!” You squeeze the kid tight, gasping in surprise when you see Will and the others beaming in the doorway. “Holy shit!”

Mike throws himself at a bashful El while Max and Lucas wrestle each other to the ground. Jonathan isn’t any better, pulling at the belt loops of Nancy’s shorts and covering her tiny body with his.

Still holding onto Dustin, you watch the reunion between all the lovers with Steve and Robin standing beside you. 

“They’re disgusting.” Robin snorts, no edge to her comment. “I hate it.”

Steve yanks you from Dustin’s arms and drapes his own over you, holding you close to his chest. “Fucking vile, if you ask me.”

“You’re literally swaddling Y/N like a baby,” Dustin frowns, motioning towards Steve’s clingy hold of you. “Are you two seriously still not together?”

“God,” Robin rubs at her temples. “Don’t bring that shitshow up. You’ll give Steve a fucking aneurysm.”

An uncharacteristic shyness shadows Steve’s expression. He drops his arm, covering an embarrassed cough with it instead. Unable to help it, you laugh at his scandalized reaction.

“Need some water, rosie?” You playfully pout, swatting at his back. “You don’t sound so good there.”

“Fuck all of you,” he chokes out. 

Dustin cackles. “I think you only want to do that with one of us, Steve. Do you want us to guess who?”

“I’d rather fucking die.”

Taking pity on him, you shield Steve from the teasing and lead him towards a concealed corner of the room. Everyone else is busy catching up, but you can still feel Dustin’s eyes following and Robin’s unwilling acceptance. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, ignoring them.

The surprise arrival of your friends disrupts the monotonous routine of the dressing room in an infectious way. 

El braids tinsel into Max’s hair and the two girls spend almost all their time gossiping about what their boyfriends had been up to while apart. You take a picture of the glittered strands wrapped around El’s fingers.

Robin and Nancy fret over Jonathan’s appearance, the two of them throwing shirt after shirt at him and demanding he wear anything other than thick sweaters or ratty t-shirts. Jonathan doesn’t bat an eye at any of it, however, and the content smile on his face paints your film. 

Mike and Lucas arm wrestle as Dustin and Will referee. The roar of their laughter and the strain of their biceps filter through the image in a boyish, endearing way. 

“I really missed them,” Steve hooks his chin on your shoulder, standing behind you, watching the familial scene unfold. You can feel his own smile brush against your ear. “I knew I’d miss them, but having them here tonight…”

“Finally feels like home?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “I guess it does.”

And there he is again, kind and gentle. Rosie and wonderful.

That night, the Februarys perform for their family. They ignore the demands of the unknown fans and strangers who shout their praise. None of it matters to them when they look at their loved ones beside you, crammed together in the security barrier, all cheering even louder for them.

Steve ends the concert with Rosie and you don’t realize that none of the others know the contents of the song until Nancy elbows your side and Dustin rolls his eyes. Will, Lucas, and El try to hide their snickers, but you still somehow hear them over the music anyways. 

You press your face to your camera’s viewfinder and pretend you’re too engrossed in the action to spare yourself the embarrassment of their knowing looks. 

After the show Nancy tells the band that she and the kids are staying in a hotel a few blocks away for the night. Five minutes later, you cling onto Steve’s back as he charges through the streets of Indianapolis with the rest following. 

The small hotel room can barely fit everyone inside, but none of you care. Drinks get opened. Lucas fishes out a deck of cards to play and the room fills with chaos and jokes and teasing and remembrances of the times before. 

“Steve got a mic stuck in his mouth like an idiot.” Max throws a spade down. “That's red, everyone drink!”

Beer fills your mouth and Will nearly chokes on his. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Max slipped in someone’s vomit last week.” Is all Steve says. 

“You swore you wouldn’t tell anyone about that!” Max flings a beer tab at him.

“Promises can be slippery, Mayfield.”

You snort into your drink and Steve smiles at the sound. He leans down to the exposed collarbone, revealed to him by a slip of your t-shirt, and kisses the skin there. Unashamed of the group’s eyes on him, he mouths and needles at the flesh.

“Can you at least kiss the back of my neck?” You twist away, wrestling your camera trapped between his chest and yours. “I want to take pictures of everyone.”

Someone snorts, the sound resembling Jonathan’s disbelieving one, but you don’t spare them a glace. You tug at Steve’s shirt and try to force him behind you. “Steve!”

Reluctant, he pulls away long enough to crawl to the base of your neck, right where the small strands of hair meet your spine, and resumes his kisses.

“Happy now?” He mumbles into your skin. 

You don’t bother responding, instead aiming your camera at the others. Only when your lens focuses, their amused, almost baffled, faces cut into the frame. 

“What?” You ask them, alcohol making your mouth move before your brain can stop it.

Dustin scoffs. “Not dating, right?”

“Max, can you place your card next to the beer tab? I think the shapes would look interesting together.”

“You can’t ignore us, Y/N.”

“Sure I can,” you smile. “Now, who’s ready for another drink?”

The topic gets left alone for a while. More drinks follow. Max continues the cards and the drinking game slowly turns into a tortuous one the longer Steve sucks at your sensitive skin. At first he’s easy enough to ignore, but when he finds a spot just at the crest of your spine that leaves you gasping, he’s relentless. 

“Y/N!” The flick of Robin’s fingers stings just enough to force your attention back. “It’s your turn to draw, if you can handle not melting into Steve’s arms for five seconds.”

“I–”

“She’s busy.” You’re picked up into the air and thrown onto your feet by Steve, who steadies your confused footing by gripping your waist. “Sorry, guys.”

And then you’re being dragged away from jeers and poorly hidden entertained booing by the others. None of them are upset. In all honesty, they’re more surprised Steve lasted as long as he did. 

Sticky July air washes over you. Outside the streetlights shine down on Steve’s quick footsteps chasing after your drunken giggling. He’s running after you and you’re begging him to follow and in the dark of the night it’s just you and him in a city that doesn’t feel real. 

Drunk and in love Steve’s hands snatch at your body and you’re spinning round and round and round. No weight, no strings, only his touch and your breathless adoration.

He’s singing a song that you don’t recognize but you don’t ask him what is because you never want him to stop. His voice circles around you and his fingers dig into your flesh as if he’s carved it himself. Maybe he has. Maybe he’s carved you to fit into the pieces of himself just as much as you’ve carved him into yourself.

The dizzy love-drunk head rush catches at your foot, trips your body into a fall that Steve catches. He breaks the fall with the brush of his nose against yours, like magnets your lips push and pull apart, never quite landing, never quite settling. 

But Steve needs more. 

He stills the sway of your body, stops the vibrato of his singing. He looks down at your lips. Dark brown eyes catch on the parted lips that wordlessly beg him for more, begs for the same thing he craves. 

The laughter in your chest quiets. Its remnants stick in your throat at the angle of Steve’s head, dipped low, leaning in. 

And then he stops at the precipice of your lips. His dark eyes flicker back up to yours, he sees the resolve in them that betrays the pleading of your mouth. Sobering, sombering. Mourning.

He pulls away. 

“You’re such a tease,” Steve can’t do to you what he wants. All you ask from him is to not get hurt and he won’t allow himself to hurt you, either. “Let’s go home, okay?”

He grabs your hand. 

The very same hand that insists on holding him at arm’s length when all he wants to do is dance.

When you get back to the hotel, everyone has fallen asleep. The floor of the room is littered with sleeping limbs and bodies pressed against one another. Wordlessly, Steve finds a small corner to slot himself into, rests your head on his chest, and you fall asleep in each other’s arms. 

Sometime during the night Jonathan takes a photo of the two of you asleep. The polaroid ends up tucked into the ceiling of Steve’s bed in the bus, held up by the wires of your mattress above his.

Neither of the men talk about it. 

– 

Eight cities and ten shows remain. The tour rapidly approaches its end.

Leonard Branham only speeds things up. 

“If tickets continue to sell as quickly as my son sold his soul, I might even consider officially signing the Februarys.” The payphone crackles. Everyone crowds into the phone booth, terrified of losing the shitty reception and Leonard’s ominous words. “I mean, Christ. If you tickle my ass right, you guys could get an actual album out of me!”

An album.

That’s all they’ve ever wanted. 

“Mr. Branham, that would be incredible–” Steve’s praise quickly gets cut off. 

“That is, on one condition.”

“Anything, sir.” He means it. The band would do anything if it means they can write the album they’ve been ingesting since they were kids. 

Leonard’s steel sharp words come out piercing. “Don’t fuck up.”

The temperature in the stuffy phone booth drops. 

“I-I don’t think I understand, sir–”

“Don’t fuck up.” Leonard repeats himself. “Don’t get someone pregnant. Don’t get your ass too stoned to perform. Don’t sound like squealing kittens. I’m not wasting my fucking money on a bunch of kids who can’t wipe their own asses.”

All that ever seems to follow Leonard Branham’s conversations with the band is stunned silence. Only this time the silence is wilted, clutched chests and twisting stomachs of dread. 

“Do I make myself clear?”

Terror. The dark cloud of it seizes at them. You can see it on their pale faces and stifled breathing. 

“I said,” Leonard’s impatience picks at the wound he’s stabbed into their guts. “Do I make myself clear?”

Steve licks his dry lips, exhaling, “Yes, Mr. Branham.” 

“Good.” He hangs up. Doesn’t wait for them to say anything else. 

The dial tone shuts off, a deafened finality to it. The gravity of the situation chokes at the band. Despite the exhaustion of performing and constant travel, touring has never once felt like a burden to them. 

Writing together, dreaming up an album that defines who they are, the lyrics they want to leave behind in the world, has never felt like a chore. Everything has always come easy. Even in their most defeated and anxious states, never before has their entire future looked back at them in terror. 

One slip up, one mistake, and they’re gone. 

They were just kids messing around until then.

-

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[urhoneycombwitch]

I know what they call you.

Eddie Munson x shy!Reader You’re a little lost in your head. Eddie wants to find you.

foreword: The healing properties of good head <333 Anyways I labeled this R “shy” but she’s more… introverted? Reserved? this one goes out to the weird and off-putting girlies who have a lot to say but are kinda quiet instead. Timeline may be a bit wibbly but designed it to be early 4th-season era, with R (early 20s) having played an undetermined part in the various Upside Down battles from seasons previous. Loosely based on this anon every1 say thank you anon!

cw: alcohol/weed used as a social crutch, R is hassled by a guy at a party (but her boys back her up), brief vomit mention, implied bad home life for R, light SH by way of tight grip, PTSD, R has breasts+V, praise kink, oral (R receiving), one (1) spank, multiple orgasms (R), soft dom!eddie, overstim, coming in pants (E)

wc: 11k

___

It’s spring break, 1986, and you’re cursing the name of your so-called “best friend” Robin Buckley.

You didn’t even want to go to this stupid kegger in the first place, arguing with her the whole ride over from Steve’s backseat.

“Don’t you think it’s totally lame that you’re basically being chaperoned by two gap-year losers?” you’d said, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the console, seatbelt pulling taut across your Rolling Stones tee. “You’re a big girl, Robin, you don’t need Steve and me to babysit you anymore.”

Robin began protesting but Steve interrupted, tapping at your forearms without looking away from the road- “Sit back, wouldja, that’s not safe. And for the record, it’d only be lame if we were, like, thirty and still going to high school kickbacks. Gap-year drinking parties are a rite of passage.”

You’d sat back against your seat with a huff, arms crossed, unconvinced until Robin turned those big pleading eyes your way over the back of her seat. “You wanna talk about lame? Lame is me getting anywhere within a 60-foot radius of Vickie. I am totally hopeless around that absolute beauty.”

She’d twisted in her seat and reached for your hand, and you gave it to her grudgingly (the two of you ignoring another of Steve’s gripe about vehicular safety) as she said, “You’re like, the best wingwoman I’ve ever met. Please come to the party and help me avoid the natural disaster that is me running my mouth.”

Robin wasn’t just being generous- you were a killer third wheel. Especially when alcohol was involved: the walls that you naturally upheld around your introverted demeanor by day turned liquid as whiskey by night, often scoring you major cool points with your friends for things you barely remembered doing the day after. 

So you’d relented, and in turn resolved to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible (in the name of Robin’s aid, of course), but turns out your best friend didn’t even need your help in the first place; within 5 minutes of setting foot in the crammed house party Robin won a spot right next to Vickie on the living room couch, starry-eyed gaze saved only for the redhead that bore no room for your intervention.

Three shots ago, the situation would have struck you as funny, but it’s been a lonely time (what with Steve abandoning you, too, in favor of chatting up some college blonde); drifting from packed room to packed room, sneakers sticking to the floorboards, winding through throngs of sweaty dancing students just to keep on top of your alcohol consumption.

Kind of like hunting in the wild, you muse, leaned against a wall with red solo cup in hand. Flirt with Amy Thacker and her low-cut blouse to access the watering hole (Mystery Punch, green both in color and flavor); let Lenny Baker put his paws on your waist to gain entry to the standing liquor cabinet. The stuff of nature docs.

If this dimly-lit Hawkins party is the savanna, then you are the antelope- grazing on snacks, never staying in one spot for too long, minding your own business and staying way the hell away from the lion’s den (the group of jocks in Hawkins Tigers polos).

Unfortunately, you push off the wall in search of a refill at the same time Lenny Baker decides to sidle up to you, nearly knocking the cup from your grasp when he bends his thick head to shout in your ear above the music. 

“Great party, right?” His arms are crossed above his tank of a chest, blocking you from a smooth exit via the kitchen archway.

“If you’re into drunk teens, I guess,” you say back, pointedly, licking a stripe up your wrist from where the punch had sloshed onto your bare arm. 

When you look back up Lenny’s still standing there, watching you with a hungry edge that’s starting to make your well-honed antelope-sense tingle. As you not-so-subtly cast your glance around for Steve, Lenny leans in again, close enough to give you a sour whiff of his breath. “I’m legal, if that’s what’s got your panties in a twist. And what’s wrong with having some fun?”

“I’m not into having fun with douchebags who ‘roid away their remaining brain cells to bully my friends,” you retort, flatly. You doubt this guy knows you’re connected to the Hellfire group (de facto sitter, second only to Steve), but the insult seems to land anyways. 

Lenny scoffs, going for a low blow to offset the sting of his bruised ego- “If you’re trying to play the part of slut, you were doing a way better job earlier.”

What the meathead hasn’t picked up on yet is your absolute lack of care about him- or anyone else at this stupid fucking party, for that matter. Besides Robin and Steve, obviously, but they’re equally indisposed at the moment. You’re feeling bold enough that you could play dirty: throw the dregs of your drink in his face, make a real scene- but the shots from earlier are hitting you sideways and you’re not entirely confident in your ability to multitask. 

So instead, with a wink, you tell him, “At least this slut knows when to quit,” and turn on your heel, abandoning the kitchen escape route for a closer door that leads to the back porch.

You suck in lungfuls of cool night air, trying to clear the fuzz of booze from your vision. When you don’t hear any angry footsteps following in your wake, you sink against the wooden bannister and tip back the last of your drink in one swallow. Maybe Steve doubled back to the car…?

With your empty cup left neatly on the railing, you set off down the couple of steps that separate you from the grass, except the toe of your shoe catches on a hidden groove in the wood, and nothing is within reach to grab onto as you trip and begin to fall.

The stumble should have ended with you facedown in the dirt, but something- someone- solid breaks your downward path, catching the upper half of your body in a sturdy hold even as your legs twist around themselves.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, I gotcha. You okay?”

The voice is instantly familiar, one that you’ve heard ringing out from underneath the drama room door on countless occasions as you’ve waited on your various child wards to wrap up their D&D sessions.

Eddie Munson is holding you in his leather-clad arms, larger than life with that big cloud of hair and doe-eyed gaze matching yours. He helps you stand, properly, dropping his hands once you’re stabilized and taking the warmth of his palms with him. 

“You okay?” he asks again, tilting his head, looking at you with fresh concern from under that mop of bangs. “Looks like you had a lot to drink.”

“Thanks, Dad,” you drawl, bravado flooding back in. “Am I really gonna get a fucking lecture on drinking from my local drug dealer?”

Instead of rising to the bait or bristling at your tone, Eddie grins- delighted, wolfish- before letting out a low whistle. “Who coulda guessed: resident Shy Girl has a mouth on her.”

You twist said mouth into your own smile, one that you hope is coy and charming and not dorkily lopsided (because you stopped being able to feel your face after that last drink), and coo, “You thinkin’ about my mouth, Munson?”

He laughs- a full, vibrant sound that lights up the night. There’s a flutter in your ribcage, knocking up a frenzy at the noise, like it wants to get out and at him, but you tamp it down and play it cool.

“You’ve only seen me in the cold, unforgiving light of day,” you continue, as Eddie rifles through his pockets, surfacing with a pack of cigs, eye contact yet to be broken. “My nighttime alter ego is a real riot, all liquored up.”

“Well, I happen to think you’re a riot in the sober light of day, too.” Eddie shrugs a shoulder as he flips the lid of the cigarette box.

You’re unsure if he’s messing with you- he’s gotta be, right? The only meaningful interaction you two have had in the past handful of years has been through the courtesy of the children in your respective care- a few surface-level conversations during carpool pickup, some flirting on his end that you’ve always been too skittish to return. 

Well, until now, you guess. Maybe this is a good thing, him seeing you like this- it’ll either scare him away, or you’ll finally make good on the quiet crush you’ve been harboring.

You’re about to speak again when the porch door opens with a bang; you and Eddie swivel at the same time to see Lenny clomping noisily towards the steps, voice booming out over the thrum of bass back inside- “This freak bothering you?”

You look between the metalhead and the jock, eyes wide and mocking as you call back, “No, but you’re starting to!”

“Jesus, talk about poking the bear,” you hear Eddie mutter behind you, but your focus is taken up by the fact that Lenny is tromping down the steps and reaching out to grab your upper arm, his cold and clammy palm taking up a sizeable amount of space.

You can feel that rage, simmering and easily accessed, start to crawl over your skin. You stand your ground in the face of someone much larger than you, sneakers planted firmly, chin tilted in defiance- I’ve killed monsters in alternate dimensions, asswipe. You might’ve scared me back in high school but now I dare you to fuck with me. 

Before Eddie can jump to your defense, you’re already going in for the bite, voice dripping with derisiveness. “So glad your right hand found its way off your dick for a change, Len. How about you do me one better and take it far, far away from here?”

Lenny’s face is almost purple with anger as his grip tightens, and you feel Eddie moving in at your back- to do what exactly, hard to say, ‘cuz Lenny’s got about 60 pounds on the lanky DM- but just as fast as the tension has ramped up, it gets diffused with the arrival of one Steve Harrington from around the corner of the house.

He cuts a smooth path through the grass to your other side, Robin’s sweater slung over one arm, twirling his car keys in neat loops around his finger, boasting a casual demeanor that doesn’t match up with the steely look he’s giving Lenny. “You heard the girl, Baker. Time to am-scray.”

Whether it’s the rumors of Steve’s nail bat or the manic look in your eyes or the fact that he’s outnumbered, Lenny’s got plenty of reason now to drop your arm. 

Which he does, spitting one last “bitch” at you before hulking off into the night.

The anger in you recedes like a wave. You breathe out a dry laugh, then turn back to the boys, clasping your hands over your heart with faux-dopeyness. “My heroes. How will I ever repay you?”

“Shutting up, for a change, would be a great start,” Steve grouses over the sound of Eddie’s cackles.

“Holy shit. Can’t believe your girl’s feistiness almost landed me in the hospital.” Eddie shakes his head, plucking a cigarette out and sticking it between his plush lips.

“She’s not my girl,” Steve says, even as you wind your arms around his chest from behind, tucking your chin over his shoulder. “She is, unfortunately, my problem.”

“I love when you two talk about me like I’m not here.” You simper at Eddie from your draped position.

He’s watching you with a fondness that feels overly familiar, through the haze of smoke streaming from his nostrils as you pat the chest beneath your hands- “Don’t worry about ol’ Stevie boy. He’s turned into quite the good guard dog after the whole Russian mall takeover last year.”

“Aaaaand that’s enough talking from you,” Steve says firmly, twisting out of your arms and putting his own around your waist. “Say goodbye to your new buddy, we’ve got a Robin to collect.”

As Steve steers you towards the direction of his car you wave at Eddie, a motion that he returns, his rings glinting in the porch light.

“Christ, you really are somethin’ else with some drinks in you,'' Steve fusses, helping you into the backseat, hand shooting up to block the door frame before your head can collide with the metal. “Did you seriously have to bring up the Russians?”

“He probably thought it was a joke, Steve,” you say, exasperated and fighting the twisted middle seatbelt with uncoordinated hands. “You know… those things that you tell people when you wanna get in their pants?”

The crack was aimed at Steve’s recent string of strike-outs in the dating department, but he throws it back at you. “You’re trying to get in Eddie Munson’s pants?”

“No,” you sputter, indignant and feeling suddenly too hot. 

Steve knocks your still-struggling hands from the belt, clicking you in himself, before pointing an accusatory finger in your face. “Stay here while I get Robin, and no throwing up in the Beemer.”

He shuts the door, Robin’s sweatshirt hanging from one shoulder while he stalks back into the house. 

You let your head fall back against the seat and close your eyes, bright cherry embers of cigarettes between lush-lipped curves dancing behind the dark of your lids. 

___

You manage to avoid throwing up in the BMW, saving the worst of it for the downstairs toilet of the Harrington house after Steve drags you and Robin indoors. Once your body is purged of the spirits, you collapse into your usual side of the guest bed, sweaty and exhausted, murmuring an apology to Robin who squeaks at the rocking movement of the mattress. In a few minutes, you’re lulled to sleep by the gentle snores of your best friend.

The morning sun is a very rude awakening, Robin apparently having forgotten to close the blinds before leaving with Steve for their shifts at Family Video. There’s a full glass of water on the bedside table and a few loose Tylenol tablets, the word “DRINK” sprawled on a sticky note in Steve’s handwriting.

You wince, down the meds along with half the water, and start the search for your sneakers.

When you’d signed up to protect a bunch of teens at the end of the world awhile back, it had seemed like a one-time gig. But now, here you were a few years later, loading yourself into your curb-parked junker to willingly cart around the same kids.

While wearing yesterday’s clothes. Even with the sprays of cologne that you’d stolen from Steve’s dresser, you’re pretty sure you’ll be fooling no one.

Evidenced by your first stop in east Hawkins for Dustin Henderson, who clambers into the front seat with a scathing appraisal. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” you reply, shifting the gear to drive and grimacing at the subsequent squeal of metal that pierces into your left temple. “Learn from my mistakes as a washed-up twenty-something and cool it on the teen drinking, all right?”

“Washed up though you may be,” Dustin intones sagely, digging through his backpack and producing two brown-paper bundles, “you are now one Claudia Henderson Breakfast Sandwich Deluxe richer.”

You take the proffered sandwich gratefully, steering with one hand to peel back the oil-stained paper from the still-warm bread. “God. Is your mom looking to adopt?”

“She’s kind of got the perfect child already, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground for ya,” Dustin says around a mouthful of cheese and egg.

The solid breakfast helps your stomach ease back into a place of normality, but with your next stop adding two more kids to the mix, the rowdy bickering that follows puts that Tylenol to work.

“You’re an idiot,” Max is saying to Lucas over the sound of his indignation in the back seat. “You seriously think Indiana Jones would win against Supergirl? She can shapeshift, and she has heat vision.”

“All I’m saying is, it’s really hard to see a whip coming.” Lucas is stretching the limits of his seatbelt in his earnestness to get his girlfriend on his side.

It doesn’t work- Max rolls her eyes and taps at your shoulder. “Help me out here. His logic is totally shit, right?”

Making a turn onto the main road, you nod your assent without looking back. “I think you should listen to your very smart girlfriend, Lucas.”

Max makes a triumphant “hah”, and Dustin adds fuel to the argument’s fire when he drags in some other comic book character that you’ve never heard of. 

You hazard a glance in your rear-view mirror at Max, who’s too busy dishing out an enthusiastic rebuttal to notice. Her auburn braids swing with the movement of the car, and you wonder if they were done by her mother before work or if Max had to rely on her own hair expertise again. 

You’ve got a real soft spot for Max, always have. While you both have plenty of cause to bond over shitty home lives, it’s also Max’s brash and defiant attitude that drew you to her. She’s got the bravery you can only hope for, something that you are sure to tell her frequently, even though the compliment is hard for her to take.

You score a parking spot that’s right in front of the arcade, calling after the kids already scrambling out of your car that you want to leave at noon, sharp. They all give some form of distracted acknowledgement before disappearing into the building, so you figure the earliest you'll be getting out of here is noon-thirty. 

Not like you have much to do today, anyways, besides bother Steve and Robin at work- since the arcade is conveniently located right next to Family Video, it’s a perfect excuse to wait out the kids’ spring break activities in the company of your nearest and dearest.

You’re cutting a swift track up the sidewalk when you nearly collide with Eddie Munson, for the second time in less than 24 hours.

“Hey!” He beams at you, a wide, easy thing that fits on his face so well, like it was made to be there, boyish dimples digging in. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” you agree, trying to smile back but probably landing somewhere in the grimace region as memories of last night float to the forefront of your mind. Small talk. You can do it. Say something. “Um. Were you getting a movie?”

“Nah.” Eddie shakes his head, hooks a thumb at the Family Video doors behind himself. “Keith’s one of my regulars. That guy might actually smoke more weed than me.”

You hum mildly to show you’re still paying attention but really you’re looking at Eddie’s hair, dark curls that shift with each of his movements. His hair isn’t black, like you’ve been led to believe this whole time- with the morning light shining through, highlighting the halo frizz around the edges, it’s actually a deep, chocolatey brown.

Similar to his eyes. Which are trained on you. Because you haven’t talked in a weird amount of time and are now just openly ogling his hair. 

Before you can open your mouth to apologize Eddie asks, “You wanna smoke?”

You nod, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically, and then stretch on your tiptoes to peer around Eddie’s frame at the Family Video sign. “Yeah, but we gotta be fast unless you want the Wonder Twins joining us.”

His grin slips into a smirk, and he winks before taking your hand in his. “A quickie, then.”

That fluttering thing in your ribs is back. The metal of Eddie’s rings are cool against your palm as he leads you around the side of the building, dropping your hand once you both are leaned up against the red brick.

Trying not to outright stare again, you watch from the fringes of your vision as Eddie lights up and breathes a cloud of smoke into the air. His nails are painted black- they weren’t last night. An image of him- hunched over a kitchen table, tongue sticking out of those pillowy lips in concentration, a nail polish brush held in his long fingers- flits across your mind.

Eddie holds the cigarette out, filter-side towards you, and you shake your head lightly. “No thanks. I don’t actually smoke, I just wanted to talk to you.”

Eddie glows. Before he gets the wrong idea you start explaining, arms crossing tight over your chest in unconscious defense- “I wanted to talk about last night. And say I’m sorry. I’m not usually so…”

“Badass? Charming? Hot?” Eddie fills in when you trail off, taking in another deep drag of smoke. 

Christ. You feel heat rushing from head to toe as you ward off his flattery, nails nipping into your upper arms. “I was gonna say… talkative? I guess? I’m normally not one to pick fights, but Lenny was being a dick and I don’t like the way he treats the kids, or you, for that matter, and I was drunk and mouthy but that’s not an excuse to drag you into it and I’m sorry-”

“Hey, hey.” Eddie’s tone is soothing, low, cutting smoothly into your feverish confession. He reaches out and strokes the back of his knuckle across your hand, tiny half-moons from your nails leaving their impression as you soften your grasp on yourself.

He doesn’t seem to mind that you can’t look anywhere but at your sneakers planted in the gravel as he says, “You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. I’m a big boy, I can handle myself when it comes to dickwads like Lenny Baker. And I would say that rescuing fair maidens is part of my job description, but…”

Eddie stubs the half-smoked cigarette out against the brick, flicks it to the ground, and waits until you look up at him again before saying “You don’t seem like you’re in need of any saving.”

That flutter, again, as you hold his eye contact for as long as you can stand it. 

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “There she is.”

Mortified, you resist the urge to scream into your hands as you push off from the brick, instead squeezing them into fists at your sides. “Oh-kay. Well. I better head inside or Robin will send out the search party for me.”

Eddie lets you walk past him, but just before you turn the corner he says, “I’m across from the Mayfields in Forest Hills if you ever want some company. Or some good weed.”

Footfalls from his thick-heeled boots recede into the distance, and you take a minute to calm your breathing before pushing your way through the doors of Family Video.

Steve’s stocking a shelf of New Releases at the front of the store, vest-clad torso faced away as the bell above the door signals your entrance. On autopilot he monologues, “Welcome to Family Video, let us know how we can be of service.”

“Aw, I miss the days when you were forced to say Ahoy, mateys!” You tease, Steve turning to give you an irritated frown as you prop your hip against the register counter.

Robin clacks away on the computer, hitting the Enter key a little harder than necessary as she says, “You’re about one mall fire and a bajillion NDA’s too late to ever hear that shit again.”

Keith must be lurking around in the back office, ‘cuz the three of you only refer to last year’s cataclysmic series of events as a “mall fire” when you’re talking in code. 

Or if you’re trying to be funny. But based on the dark circles under Robin’s eyes and the harried way Steve’s shoving a hand through his hair as he drifts towards the counter, you surmise that the three of you are very much on the same page this morning with regards to humor and hijinks.

“I didn’t know it was possible to be this hungover,” Robin groans, sinking her hand into a torn-open Skittles bag and popping a handful into her mouth. “Sugar is supposed to help, right?”

You snort, fiddling with a stack of paper brochures as Steve leans against the counter. 

“Had any more run-ins with the town riffraff?” He asks, feigning casual, honey-colored eyes roaming around the shop.

“I’m visiting you, aren’t I?” You shoot back, unreasonably defensive. 

“Another point for the pretty lady, and Harrington strikes a zero,” Robin totals in her best sports broadcasting voice. “What the hell are you talking about, Steve?”

“Drinky McGee over here was spilling her guts last night to none other than Edward Munson,” Steve replies, looking satisfied when Robin’s eyes bug dramatically.

“Eddie?” Robin hops off the stool, sliding her hands from the other side of the counter to stop your own from ripping the brochures to shreds. “And what, pray tell, were you spilling about with Eddie Muson?”

“Nothing.” You pull your hands from Robin’s, rolling your eyes as if the stakes are low, when in fact the stakes are as tall as the Empire State Building. You can practically hear the wind whistling from this height. “I wasn’t… we barely talked. He was backing me up when some jock started messing with me. That’s all.”

Robin whirls on Steve with animosity- “You left her alone long enough for some meathead to get involved? Jesus, Steve, the hell is wrong with you?”

“Like you shacking up with Vickie after two Tears for Fears tracks is any more responsible!” Steve snaps.

Having spent enough time with both your friends to know their propensity towards petty arguments, you slap a hand against the counter to derail. “Hey! Both of you knock it off. It’s fine, I’m fine, we survived yet another night out on the town unscathed. Let’s just… drop it.”

Steve looks properly chastised, but Robin gets a glint in her eye that confirms she’s not thrown off the scent so easily. 

“You know what they call him, right?” she asks you, lowering her raspy voice even further.

“Eddie The Freak Munson,” Steve supplies, but shrinks noticeably when Robin gives him a withering look. “...not that, then?”

“Of course you, Steve The Hair Harrington, would only know him by that name.” Robin shakes her head, disapproving, before turning back to you with a wicked grin. “Word on the street holds Eddie The Munch Munson in very high regard.”

Steve scoffs at this, but you blink, uncomprehending.  “Munch, like… he eats a lot of food?”

You feel very suddenly and violently ganged up on when Steve and Robin give you mirrored quizzical looks.

“No, babe,” Robin says, slowly. “Munch as in he eats pussy.”

“Jesus christ.” Heat courses through you as you scan the empty store, even as Steve chuckles and says, “You really are a prude.”

A skittle sails airborne into the side of his temple and he flinches, Robin coming to your aid. “That’s no way to talk to a lady, Steven.”

“I’m so not a prude.” You’re quick to jump to your own defense. “I just… didn’t know what that meant.”

You’d had a boyfriend for 6 months your sophomore year of high school, Ben- nice enough guy, but you’d mostly dated as an excuse to get all your firsts out of the way. Some laid-back hookups have occurred since then- it’s not like you’ve been chaste all these years, for fuck’s sake.

But you certainly wouldn’t give any of those boys a prize-winning nickname for their ability to eat you out. 

“It’s all baseless gossip, right?” Steve grabs a nearby wheeled cart and pushes it to the New Releases, resuming his shelf stocking. “I mean, what the hell else are small-townies good for other than trading lies like baseball cards.”

“I dunno,” Robin says, thoughtfully, sucking at her front teeth. “If the token lesbian is hearing about it, then he’s gotta be some sort of sex god.”

Steve’s making a snarky comeback, but you can’t hear him over the whistling in your ears.

You stare blankly out at the parking lot, one hand absently crunching at a brochure, trying really hard to think of anything but those plush lips and all the places you want them. 

____

Ever since the events of last year ripped a hole in your found family’s world, you make it a weekly habit to visit Max.

You’re always armed with some excuse- made too much pasta, please take it off my hands and put this tupperware in your fridge; I was on my way to the thrift store and thought I’d stop by, wanna come with and help me pick out some new jeans?- so that it’s harder for Max to deny your company. Slowly, over the last handful of months, by way of secondhand book offerings and slices of leftover pizza, Max has let her guard down enough to let you in. 

Even on days like today, when her demeanor suggests active disdain (calling you “mom” with a caustic bite when you ask after her last meal, rolling her eyes when she finds you doing the leftover sink dishes), you don’t take it personal. Her coldness towards little acts of kindness is due to the shitty way other people have failed her. And plus, you’ve put in enough effort to be able to see the warm side of Max Mayfield.

Like now, for instance- she’s giving you a bone-crushing hug on your way out, freshly-braided hair pressed tight to your sternum as you hug her back and sway in the doorway. The hug is quick and fierce, over in seconds as she slips back into practiced indifference

“Stay out of trouble this week and I’ll buy you a pony,” you joke as she pulls away, and the smile that she cracks makes it all worth it. 

“Make it a racehorse and you’ve got yourself a deal,” she says, giving you a small wave before closing her front door.

You walk down the dirt path to your parked car, keys in hand. Tonight’s schedule is that of a responsible, sensible young adult- the classified ads on your desk at home need trawling through, and a laundry pile the size of Hoosier Hill waits expectantly on your floor.

But there’s this crawling under your skin, a feeling that tends to flare up every so often, a craving for some sort of release gnawing at the edges. Usually the cure is sad music and masturbation, or some of Steve’s parents’ wine and a cheesy romcom. 

Or weed. That tends to work, too.

You’re shoving your keys into the pocket of your denim jacket and walking across the way to Eddie’s trailer before you lose your nerve, scuffing your sneakers against his porch while you knock.

He looks surprised to see you, dark brows raised, leaning into the palm he’s got on the doorframe- “Oh shit. Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply, tracking one foot up the back of your calf, feeling timid under his gaze. “Do you… can I buy some weed?”

When he nods, you duck under his arm and drop to one knee on the carpeted floor to untie your laces.

“Shit, sweetheart, don’t go to all that trouble.” He lets the door close, enveloping you both in the moody lighting of his trailer. There’s a radio playing the local rock station dimly from one of the bedrooms, and as you toe off your shoes you notice a gleaming black guitar leaned upright against the couch.

“Do you play?” You drift over on sock feet to gently brush across the strings, a faint and discordant noise rising and fading underneath your fingertips.

“Yeah.” Eddie’s voice comes from just over your shoulder as he watches your gentle fingers on his prized possession. “I’m in a band, actually. You should come see us play sometime.”

“That’s cool,” you say earnestly. “I remember when you got in trouble for that talent show performance- your band was totally swindled out of first place, if you ask me.”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you hazard a look at him over your shoulder and find him staring at you again, something you’re still not used to, giggling out a little “What?” as his eyes stay on your face.

“You’re pretty, that’s all.” The Dio logo on the front of his tee ripples when he shrugs a shoulder. As if he knew it would embarrass you, he leaves no room for your disagreement, turning away into the kitchen, stretching tall for the metal lunchbox on the top of his fridge.

His shirt lifts with the stretch, a flash of stomach lined with a trail of dark hair that makes you swallow back the gathering saliva in your mouth. 

“So, weed,” he’s saying as he pops the lid on the box, shaking out a small bag of fuzzy-looking green clumps. “I can set you up with a couple of days’ worth, if you want.”

“That sounds good,” you reply, mustering courage to drift to Eddie’s side, pretending to assess the baggie he’s holding, committing to memory the way his long fingers deftly pluck apart bud from stem. “That way I can come back and buy more.”

His fingers pause, halfway to the metal grinder nestled in the lunchbox as he says, “You know, you don’t need to use weed as an excuse to come see me. I think we’ve already established I like lookin’ at ya, so you’d be doing me a favor if you came by more. Just to hang out.”

This offer sits between you as he grinds the weed down, then tips a stripe of it neatly across some rolling paper. His dexterous fingers pinch and tuck until a joint takes shape, a small strip of the paper poking out.

He holds it to your lips, brown eyes shimmering with warmth as he waits. 

A Stevie Nicks song starts up on the radio, muffled by the trailer walls but crooning through all the same. This close to Eddie for the first time, you can smell him- balmy and spicy, like bergamot and Irish Spring. 

You lean into the joint, licking across the paper in one unbroken motion. Your tongue catches on Eddie’s thumb when you pull away, and there’s a salt-warm taste that settles in your mouth.

“Good girl,” he says, in that low-toned voice, and you have to fight to keep your thighs from pressing together in your jeans.

“Wanna smoke here?” Eddie smooths the spit-damp end of the joint down, giving the end a twist. “Good way to test out the merchandise. First one’s free.”

You shake your head as he extends the joint- “I’m definitely paying you, Eddie. And no, I can’t smoke here.” With you being the unspoken addition to that sentence. 

“Aw, shucks, sweetheart,” he drawls, devilish grin creeping back in, “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

His brows shoot up again, then waggle, obscenely. “Afraid I’m gonna be too tempting to resist once you’re in the clutches of the Green Dragon?”

Something like that, you think, wryly, but that fluttering is back and you really want to shut it up, so against your sensible, better judgment, you take the joint from Eddie’s hand.

“Got a light?”

You haven’t smoked in over a month, and with your tolerance so low two hits is all it takes to get you sprawled out on the living room floor, arms akimbo like you’re making a carpet snow angel.

Eddie’s a bit more restless in his high, plucking melodious and listless tunes from the couch with his guitar, one foot propped on the coffee table near your head.

Feeling loose-limbed and confident, you stare unabashed up at Eddie. He’d put his hair into a low bun, earlier, and there are a few dark tendrils swinging free around his neck with the rocking movements of his body to the music. 

He hits a snag, string buzzing out a dissonant noise. “Can’t focus with you lookin’ at me.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, except you’re not at all. “Now you know how I feel all the time.”

He sticks his tongue out at you, your girlish tittering in answer; you pat the carpet beside your hip. “Come lay with me.”

His body responds easily to your request; Eddie props the guitar back up against the couch and stretches out next to you with a sigh, a wave of that smokey sweet smell coming with him.

Under your weed-filtered view, the popcorn ceiling above you is moving, whorling and undulating in the muted light. You’re feeling gutsy and sure of yourself as you ask aloud, “Do you really think I’m pretty?”

Your head turns so you can meet Eddie’s eyes, which are dancing across your face- cheek to lips to nose back up to eyes- and he doesn’t make a joke, this time, his words coming with weighty seriousness.

“Yeah, I do. I think you’re beautiful. Always have.”

“Always?” Your echo is a soft and seeking thing.

“Yeah, always,” he confirms, simply, as if it’s a fact of life. “Woulda made a move sooner, but you always seemed so…”

“Unapproachable? Aloof? Bitchy?” You fill the gap in his speech with adjectives that have been used to characterize you in the past- usually by boys in the heat of an argument over inconsequential things that have been lost to time, only the labels sticking around. 

Eddie gives you a reproachful look. “No. I was gonna say, you seemed like you were always in your own world.”

This throws you for a loop. Neck on a swivel, you look back up at the ceiling as Eddie continues.

“I wanted to get to know you more, but I’ll be the first to admit I was intimidated by you. I mean, you’re way out of my league-” Eddie ignores the sardonic snort you give to this- “-and I just assumed asking you out would've ended with an epic crash and burn.”

The ceiling stops swaying, and you swivel back to hold Eddie’s eyes again, the weed making honesty easy. “I always kinda thought you were beautiful, too.”

Awash with the bravery that only comes from being in an altered state, you keep the momentum that’s aided by Eddie’s soft smile and push up on your elbows. 

“I know what they call you.”

Eddie blinks up at you, then slowly, slowly, pushes himself up onto his elbows too. “Yeah?”

It’s a taunt, a dare, an I bet you won’t.

Shows how much he knows. When you’re drunk or stoned, he’d be hard pressed to find a bet you can’t win.

You say it, unwavering. “Eddie The Munch Munson.”

His lips fall open, leaning in towards you as if drawn by a magnet, and you think he’s gonna kiss you until he falls back against the carpet, scrubbing his hands down his face. “Shit. Fuck. We can’t do this.”

“Why not?” You’re a little taken aback, ‘cuz while it’s not an outright rejection, Eddie’s upping the drama, hands pressed into the sockets of his eyes, groaning as he tips into your side.

With his forehead pressed into the curve of your shoulder, he says softly, “I think we’re both a little too stoned to be thinking clearly. And I really, really want you to think clearly when it comes to this.”

“Comes to what?” You’re egging him on now, trailing your fingers up his bicep, coy and angelic. 

He rolls away from you, making a pained noise with his face smushed into the carpet before pushing himself off the ground. “You know what, princess. New topic, for the love of god. You hungry?”

You are, actually, and when he extends his hand to help you up, you take it.

Eddie whips up a box of mac and cheese while you sit on a counter nearby, conversation engaging and fluid as he cooks.

Between interjections of ‘scuse me, angel, gotta get into this cabinet and can you take over stirring for a sec? you answer all his questions. You tell him your favorite bands, the states you’d visited on a road trip when you were six, even giving him the whole “my mom’s a nice enough person but we don’t get along” spiel that you don’t usually get to until a third date.

If that’s even what this is. He’s scooping steaming noodles into two bowls, passing you one, leaning up against the counter closest to the one you’re sat on. Your knee rubs against his ribcage as you eat.

In between chews, he lets you ask about himself- his favorite bands, the states he’s never been but wants to travel to someday, the highlights of his golden years with his mom that he misses every day.

There’s a quiet lull, after your bowls are scraped clean and set aside. He helps you off the counter and tells you to pick out a movie; you load The Black Cauldron into the VCR and settle into the couch cushion.

Eddie puts an arm around you, lets you play with his hands for the bulk of the film, running your nails methodically across his palms. 

By the last act of the movie, you can feel your high beginning to fade, taking your courage with it; when the credits roll, you’re ready to call it quits and sleep off the hangover in your own bed.

“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Eddie asks, following after you as you tug your sneakers back on in the hall.

“Yeah, Eddie, I’ll be good. Thanks for the weed,” you say, pulling your jacket tight around your frame. “And for the- for everything.”

The smile appears again; the one that cuts deep dimples into his cheeks as he watches you step onto his porch.

When he says your name, you turn, keys in hand- “Yeah?”

Leaning into the doorframe like he had earlier, he cants his head, streetlight a warm glow across his cheeks. “You wanna know where I got my nickname, you come back in a few days. Sleep on it tonight.” And then he closes the door.

___

So, technically, he told you to come back in a few days, and showing up less than 24 hours later has to hint at being some sort of desperate. 

Which, fuck it, you kinda are, at this point. Frankly it’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long what with the whole being plagued with visions of Eddie Munson’s hands and lips and hair and that stupid fucking nickname every waking and dreaming hour you’ve spent apart. 

While you can appreciate the honorable nature of Eddie asking you to make a clear-headed decision, you’re wishing for a hundred things to take the edge off as you change out of the PJ’s you’ve been moping in all day.

Black tights stretch over your calves as you think of the whiskey you mom keeps hidden in the downstairs cabinet; denim miniskirt smoothed over your hips as you long for a deep hit of weed; hands shakily plucking your black tanktop into place as the urge to be anything but sober gets swallowed down. 

You make the ten minute drive to Forest Hills in silence (relative to the weird engine noises your hunk of metal car decides to make), wracking your brain for silver-tongued excuses but instead drawing blank after blank.

By the time you’re rolling to a stop in front of Eddie’s trailer, you still have no idea what you’re gonna say to him- only that something needs to be said. Max is at the Sinclair’s for the night, one less person to worry about witnessing you slamming your car door shut and walking right up to Eddie on his front steps.

He’s wearing a pair of overalls, grease-stained, shirtless underneath- the tail end of a larger ink piece peeking out against his ribs. There’s a lone bike tire on the ground, held steady by the spokes his boot rests on as he wrenches the middle hub, biceps rippling and flexing with each movement. 

Certainly a sight that would have stopped you in your tracks, on any other day. But you’re determined to have it out with the returning wingbeat behind your navel, planting your Converse in the gravel just before the first step that Eddie’s sat on.

He doesn’t seem surprised to see you this time, instead giving you a lazy smile on a half-tilt, wiping the tire oil from his hands onto the front of his overalls.

“What brings a fair maiden such as yourself to this ugly neck of the woods?” Eddie leans the tire up against the steps and rises to greet you.

You’re gonna lose what little nerve you have left if he touches you so you act quick, speaking as you cross your arms- “I need to tell you a few things.”

That stops him up short, just a few feet away as he inclines his head, hair loose around his bare shoulders. “I’m nothin’ but ears.”

A wet, rattling breath catches in your chest. You give a cursory scan around to confirm that the rest of the trailer park citizens are indoors, soft lights from rows of windows luminous against the darkening twilight sky.

“I have a… a thing,” you start, unsure of where to begin, really wishing you’d come up with a polished script on the ride over instead of being forced to flounder through for the right dialogue. “It started last year. With the mall fire?” 

When Eddie nods his understanding, you continue, in short starts and bursts, like you’re fighting with the words before they come out.

“Something… happened. To Robin, and Steve, and to- to me. It was really bad, for awhile, and then it got better, but I’m still…” your hands squeeze tight into the flesh of your upper arms, nails stinging. “I’m fucked up from it. And the only way I can talk about it is if I’m fucked up, too. S’why I can only hold a conversation when I’m drunk or flirt while I’m high, like there’s this bad thing inside of me that I can’t look at when I’m sober-”

There’s a frantic edge that’s slipped in to your voice and Eddie steps towards you, as if to soothe, but you’re not ready to give in yet so you take a step back, choking out the last few words- “I just- I wish I could tell you everything, but I can’t, not yet, and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

From somewhere in the forest behind, a bright chorus of crickets swells as you fix your focus on the ground, as Eddie’s boots crunch forward on the gravel, toe-to-toe with your sneakers.

He moves carefully, as if worried that you’ll spook- lightly brushing his fingers across yours, drawing your awareness to the fact that your nails are dangerously close to drawing blood, a sigh as you release.

“Thank you for telling me.” Unlike your own voice, his is low and sure as his thumbs brush against the red half-moons in your arms. “You’re really brave, you know that?”

He doesn’t leave room for you to dispute this, instead tracing the underside of your jaw with his knuckle, forcing you to hold his gaze, those deep brown eyes soft with empathy as he says, “I don’t have any expectations of you, ‘kay? I’ll be all ears when you need me to be, but you don’t have to spill all your secrets every time you come around. You wanna just watch shitty cartoons and keep my couch warm, that’s fine by me. Nothin’ else needs to happen.”

And it’s his acknowledgement of your admission, his softhearted way of letting you know that nothing needs to happen, that makes you brave.

Brave enough to tilt your chin into the lift of his finger as you say, “I didn’t just come here to apologize.”

You watch his Adam’s apple bob against the taut vein in his neck as he swallows, hard. 

“Yeah?”

When you nod, Eddie blows out a breath and turns on his heel, motioning you to follow him up the stairs. 

Your eagerness is obvious as you scramble up the steps after him, heart starting to thrum in tandem with the flutters as he shuts his front door behind the both of you.

“Take your shoes off,” is all he says, in a low, strained voice, before turning into the kitchen.

Obedient, you drop to one knee and jerk apart your sneaker laces with trembling hands. 

Now on nyloned feet, you step onto the linoleum tile of Eddie’s kitchen. He’s faced away from you at the sink, taut lines of his shoulders rising and falling as he washes his hands.

“You’re sober?” He asks, still at the sink, drying his hands on a patterned teatowel. 

When you realize he can’t see your nod, you speak- “Yes. Yeah. As a judge.”

A soft exhale through his nose, amused, as he finally turns to face you. Eddie’s eyes do that hypnotizing dance- skipping from your chin to your eyes to your lips back up again- and you let him, feeling exposed to the point of nakedness with the intensity of his focus.

“I want to hear you say it.”

The sentence winds through the air, joins the wings in your stomach, sits low in your belly as you shift your weight from side to side, a gentle rock to ease your flayed-alive nerves. 

You say it. “I want your mouth.”

Eddie takes a step closer, nearly toe-to-toe with you again. Over the familiar layer of bergamot and fresh hand soap he smells like the outdoors, and faintly of mechanic oil, hearty and wild.

“Where?” It’s a single word, but with so much weight- suggestive, a taunt, an offer.

You breathe him in, eyes fluttering closed, ‘cuz brave as you’ve been it’s still hard to say some things while looking at him. “Want your mouth… on me.”

He crowds into your space, one hand gliding smoothly to set against your waist, the other fitted against your neck, tapping a thumb to your lips.

You part them, passive and wanting, but he doesn’t press his finger to the pad of your tongue like you’d hoped. Instead, he lets his thumb stroke to the corner of your mouth to make room for his own. 

“Where?” he asks again, this time into your mouth. You can feel the tip of his nose graze yours, pinpricks of his hair tickling your cheeks. 

“Please,” is all you manage this time, awash with heat when you feel his smile form. 

“S’okay, sweetheart. I’ll work you up to it.” It’s a touch condescending, skirting that fine line between tease and mean, the same tone of voice that has your thighs pressing together.

And then, he gives you what you asked for. His plush lips- the ones that you’ve been fantasizing about for what feels like eons- are pressing against yours.

It’s a kiss that starts chaste, tender, but soon devolves into a heady, fevered thing when you push your tongue past the seam of his lips. He melts into you, using the hand he has on your face to keep you steady as he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, grazing his teeth into the plush of it before going back to twining his tongue with yours. 

There’s an audible wet click as he pulls away, both of your chests heaving in the quiet that follows; Eddie rests his forehead against yours briefly to catch his breath, and then he’s tugging you down the hall and into his room.

It’s pleasantly messy and lived-in, posters and photographs taking up most of the walls, guitar cables snaking and criss-crossing atop his dresser. You take a seat on the bed, hands tightening into the flannel duvet while Eddie begins to undo the buttons of his overall straps.

Wholly fascinated, you watch as he pushes the thick material from his body and kicks it to the side, leaving him in just his guitar pick necklace and a simple pair of black boxers. Now on full display, you drink in the sight of the most skin you’ve ever seen of his- tattoos at his chest and arms dark against the rest of him, pale and gleaming softly in the yellow light of the bedside lamp. 

You’re trying to figure out if the larger piece on his ribs is a dragon or some other mythological creature when he moves in to sit next to you, his kisses erasing all thoughts.

Eddie’s making these throaty little noises as you kiss; his hands track lines from your hips to your sides to your shoulders, your chest unconsciously pressing into his touch. 

When his thumb catches on the outline of your beaded nipple through your shirt, he hisses lightly, drawing back to look at you again- “Is this okay?”

You nod, but he doesn’t seem satisfied with that, tsking as he swipes with his thumb again, watching closely as you react silently to the touch.

“Hard to tell when you’re enjoying yourself if you’re quiet as a churchmouse,” Eddie says, in a tone that’s reminiscent of training a pet. “You gonna let me hear you?”

Your teeth catch on your lower lip as he thumbs across your nipple again, shockwaves coursing into goosebumps as you choke out, “I’m not s-so good at that. Not without- fuck- weed..”

Eddie huffs a laugh, a little derisive but you figure he’s probably got the right, seeing as how you’re this worked up and he’s barely touched you.

“You’re plenty good at this sober, sweetheart. Want me to prove it?”

His hand falls from your breast, extricates one of yours from the covers, and slides it up the meat of his thigh- then to the front of his boxers.

The first noise you make for him is a small gasp, one that matches his own as you cup your palm over the thick jut of his hard cock.

“Told you,” he says, sounding strung-out, his hand still closed around your wrist, “You’re doin’ just fine at working me up.”

You wrap your fingers around the bulge as best you can with the fabric of his boxers separating skin from skin, gaining confidence to explore as his grip on your wrist loosens. The black ink at his ribs expands and shrinks with the bellows of his breath, jolting and stuttering with each stroke of your hand.

Just as he’s drawing in a breath to speak, tightening his hold around your wrist in warning, you still your movements. Delicately, slowly, you slide out of his grasp and take his wrist in your hand, placing his palm on your own thigh.

The whole “reciprocating pleasure with sound” is still a hard one to give in to; maybe you can compensate for your hesitancy by showing instead of telling. You guide his hand up, into your skirt, parting your thighs until his fingers find the wetness soaking through both your panties and tights. 

“Fucking… jesus.” Eddie moves with the fluid surety that you lack, middle finger running up the seam of your clothed pussy, your hips jerking reflexively when he catches against your clit. “This all for me, princess?”

In answer, you lean to bury your face into the crook of Eddie’s neck. He lets you, taking the opportunity to hook your leg over his thigh, spreading you out as much as your fitted denim skirt will allow.

You pant into the column of his throat as he strokes you through the light layers, the fabrics grinding friction into your clit caught under his fingertip. He rests his chin on the crown of your head, cooing praises that have your stomach muscles tensing.

“That’s it, good girl, such a good girl for me.”

Your clit is throbbing now as he rubs you in small, quick circles, and you’re so close to falling over the edge that you have to pull his hand away.

Eddie picks up on your unspoken plea; he tugs the skirt down your hips then tosses it blindly over his shoulder, reaching for the edge of your tights. He slips them down your thighs, your calves, peeling them off you with reverence. When all that’s left is your best pair of satin panties, he maneuvers you up against the headboard and stretches himself flat on his stomach, nose pressing into your core.

That heat has come back, flashing through you with a vengeance as Eddie mouths at your pussy through the satin, sloppily but with purpose enough to have your cunt clenching around nothing.

You stay up on your elbows, watching that mane of dark hair bracketed by your thighs, but when Eddie pulls your underwear down and off your ankle your weight falls back against the mattress.

The flat of his tongue licks a wide stripe from your weeping hole up to spread the wetness around your clit. When he sucks the bundle of nerves into his mouth, your head presses back into the covers, hands grappling above you for something to anchor your grasp.

When Eddie flicks the point of his tongue against that bright spot of nerves your hands find a pillow to grip, and when he moans into your pussy the vibrations have you instinctively pulling the pillow against your face, teeth biting into the fluff, masking the whine that would have been loud in the otherwise quiet room.

You think you might be able to get away with this setup (what with Eddie seemingly focused on making you explode into a million little pieces) but there’s a sharp smack before the outer skin of your thigh is burning, white-hot from the kiss of his rings.

Eddie’s mouth leaves you only for the time it takes for him to rip the pillow from your grasp and scold, “Uh uh, none of that, c’mon,” and then he’s back at your clit, suckling with renewed vengeance.

There are little stars bursting at the edges of your vision, your hands shooting down to grip at Eddie’s hair when he pistons the point of his tongue against you again. Your hips are subtly bucking into his mouth, shaking thighs involuntarily closing around his ears. Normally you’d be concerned about Eddie’s air intake but going off the moans he’s burying in your pussy, you’d hazard a guess that he’s really into it.

As if in confirmation, he pulls off your clit with a wet pop, laving his tongue up the junction where thigh meets pelvis, voice sounding wrecked- “Doin’ so good, sweetheart. Fuck, you got me so hard. Gonna blow a load in my boxers like a teenager, y’taste so good. Gonna let me hear you? Hm? Wanna hear you.”

You’re dizzy with want as you prop yourself on your elbows again, mouth falling open as Eddie sinks two of his fingers up to the ringed knuckle inside your velvet walls.

His other hand comes to rest on the soft curve of your stomach, pinning you in place, before he looks up at you, black pupils nearly eclipsing the chocolate brown. 

“What do you want?” he asks again, patiently, as if he doesn’t have two fingers nestled inside your cunt.

Your efforts to grind into him are stopped with his firm hold on your middle, and he tuts at you again- but instead of a reprimand, he seems to soften a bit.

“C’mon, angel,” Eddie says, with such tenderness that makes tears prick at the corner of your eyes. He presses his lips to the inside of your thigh before encouraging, “Lemme hear you say it, and I’ll make it so good for you. Promise.”

“Want you to make me come. Please.” Your voice is unsteady, but it’s audible enough.

Eddie rewards you by sinking his fingers further, to the hilt, heel of his palm catching against your clit. When you let out a warbling moan, he nods- “That’s it,”- before setting a steady rhythm for fucking his fingers up into you. 

“Fuck, Eddie- fu-uck…” you’re trying, really trying to stay in the moment and not get caught up in the noises you’re making- for him. 

When Eddie reattaches his mouth to your throbbing clit and angles his fingers to hit into that soft, spongy spot with each thrust, you feel waves of pleasure start to wash through you. There’s just time for a choked “Shit, Eddie, you’re gonna make me cum,” before you’re spasming around his fingers.

Somehow, you manage to stay on your elbows, bracing your body through the convulsive shocks, white-hot stars joining the wingbeat rhythm as Eddie takes you apart with his mouth and fingers.

He moans, long and low, fucking you through it and then some- your orgasm has been completely wrung out when you push at his forehead, whimpering at the overstimulation. 

“No, baby, one more, please. Gimme one more,” Eddie lifts his head to plead with you, sweaty bangs glued to his forehead- and then he’s back between your legs.

It’s this moment that makes you retrospective. Sex with boys, in the past, has always been a quick means to an end: a few minutes of foreplay, tamping down your own pleasure for the sake of blowing off some steam. 

But now, pleasure was being given to you in spades by Eddie Munson, and you wanted to give it back to him.

You come on his tongue and fingers, again, stomach tightening beneath his warm palm, and this time you really loose the sounds caught in your chest: a strangled mix of your bliss-soaked whines with his name, Eddie Eddie Eddie. 

You feel the bed frame jolt below you both as Eddie’s hips thrust into the mattress in a frenzied tempo.

“Fuck me.” He pulls away, finally, panting into the side of your knee. He rests his head against your leg, lips tinged pink and shining wet, gazing at you with lust-blown eyes. “You are so fucking hot. Holy shit.”

Bashful as your peak wears off, you pull him forward so you don’t have to look at him when you whisper, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, princess,” he says, slumping against your chest and into your arms. “That’s going straight to my long-term spank bank. Number one. For sure.”

You slap playfully at his shoulder, and he rises on his elbows to kiss you- once on the lips, twice on the cheek- warm palms on the outside of your shoulders. 

“Are you… d’you need any help?” you ask, reaching to tuck his hair behind his ears, feeling the crush of insecurity leech in. “I dunno if you even- I mean, did you…”

From all the physical activity, your breasts are half-spilled out of your bra, and Eddie bends to kiss at the tops of them, affectionately, shaking his head as he goes. “There is no world in which I would’ve lasted, just now. Very noble of you to assume, though.”

He grins at your giggle, then says- “I dunno about you, but I need some new underwear. Wanna borrow a pair of my boxers? Bet you’d look cute.”

________

Later, when you’re both cleaned up, dressed, and full from a pizza delivery, Eddie invites you outside for a smoke.

You sit with him on the porch couch, legs slung over his, a big flannel blanket shared over both your laps while he smokes with the hand that isn’t on your thigh. 

There’s a crunching of wheels on gravel, and Max Mayfield’s bike lamp cuts through the dark.

“Hey, Heavy Metal,” she calls out, undoing her bike helmet and leaning her bike into its kickstand. “Are you done fixing up Lucas’s tires or do I have to keep hauling my ass all the way across town to see him?”

“I’ll have it done tomorrow, Red,” Eddie calls back, giving her a salute.

Halfway to her door, she remarks, “You two are gross, by the way,” 

You cross your arms in the sweatshirt Eddie loaned you, slipping into irksome older sister mode easily. “So how’d it go with your boyfriend, tonight, Maxine?”

She flips you both off, but you catch the smile on her face before the front door bangs shut behind her.

Eddie chuckles, smoothing his palm up your thigh, then takes another drag. “You gotta come night smoke with me more often, angel. The streetlights suit you.”

“Gonna get me hooked on nicotine, too?” Your sock foot pokes him in the ribs and he tuts, snapping it up in his free hand and digging his thumb into the arch of your sole.

“Fuck no, your teeth are too pretty to ruin. Want you to come keep me company while I destroy my lungs.”

Another cloud of smoke lifts dreamily around Eddie’s face. His thumb is working wonders on the tense muscle of your foot as you tip your head to rest on the back of the couch. With the nearby streetlamp, his profile is cast in a warm glow; you do a dance of your own, eyes taking in the strong slope of his nose, tracking down to his lips, back up to the wild curls at his temple.

Eddie feels you staring, turns to fix you with a quit it look that you can’t help but laugh at- “What, so you’re the only one who’s allowed to stare?”

“That’s right,” he confirms, leaning forward to set his cig in an ashtray, bullying his way into your space, rings cold under your chin when he tilts your face towards his- “Gotta pay the piper for that obvious violation, sweetheart. Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

This time, when the flutter within you kicks up, you have a place for it to go- melting softly into Eddie’s lips. 

___________________

I wrote the last third of this while blasted please don’t judge too harshly lmao.

for more shy!Reader content: masterlist

[tsukisangel]

Hey Lenny!!! I would like to order a navy crocheted blanket with a pink heart keychain for Sunarin please 🙏 I love your work and I am currently going through a Suna phase 🫶

hiiii!!!! i love YOUR work <33333 i'm geeked over this request like wym you love my work AAA. so flattered u requested and i really really hope you enjoy <3

characters ꕤ suna rintarou, f!reader

request ꕤ suggestive one bed trope

wc ꕤ 948

suna went up to you after checking into the hotel. “thanks for coming with me.” he said. you opened your mouth to speak and he shook his head. “i know i already said thank you, but really. samu had his business to focus on and i would’ve been so bored.” you were on a short weekend trip with suna to support atsumu on his away game. osamu had just started his onigiri business, so he couldn't get away. it was unfortunate, but you were glad to take a free vacation.

you chuckled softly. “good thing i’m here then.” you grinned at him. he nodded with his signature smirk, grabbing your bag and his own. “that’s okay, i can-”

“just take the help.” he shook his head at you. “come on.” 

the both of you walked to the room. he handed you your bag, setting his down on the ground. he took the keycards out of his pocket and unlocked the door. he held it open for you. 

you thanked him and excitedly rushed in, grinning at the room. “it's so nice!” you exclaimed. “are you sure you don't want me to pay for half of it? i’m sure it was a lot of money for two-” your grin dropped, brows furrowing. “one bed?” you asked, turning to him.

“uh, yeah.” he rubbed the back of his neck. “hope it’s alright. i asked you so late, you know?”

you cheeks tinted a light pink. “yeah, of course! that's alright.” you smiled softly, setting your bag down by the left side of the bed. “well, i-i’ll take this side! closer to the window.”

he chuckled. “you deserve it.” he set his bag down by the right side of the bed after closing the door. “you sure it's alright?” he asked. 

you nodded at him. “of course.” you said, getting some things out of your bag. “i’m gonna shower quick.”

“i’ll be here.” he collapsed onto the bed with a groan.

you got into the bathroom, closing the door. then you lean against it with a small sigh. it was fine. the bed was huge. you had nothing to worry about. plus, suna wasn’t that type of guy. he was one of your best friends. you could trust him. 

but could you trust yourself? you did have a crush on him. what if it was like all the books? what if being in bed together made you confess? no, that was crazy. this wasn't a book. you were fine.

after relaxing yourself, you took a quick shower, coming out perfectly refreshed and relaxed. you collapsed in bed next to him, sighing dramatically. “feel good?” he laughed. you nodded. he got up, after nudging you to the side a bit and making you huff, grabbing his things. “i’m gonna shower. don't miss me too much.” he winked at you.

you scoffed at him. “excuse me?” he grinned, going to the bathroom. you rolled your eyes and decided to scroll on your phone while you waited for him. you adjusted yourself on the bed to make sure there would be enough space between the two of you.

suna came out of the bathroom, refreshed and… shirtless?! he sighed, running a hand through his hair and getting in bed next to you. “bed time.” he smiled. your face was pink. “you okay? too hot?” he asked. 

“no! i’m perfect.” you smiled, turning the lamp by your side of the bed off. “can you get that lamp?” you asked. he nodded, turning it off. then he turned towards you, yawning. you didn't know whether it would be better to turn towards him or away from him.

you didn't realize your breathing picked up. “y/n?” he asked, his hand taking yours. you looked at him. he was so close to you. “what's wrong?” you looked in his eyes before yours flicked to his lips for half a second. ever observant, suna raised a brow. “do i… make you nervous?” he asked, that same smirk growing on his face. 

“of course not.” you laughed nervously.

he chuckled, leaning just a bit closer to you. “so this is okay then?” you nodded, because you knew if you spoke the words wouldn't come out right. “verbal confirmation please, pretty girl.” you huffed at him, making him laugh. “what? you're cute when you're flustered.”

“suna.” you whined. his hand started moving slowly up your arm, making you shiver. it finally stopped at your cheek.

“you a good kisser?” he asked. 

your jaw dropped. “are you serious?”

he laughed, leaning his head back. “sorry, sorry.” he looked back at you and chuckled. “god, you're so cute. come here.” he leaned closer to you, finally pressing your lips together. you leaned into the kiss, feeling his hand move back down to hold your waist. you let him pull you against him, and then on top of him.

before the kiss ended you were on his lap. “suna.” you pulled away. “wait. maybe we shouldn't. it’d just be awkward for us, you know?”

he rolled his eyes. “you think i don’t have any class?” he asked, both hands on your waist, thumbs gently caressing you. “you don’t know if i had a candlelight dinner planned tomorrow.” he joked. you laughed and rolled your eyes. 

“be serious.” you said, giving him a stern look.

he cleared his face. “go on a date with me. after tsumu’s game.” 

you smiled. “you drive a hard bargain.” you joked, leaning down to kiss him softly. he grinned against your lips, somehow pulling you closer. your lips moved together so naturally. the two of you just felt so right, and you couldn’t have been happier about it.

a/n ⋆ this was so fun to write i need to write more suna tbh. i hope this is everything u hoped it would be !!!! much love @keijicentric <3

m.list

previous work (stardew marriage) | next work

[nuetralizedevangelist]

❝watching the world from the sidelines.❞ || tom blyth x actress!reader

| request - what about sidelines by phoebe bridgers with tom? i feel like that could be really cute. thank you!

| A/N - i love phoebe so much i can't believe i didn't think of this.

| WARNINGS - eating, heat, tom being a cutie patootie, a m*n serenading you, cringey fluff and an overuse of lyrics,

i'm not afraid of anything at all. not dying in a fire, not being broke again.

your head was lying comfortably on the pillow that you call your boyfriend. he was currently reading 'call me by your name' to you and you hung up to every syllable that slipped past his lips. his eyes transfixed on the page while yours were wandering across his face, memorizing every feature you loved so dearly.

"why are you looking at me like that?" his voice didn't even register as his until you saw him look down at you. "like what?" you retort back to him, playing the innocent role. "like you're obsessed with me or something." he teasingly says as he smiles at you. you turn your head away from his and towards the trees and people walking in the park. "i can't even look at you right now, i'm ignoring you." you reply holding your hand up in the air blocking his view of you.

he chuckles and pushes your hand down. "you're so dramatic" he whispers while passing his hand over your hair, smoothing it out. you smile softly and soak in the moment.

had nothing to prove til' you came into my life. gave me something to lose.

"can you believe rachel chose us to dogsit lenny? i feel so honored." tom says as the dog tugs on the leash, clearly giving tom some trouble. you stifle your laugh at the dog pulling him across the sidewalk.

your sat on your sofa with lenny tucked gently in your arms as you both watch the movie you put on. well you're watching the movie, he's staring at tom on the other side of the sofa typing emails. you look from the dog to tom, and then back to lenny. "i'm getting the vibe that he isn't your biggest fan, tom. he's literally looking at you like you killed his family." you manage to squeeze out in between laughs.

i'm not afraid of getting older. used to fetishize myself now i'm talking to my house plants.

the watering can felt heavy in your hand as you watered the collection of flowers and herbs you grew indoors. “you’re looking so pretty these days.” you whispered to your basil plant. “you’re gonna make my tomato soup so good.” the praises to your plants kept pouring out as you watered them. tom leaned the kitchen doorway and watched you talk to your plants. these small moments remind him in all the way he loves you, and you just make him laugh.

not of being alone in a room full of people, watching the world from the sidelines.

you loved watching tom being in his element, and this was it. a movie premiere where he’s being bombarded with questions and interviews. you’ll stand off to the side and watch him answer the same question for the hundredth time, and it’ll never get old. on the rare occasion someone would ask you something, you’d just look to tom in hopes he’d answer for you. he’s telling the interviewer his favorite snack to have on set, but you’re looking at him as if he’s explaining the secrets of the universe.

your hand is wrapped around his bicep as you walk together and he’s telling you the easter eggs hidden in the movie. you nod and smile but haven’t heard a single thing he’s said, he’s just so adorable talking about his work. you haven’t had a lonely moment since the day you met tom, and you wouldn’t change a single thing.

[salmsilly]

Van der Linde Gang 🍃 Headcanons

This is with modern era in mind btw

Arthur

Did it when he was younger but grew to prefer alcohol and only really does that.

John

Either the plug or leeches off of other people.

Like he just never has his own stuff, he's only smoking if someone will invite him.

He's cool enough that people don't mind but sometimes if no one has invited him he will "very stubly" try to suggest a session.

That's the only time people will get annoyed, they know damn well he's not bringing shit

He's always watching some show high too. Smiling Friends, Midnight Gospel, or Gumball

Javier

The plug, 100%

Super generous with his stuff, it's his way of bonding

Gets so excited to find out someone wants to smoke for the first time

"Oh, I got you! I'm off this weekend, you gotta smoke with me."

Has a bong collection too, it's pretty cool and he loves it.

Charles

He'll do it occasionally, like once in a blue moon really.

Does it more with Arthur if anything.

Great for a chill smoke, or if someone's freaking out and they need someone just there, they're always with Charles.

Charles will let it happen, even if they're a little noisy because he's been there unfortunately.

Mary-Beth

Did edibles once but she took wayyy more than she should've and greened out the fuck out

Figured, a bit later, a bong might be better and easier to measure so she asked to hit one of Javier's bongs.

Greened out after one hit. (This is me projecting) Decided that was wraps and she's never done anything since.

Swanson

God, everyone just wants him to switch to weed like everyone but it's been unsuccessful

It's because his tolerance is very high and they don't know why

Dutch tried to get him shrooms after reading about them but it ended in a very very heavy hospital bill and trouble with the police

Lenny

His guilty pleasures are reading a fuck ton of stories and experiences about DMT and other kinds of drugs, he's so deep into subreddits and forums.

He never actually takes them too seriously though nor has been tempted to try them.

He doesn't smoke weed too often either, maybe to focus on something.

Sean

God, when is he not stoned.

His car smells so bad.

It's gotten to the point where he'll forget full interactions with people because he was so far gone but has had enough practice to look sober.

So when they bring something up, he'll look at them all funny asking "When was that??"

Dutch wondered if it was amnesia or something until he found the drawer of empty carts. Like, it was a graveyard.

People struggle to tell if he's high or not at times but eventually they figured always.

Tilly

Never does it, has not done it, and with absolutely no interest.

John's offered a couple of times when they were younger but it was always an immediate and stern no.

It isn't that she minds it really, she just doesn't want to.

She has no problem hanging out with the others if they're smoking.

But for the love of God, please do not bring that stench into the house, it will creep up to her room and she won't be able to sleep.

Uncle

He'll try to peer pressure people to do it but, he's so corny about it

He sounds like he belongs in an 80's infomercial against drugs.

"C'monnn, everyone here does it!" and Tilly responds with the nastiest side eye.

He's so much more funnier high though? He gets genuine chuckles and laughs out of people, it might be because they're stoned too.

Goes to his ego a bit though and he tries to be funny again sober but it falls flat so badly it's a bit embarrassing.

But it's Uncle so he's not embarrassed.

Karen

Obviously prefers alcohol way more, its effects last way longer.

She hates having to do constant hits.

She does have her own cart though where she's hitting blinkers that cannot be good for her at out.

Her PR is 30 seconds while making a bet with Sean once. (Yes she threw up.)

Sean is also always asking for a hit of her cart.

Dutch

Opposite of Lenny. Hears stories about trips and thinks it's the most profound, eye opening thing of all time.

If he catches the kids smoking, he'll start babbling on about them and the deeper meaning behind these trips or whatever. Not a single soul cares at all expect for Bill.

Molly will try to listen but she really doesn't gaf.

His big secret though is he tried shrooms himself too but it was a horrendous experience.

He was too far deep into his pro-shroom trips that could never be wrong to take it back and admit not everything was right that he gaslit himself into believing it never happened and it worked.

Hosea is the only one that knows this, he lets Dutch live his delusions.

Hosea

Also, a great person to be with for a first time.

He obviously cannot be smoking anymore so he mainly watches over everyone else and observe whatever they do because they're always doing something

Though, if anyone pisses him off he will make them believe there's things that aren't actually there. Sean is the biggest victim of this.

"Hey, was that your friend you were with just now?" "What friend?" "The one behind you earlier. Tall feller, you must've not seen them."

Abigail

After having Jack, she stopped but she was starting to hate the smell and taste anyways. Blunts are the word offenders in her opinion.

If John tries to kiss her after any sesh she immediately slaps him and tells him to brush his teeth.

She'll take an edible with the girls though, after a lot of convincing and Jack put to sleep for the night.

Pearson

The best cook only when fried, it's a little jarring seeing the difference between his sober dishes.

He's like that "so booommmm tiktok" guy

Always so creative with his stuff and it comes out really good.

Everyone cheers when he decides to smoke a bit

Made edibles as gifts before, more than likely to Sean or Javier.

Sadie

Everyone thinks it'll calm her down from being so aggressive. It does not.

She might be worse actually.

But she's so incredible fun to be around, like every activity the gang decides to do was her idea.

Hosea doesn't do his tricks on her but she never pisses him off anyways.

Kieran

The only one actually doing it medically.

He'll smoke with the rest of the gang too, one of the few times he's comfortable chilling around them. He's just really quiet and never talks.

Anyone else not mentioned I js didn't have anything for them sorry </3

[omgwhatchloe]

modern au: every gang party is pure anarchy, but the aftermath is so much worse.

-javiers asleep…in the bathtub…with water in it…completely clothed.

-someone played sia and now karens in the hospital with two broken legs and a fractured arm because she wanted to “swing from the chandelieeeeer”. had it not been for charles, she wouldve been left there.

-johns all over tiktok and instagram reels for his…”pole dancing”. he made bank though.

-micah chugged a redbull monster protein powder mix and is already out of the house.

-jack is asleep under bills coat on a sofa somewhere.

-bill is surrounded by beer cans in a corner. hes just exhausted from the effort of throwing mr pearson out of the window.

-lenny is wrapped up in an irish flag in the garden, covered in vomit, bloodshot eyes and snoring like hell. the phrase “no balls” has earned him several cuts and bruises, 9 million likes on tiktok, and a deep sense of shame and embarrassment waiting to attack him as soon as hes sober.

-tilly made it back to bed, thanks to mary-beth.

-abigail and molly are both knocked out in dutch’s bed after jumping susan then hiding there.

-reverend brought the real fun (iykyk)

-strauss hjacked the dj booth and played some bangers. it didnt matter the lyrics were in german, everyone still went crazy.

-uncle slept through the entire thing.

-sean is on the floor of mary-beth’s room violently breathing through his mouth as he sleeps because his nose is so stuffed. why? he snorted ‘something’ and then snorted davey’s ashes (lennys fault). he also fell down the stairs, mixed an insane amount of alcohols together, started to flirt with inanimate objects after loosing track of lenny, vomited on everyone and everything, graffitied up the ra on the walls and on trelawny. awful idea considering trelawny owns the hideout.

-dutch and hosea? currently on their way back to their state after arthur got himself arrested 16 hours away.(how arthur. how.)

[bluebirdsfeathers]

You’re real, you’re here with me.

──────･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

Relationship: Lenny Busker X Reader

Summary: slight AU where the events of the first season are just bad dreams Lenny is having after her time at clockworks. You are her ex-girlfriend who she turns to once she is released.

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: mental health, self harm, hurt/comfort, angst, slightly unhealthy relationship, David slander.

A/N: i have started season two but this is mostly inspired by just the first season. Also sorry if this is too angsty.

──────･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

──────･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

It was an unusually chilly night for June, but it made sense with all the rain that had fallen the past few days. Grey and miserable outside with the sun barely being able to break through the clouds. “Raining cats and dogs” Lenny had said on day 3 of being trapped inside. She’d been on edge since returning from clockworks and you knew the lack of sunshine wasn’t helping.

Barely awake, you reached across the bed to try and steel some warmth from her but you couldn't find her. Opening your eyes you saw that Lenny was gone, and a quick glance around the bedroom you shared didn’t answer the question of her whereabouts. You sat up at once, your mind racing with worrying scenarios Lenny could have found herself in.

How long had she been gone? Where had she gone? Had she gone out into the rain? Had she gone to find David? David. You pushed down the feeling of anger that man brought about in you. It was his fault she’d broken up with you, his fault she’d ended up in that place. You knew she cared about him, but he wasn’t going to help her get better. That was your job, and it wasn’t one you took lightly.

Walking out of the bedroom and into the rest of the flat you saw a light on in the kitchen and followed it. You stated to relax a little knowing Lenny was still in the warm and dry. Not that the flat was that warm but there was no way you were going to put the heating this time of year. The cost of living had skyrocketed, and you were barely able to pay rent and now you had an extra mouth to feed. Lenny was in no state to get a job yet. She was worth it though; you loved her deeply and how could you turn her away.

She’d shown up on your doorstep last weekend in just her clockwork patient tracksuit. No coat, no shoes, no belongings, just tears in her eyes and bandaged up wrists. You hadn’t seen her in years she looked healthier, clockworks had done a good job feeding her and getting her sobber, but at the same time she was still broken.

Clockworks hadn’t let you see her; you’d tried but they had a strict rule about only blood relations being about to see patients. You’d written to her, but the lack of response told you she’d never received them, that didn’t stop you from trying to reach her. Over the years you’d sent her hundreds of letters. Some containing her favourite chocolates and sweets just in the hopes she was getting them.

When she finally came home, you held her tighter than you ever had before. Lenny mumbled her apologies into you and promised she’d leave if you still hated her. It broke your heart. You never hated her, even when you argued. There was no way you were going to let her leave you again, no matter how hard things would be, and things were hard.

The flat was small and messy. Tidying up had never been something of importance to either of you. Clutter and rubbish littered the living room, you always told yourself you'd clean up later but later never came. As you rounded the corner to the kitchen you saw Lenny leaning over the sink, still full of dirty plates, with a knife in her hand. Your stomach dropped but you tried to not startle her with your presence.

“Lenny, baby?” You said gently and she quickly dropped the knife the sound of it clattering against the metal sink rang through the otherwise quite room. Lenny sharply turned around to face you.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” She yelled. Her manic eyes met your worried gaze, and she turned back around. “I’m sorry… I wasn’t hurting myself I promise…”

“Let me see?” You closed the gap between the two of you, it wasn’t hard the kitchen wasn’t very big. Lenny reluctantly let you look at her arms. Her older scars were faded but still there, her newer ones had started to heal and thankfully there were no fresh cuts. “What were you doing with the knife sweetie?”

“I… was scared…” Lenny seemed more twitchy than usual. “Had a bad dream… the bad dream… the one where I…” Tears threatened to fall from Lenny’s eyes as she tried to explain. She told you about the bad dreams she’d been having but never went into any detail. You knew they had to be pretty bad. She’d often wake up in the middle of the night screaming. Punching and kicking anything that touched her in her first few seconds of consciousness. You’d unfortunately been caught in the crossfire of her spurts of violence a few times and couldn’t deny the uneasy feeling her going for a knife had given you.

Lenny refused to talk about her years at clockworks, she just wanted to act like it had never happened. To pick up where the two of you had left off and act like things were back to normal. However, at night the façade would crumble. Lenny was so scared of something. Something she wouldn’t talk about or something she couldn’t talk about.

You didn’t care about what it was, you just wanted to know so you could help her. All you could do now is the same thing you did every time. Hold her close and rub circles on her back till she was ready to go back to bed. Lenny nuzzled her face into you, her arms limp by her sides as you gently rock her side to side.

“David called him the yellow eyed demon…” Lenny mumbled into you. At the mention of his name you froze, pushing away from her to look at her face. She was still crying, her chest shaking as it rose and fell. “I see him too… he makes me do things like give me memories that aren’t mine, they can’t be… I died… David killed me…” Lenny began to panic, pushing you away with more force than necessary. “I’m sorry… I’ll go… you don’t need this.” She hurried out the kitchen and towards the living room.

“Sweet no.” Without missing a beat you hurried to the front door blocking Lenny from leaving. “I can’t let you leave in this state you’ll hurt yourself.”

“But all I do is hurt you,” she continued to cry, “in my dreams all I do is hurt people… I’m a monster.” Lenny fought to get past you but despite her efforts it was nothing more than a weak struggle. The lack of sleep and refusing to eat had left her with little strength. Giving up she let her body fall to the ground before curling up in a tight ball. “Just let me go!” She yelled repeatedly smacking her head with her fist.

“Lenny it’s okay, I’ve got you,” sinking down to your knees as you shushed her, gently holding her wrists to stop her hitting, “you're very brave tell me about your dream sweetie, I love you.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“I know sweetie that’s why I’m here to help you.” You stroke her hair, brushing it from her wet face. “Your dreams aren’t real. This is real, me here with you.”

“I don’t feel real.”

“I know sweetie, but you are. I promise you are. You’re real, you’re here with me.” Leaning down you plant a kiss on Lenny’s forehead. This was still the beginning of her healing journey, and you knew it would get worse before it got better. There was a chance she might never get better but there was no way you’d give up on her. No matter how hard things got.

[weirdgenetic-fuckup]

Okay so it's Christmas and 80s!Jason and fem!reader are roommates and both of them are too broke to go back home for the holidays so they just spend them together and the Christmas spirit brings them closer (fluff,smut)

❤️💚❤️💚❤️

Warnings: smut, fingering (f receiving), if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

He looks so cute in this picture I can’t 🥹

You’d been working overtime to save up to go home to your parents for Christmas but it wasn’t enough and you were stuck at home in your stupid apartment for Christmas.

You were exhausted after another long day, shoulders slumping and barely able to keep your eyes open as you fumbled with the key in the lock.

You opened the door to find your roommate, Jason, using the couch as a stepping stool to hang lights from the ceiling. He moved it across the room to do so and stumbled when he heard the door open so you got to watch him flail about trying to regain his balance on the once plush cushions.

You walked in and dropped your bag, looking around curiously at all his work. Boxes covered the floor, old beaten up boxes carrying decorations that had seen better days. In the corner was a scrawny little tree, it was full but it was literally half your size.

“What..?” You didn’t even need to finish your sentence. Jason came down from the couch and walked over to you.

“I know you were trying to get home to your family this Christmas and you couldn’t, right?” You nodded at his recap, still looking over his work. “Well, I couldn’t make it either, so I brought Christmas to you!” He said happily, smiling brightly.

You nodded in understanding, picked up your bag, and brought it with you to your room. Jason watched you go, smile fading. He couldn’t blame you for still being upset, this wasn’t exactly Christmas with your family, he got the cheapest tree he could find and stole decorations from storage in the basement, ones he figured no one would care if they suddenly went missing.

Jason went and finished up hanging lights around the ceiling and went to get you to decorate the tree. He knocked on your door before pushing it open and peeking in.

You were sitting on your bed, looking through some old pictures of you with your family, but you looked up when Jason came in.

“You wanna decorate the tree?” He asked hesitantly, turning and stretching his neck to try and get a look at your pictures.

“You got ornaments?” You asked, raising a brow.

“Kind of, guy down the hall was throwing out some broken ones.”

“So, you got us lights don’t light up and ornaments that could cut us.”

Jason chewed his cheek. He went to sit on the edge of your bed next to you, leaning on his arm behind you. He looked over your shoulder at the pictures of your family in your hands.

“We could put those on the tree.” He suggested, taking one from you. A picture of you with your mom and the dog you got for your fourth Christmas.

You thought about the idea before sending him to get his own family photos.

The apartment was warm, the lights that worked sparkled about the room, the ornaments glinted on the tree, framing your carefully placed pictures on the branches.

Jason came to sit beside you from the kitchen, two cups of hot chocolate in his hands. He set them down on the beat up coffee table you found in an alley a few weeks ago. “Feeling the Christmas spirit?”

You stared at the mugs for a moment before shaking your head. “No, I want to be with my family.”

Jason’s eyes flicked between you and the mugs. “I can be your family.” He offered, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you to his side. You rolled your eyes at him. “I’m serious, I’m warm and cuddly, I cook for you, once the band thing works out I’ll be just raking it in.” That got a chuckle out of you.

“Once it works out.” You repeated, looking to the tree in the corner. Close to the top were two pictures, one of you with your family the other of Jason when he was younger, wide smile on his face while he held up a bass, behind him was a Lenny Kilmister poster.

“It’s gonna work out, I’m telling you.” You smiled and looked back up at him, his eyes, his lips… without thinking you closed the gap, pressing your lips to his.

Jason was quick to return the gesture, rubbing your arm. His free hand went to your knee, giving it a gentle squeeze before moving up. “Maybe you just need to relax.” He mumbled against you, moving down your neck.

He undid your belt and fly of your jeans, letting you melt into the cushions of the couch while he rubbed you through your panties.

You wriggled out of your jeans, getting your panties down with them, soft and pink with lace fringe and a little bow. Jason rubbed your clit and slow circles, listening to your heavy breathing in his ear as he nipped at your neck.

A soft gasp left you when he pushed a finger in, curling it just right. He went slow, taking in every noise, every twitch, seeing what you liked and finding a good speed before adding another.

You could already feel yourself getting close, back arching and thighs trembling, body heating up. “Jason,” you started, tugging on his hair to get his attention, as if you weren’t all he was focused on, “tell me- tell me what you want to do.” You mumbled between moans.

“What I want to do?” He repeated, pulling away from your neck to look you in the eye. He kissed your lips. “I just want to make you happy, I want to make you cum and scream and I want you to forget about your family and just be happy with me.” You bit your lip, a whine leaving you. “Can you cum for me, sweetheart?” He asked, kissing you again.

It was perfect timing, your eyes rolled back, your hand fell from his hair. His arms tightened around you and he littered kisses all over your face while you came down from your high.

Jason pulled you onto his lap, getting your jeans on your ankles. “So, I was thinking movies? Get some Christmas pj’s?” You stared at him trying not to laugh at the immediate change.

“Seriously?”

“What? I got hot chocolate, the TV functions, I think.”

[gingerteafairy]

𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 + 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 masterlist

𝐣𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐞: 𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭

Your story with Jonathan began with the classic forbidden cliché: a psychiatrist falling for his patient. You didn't know you were being analyzed since you met him in the lab, but as he took notes on your characteristics, he began to fall for your complexity, your twisted way of being. He constantly showered you with gifts and specific compliments that he knew would get to you, keeping you attached to him. Despite being manipulative, Jonathan is unstable and needy, relying on you far more than you rely on him. He’s clingy, possessive, and jealous, often interrupting your routine just to pull you into a room and inhale your scent, soon convincing you to move into his apartment so he could continue his addiction.

𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐥 𝐥𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐬: 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

Neil is definitely unconventional. You would have a deep and consistent relationship with him for a while, where you were Neil’s first choice to show a new film. Though he was a devoted cinephile, he would never belittle you for your movie choices, even submitting to watching silly mainstream films like Camp Rock, which he affectionately dubbed a "C-rank movie," a typical pun. Though he never formally asked you to be his girlfriend, he would cry in the middle of the night at the thought that one day you might leave him for some hot brainless gym blonde.

𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫: 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝

Miller is quiet, to the point of being terrifying in how mysterious he is, but he notices every tiny detail about you. At some point, you stopped asking him about what he did, and he was grateful for that, comforting you with a “don’t worry, leave the problems to me.” Despite all the pampering and affection, Lenny saw you as a strong woman, someone who couldn't be broken by any jewel, and that was incredibly important to him in order for you to be his. His bodyguards would watch you 24/7, with the exception of the bathroom and dressing up time, which was strictly off-limits.

𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫: 𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝

Vulnerable, almost pathetic in some ways, forced to marry you by his father, the condition to inherit the company being that he would start a family. Being an emotional person, Robert would soon fall in love with you through your time together, learning that not everything could be solved with money. Still, he’d irritate you to no end, giving you $1,000 “to clear your head somewhere.” He would regret it later and buy you something to try to make up for it. Small steps.

𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐧𝐞𝐫: 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝

Jackson Rippner is dominant to the core, naturally drawn to a submissive girl, whether innocent or entirely attracted to that kind of thing. Being with him felt like walking a tightrope, a thrill for someone addicted to adrenaline. Public displays of affection and embarrassing situations in public places were common, as he used his charm to escape countless situations. Yet, inside his sick mind, he felt something human for you, attaching it to some cannibal analogy to not relate to simply love. It was too committed for him.

𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐨: 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥

Raymond keeps track of everything, including friendships, where he keeps track even more due to their frivolous nature. Every encounter is calculated. With you, however, it seemed different—rare moments, of course—and he would dare to spend a few more hours in your company, talking about stress and sharing some human warmth in this messed-up, superficial world.

𝐣𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐜𝐡: 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

Jonathan Breech is a case apart. He would treat you as the reason for his life, as you gave him a reason to live after his father’s death. At times, he would catch himself saying self-deprecating things in front of you, but you would quickly reprimand him. He would be upset if you said anything bad about yourself since he saw you as perfect in every way. After the near-death experience, he would want to live life on the edge with you, getting into situations that were sometimes dangerous. That was the most fun part.

[darlingsfandom]

stalker lenny miller x neighbour younger reader PLEASEE

You got it friend ✨

tw: stalking, stealing, he’s a creepy pervert!

not proofread.

“Hi Mr. Miller!” Rang in his ears making him turn around to see you standing there waving with your mail in your hand.

“Hi sweetheart, how are you?” He gave you a small smile. You walked across the yard in your little slippers since it was early morning.

“Pretty good! Love that we’re having colder morning again.” You smiled at him which made his heart skip a beat. “I wanted to give you your mail last night but you must’ve been asleep.” You had a few pieces of junk mail in your hand. Lenny’s job kept him busy and gone for days at a time so he had asked you to collect it for him.

“Thank you, I can always count on you!” He took the mail out of your hand making sure lightly brush his finger tips against your fingers. To say Lenny enjoyed you was an understatement. He watched you, everything you did he knew about it. Lenny had access to you 24/7 and you had no clue about.

“Do you want to come in for some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.” Lenny asked.

“That would be lovely.” He put out his arm for you to loop around. Once he had you inside he couldn’t help but think about how he could just keep you here, but he knew now was now the time. He helped you sit on the stool in front of the island in his kitchen.

“Sugar?” Lenny put a mug in front of you that looked similar to the one you had in your own kitchen. It was a simple red mug with black polka dots, what was even funnier is the fact that his mug had a chip in the handle just like yours!

“Yes please !” You put your hands in your lap as he poured the coffee for you. A small smile appeared on your lips before a quiet “thank you” left your lips. Lenny leaned on the opposite side of the island sipping his own coffee watching how you drank your coffee.

“So anything new ? How’s grandma doing over there? Better ?” Lenny asked.

“Eh nothing new. Grandma is grandma you know. We do our afternoon walks, she still does her bird watching from the porch but you won’t believe this… we went for the early bird special last week and she got flirty with another old man!” You giggled making Lenny laugh with you.

“Grandma still has it going on eh?” He laughed before the both of you made that face that said “ew” .

“Well at least one of us does.” You sighed into your coffee.

“Oh please, you’re beautiful Y/N, you could get anyone you wanted. You’re also smart, caring, funny and a very polite young lady.” Lenny spoke up making you stiffen as he moved closer with each word.

“Oh! Umm thank you… for everything , I gotta get going.” You jumped off your stool and quickly made your way back into your shared home with your grandma. Lenny watched carefully how you went back inside. He knew what he was doing. He didn’t care , he found it funny that you didn’t question why he had your coffee cup in his home, you didn’t notice that he had picked flowers out of your garden and put them in his kitchen.

That moment in the kitchen played in his head over and over as the days passed. You still smiled and waved at him when you crossed paths that you knew of. Lenny had taken some time off work to relax after his last mission with Anna or so he told his boss but it meant he could watch you more. He’d do normal things like take out his trash, check the mail, went for runs shortly after or shortly before you’d go on your walks, he’d even take up bird watching or so everyone thought! Why else would he have binoculars ?

It was the night you had just taken your grandma over to stay at her friends house because even in your eighties you still stay with your friends and to be fair she was just around the corner and Lenny caught out to this. He watched you pull into the driveway, lock the car and settle in for the night. He always thanked his lucky stars that his bedroom faced your bedroom window, well it was your grandmas storage room until you moved in with her to help her out seven months ago also known as when Lenny started stalking you.

You were mindlessly undressing in your room, tossing the dirty clothes into your hamper and walking into the bathroom to shower . Lenny had about twenty minutes to spare before you’d be done. He toyed with the idea for about thirty seconds before he was walking over to your home. The extra key was under the painted rock , of course he knew that! He let himself in quietly tip toeing along the carpet towards the stairs that for his sake were also carpeted , but he was still going to be smart about it.

The running water filled his ears when he passed your bedroom. He had to be quick , Lenny snuck into your bedroom and went straight for the hamper to steal another pair of your panties. He couldn’t take the ones you just had, that would be too obvious so he dug until he found an emerald colored pair and quickly ran off after making sure nothing else looked different. Once he was back downstairs Lenny took a deep inhale of your panties before he looked around your living room to see you had a magazine spread open , he arched an eyebrow and grabbed that too. It was a porn magazine but he didn’t care! It had your scent on it. The water had turned off and that was his signal to leave so he did, put the key back where it was and made his way back to his own house to his room and looked to see you standing there drying off completely clueless that he was just in there.

You finished drying off and turned to face to the window completely unaware that Lenny was watching you. You grabbed the lotion , put some in your hands and rubbed it slowly onto your tits which Lenny rubbed his dick through his pants watching you do your nighttime routine. He didn’t care that he watched you , stole your stuff or sent you some gifts. He sent you flowers at home and work, but the funny thing is… you never told him where you work just what you did! Lenny also sent little stuffed animals and he could tell you liked those because he seen them sitting on your dresser and what is even funnier is that he put a little bit of his cologne on the toys, so how you never made the connection ? You were as naive as he hoped.

Watching you day after day, week after week, month after month , Lenny was more than invested in you. He loved you. The gifts kept on coming, but he was careful not to send the same type of flowers or chocolates. He would watch from his kitchen window in the mornings to see you grab the paper from the porch and hoped you were in a tank top but it didn’t always happen.

“Mr. miller !” You waved at him with that same pretty smile he’s grown to love.

“Hello Y/N! How are you?” He asked throwing his trash into the trash can just like what were you doing.

“Good good, hey I know this is a long shot but have you seen anyone around ?”

“You’ll have to explain a little more my dear.” Lenny raised an eyebrow.

“Well you see I’ve been having these gifts dropped off on my porch and I just… I’m confused. There’s no notes or anything just a vase of pretty flowers!” You crossed your arms before looking at him with a sigh.

“I wish I had an answer for you dear but you know I’m not always home and when I do get home it’s pretty late, anyone crazy enough to deliver flowers that late.. “

“Yeah you’re right but it’s just strange because it’s always my favorite things like they’ve studied my brain or something.” A dry laugh left your lips .

“Maybe an ex lover ?” He shrugged .

“No no, haven’t had a boyfriend or girlfriend since high school! Hard to date these days.” You scratched your head before shrugging.

“Tell you what, I’ll keep my eyes open from now on and if I see anything I’ll tell you soon as I see it.” Lenny gave you smile that made you smile back before saying goodnight and heading back in. He had to run back in and double check the order for the newest gift he had.

His collection of you had grown full of your panties, magazines, only two coffee cups because those were too big to play off, some of your chapsticks, he even bought the same lotion you used on your boobs so he could have your scent on his hands at all times. You were his! But only he knew that and he liked it that way for now!

[dazednstoned]

Modern Rdr2 hcs:

-Abigail dresses like it's the 2000s (I'm talking miniskirts, low rise jeans, heeled flip flops w the fucking sparkles). She will never change too.

-Charles and Arthur go on dates to those adoption events to pet all the dogs and cats

-the whole gang frequently gathers for family bbqs. Every time someone ends up getting punched, passing out, or storming off

-Abigail puts Jack on one of those backpack leashes for kids (John too if we're being honest)

-Tilly, Karen, and Marybeth do full goodwill, garage sale, and vintage market days. They do not mess around either

-the only thing hosea knows how to do on his phone is play chess

-Sean still can't read in modern time

-john plays guitar and writes really horrible love songs for Abigail

-Javier and john r for sure in a band together, they're pretty good when they sing the songs Javier wrote

-Lenny and Sean co-parent an extremely neglected widgetable

-Arthur listens to facebook reels on full volume in public w no shame. Isaac is mortified every time

-john has various tattoos, half of them are god awful. He definitely got Abigail's name or initials tattooed somewhere and she was livid

-Karen gives herself piercings with a really shitty piercing gun

-arthur and John work together in construction, an auto shop, or in the equestrian field.

-Dutch has a very rigid and lengthy skincare routine

-john uses 2 in 1 shampoo and conditioner, but he says it's 3 in 1 bc it also counts as bodywash

-Tilly is the only one of her family to graduate college (Arthur dropped out of hs when Eliza got pregnant and john never went)

-Hosea is one of those old people you just see walking around the neighborhood at like 8am

-john and Arthur don't wear sunscreen or put on lotion. Abigail sometimes manages to force some sunscreen on John's face before he goes to work tho

-bill refuses to go to gay bars but uses Grindr

-Abigail cuts John and Jack's hair bc she refuses to pay for something she thinks she can do herself (she cannot do it herself)

-Kieran is a hair braiding god. I'm talking French braids, fish tails, you name it.

-john owns a really shitty pick up truck. Jack was either conceived or birthed in the backseat of it (maybe both)

-Sean falls for those free iPhone scams every time

-the only videogame charles plays is stardew valley. He thought it would be relaxing, it wasn't.

-Tilly and Mary Beth are in a book club together

-Abigail is the type of parent to not let her kid play w nerf guns or watch pg13 movies (John is the exact opposite)

-Sadie spends her weekends at rage rooms

-everyone's fridges are covered in drawings Jack made for them

-John, Javier, and Sean game together. Violence always ensues

-dutch does not tip waiters

-john tried to play catch w Jack once and ended up getting hit in the groin by a baseball. He didn't know 4 yr olds could throw that hard

-Abigail and Karen (& sometimes Charles) drink cheap wine together every Sunday and discuss the dumb things their boyfriends did that week

-Lenny and Hosea do the wordle everyday

-Jack is in little league soccer. John sits back drinking a beer as Abigail shouts at the referee

-Abigail got a tramp stamp of a little bow when she was 17 (she regrets it)

-Hosea exclusively sends emails

-Abigail hides John's weed socks bc she doesn't want Jack to see and "fall into a life of drugs" when he's older

-Arthur is a hiking dad through and through. While John is a sit on the couch drinking a beer w his kid in his lap kinda dad

-uncle is the old drunk that lived in the same trailer park as Abigail and John did when Jack was a baby. He kinda just stuck around after

-Miss Molly O'Shea would be a makeup god and u cannot convince me otherwise

I might do a pt 2 late in the future!

[theres-a-body-here]

Scumtober - Day 13 (Touch Starved)

Bill Williamson x Male!reader

"Get… off…me you… sonuvabitch…" Bill wheezed, writhing beneath the man choking him. Clawing at the strong arms cutting off his windpipe, he tried to gain some leverage to throw off the stranger.

The man on top of him snarled, eyes blazing with anger. Spit flew from his lips as he tightened his grip on Bill's neck.

The score was meant to be simple: clean out the old cabin Sean had scopped out a day before, grab whatever supplies they could find, and leave. The last thing Bill expected to encounter was an O'Driscoll thug waiting to get the jump on him.

Struggling against the thick hands squeezing his throat, Bill kicked wildly beneath the man pinning him down, desperate to shake free and get enough air back into his lungs.

A sudden gunshot rang through the cabin, stopping the struggle as quickly as it started.

Bill gasped for air, coughing as the weight of the dead man collapsed onto him. As soon as his airway opened up again, he shoved the corpse away forcefully, crawling backwards until he hit the far wall.

Glaring at the body lying in front of him, Bill rubbed at his bruised neck, wincing slightly at the pain caused by the throttling. He swallowed hard, still catching his breath, eyes bloodshot as adrenaline surged through him.

"Bill?" a voice called out in a hushed shout.

As Bill turned to look towards the source of the voice, his vision swaming, the room spinning slightly. It took a moment for his gaze to land on you crouching near the door, scanning the room with your revolver raised.

The relief washing over him upon seeing your familiar form sent his shoulders sagging, dropping the tension inside him just a fraction.

"He was…the only one here," Bill managed to croak out, massaging his tender throat.

"You took too long exploring the cabin so I came. Thank God I did," you say, standing to approach Bill while holstering your weapon. Offering a steadying hand, you helped him rise up from the floor onto a nearby chair with care.

Taking a deep breath, Bill let himself relax further as the blood flowed freely to his head, the dizziness beginning to dissipate.

Before Bill could say thanks, he suddenly felt your hand gently cradle his chin. He stiffened instinctively, eyes widening a touch as you guided his head upward with gentle pressure from your thumb.

The warmth of your skin pressed against his jaw sent a strange sensation coursing through him.

Eyes lowered bashfully, Bill couldn't help but feel his own cheeks growing warm under your gaze; unable to bring himself to meet your intense stare directly, opting instead to fixate on a spot somewhere along your shoulder.

"He really got you good," you muttered as you examined his raw skin.

"Uh…" he began nervously, clearing his throat quietly as he shifted his posture slightly, closing then unclosing his legs unconsciously, fingers tapping anxiously against his leg.

"I should've known something was off sooner," you whisper, your hand now cupping his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"It isn't…It isn't your fault," Bill stammered softly, shaking his head slightly in protest. 

You retracted your hand slowly, leaving behind a lingering warmth where your palm had been resting. "We should get going. Dutch'll probably have a fit if we come back empty handed and late," you sigh.

Forcing back a whimper, Bill did his best to keep his disappointment hidden. "Yeah…yeah, you're right," he agreed, swallowing hard as he pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. "Let's go." He added firmly, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest.

The ride back to camp passed in silence, only the sound of clomping hooves against the dirt road and the distant birdsong echoing through the trees.

You wave to Lenny as you enter camp, guiding your horse to the makeshift posts with Bill following behind. Bill opens his mouth to say something...anything, but his mouth dries up. He watches as you hop off your horse and tie it securely. With his head slightly down, he does the same. Before he could head off and drink himself to death, your hand grabs his arm to stop him.

"You need to rest," you said softly, pulling him gently by the arm towards his bedroll setup.

"Nah, I'm fine," he protested weakly, "Just wanna…get a drink…"

Despite his words, Bill makes no effort to pull his arm away from you.

"Please…" you insisted, tugging him along. "At least let me put some ointment on those bruises."

At the mention of your hands on him again, Bill felt a phantom hand pressing against his face, engulfing his head in warmth. He wanted to feel the way he did at the cabin again. He wanted to be touched...by you.

"Alright, alright. Fine."

Scumtober 2024 Masterlist

[omgwhatchloe]

STUPID MODERN AU HEADCANONS ALERT

-they all have one hideout they stay at after too many of their apartments kept getting raided. its…its chaotic sometimes.

-bill snores so fucking loud and sleeps on the sofas. he DOES have a bed, he just ‘rests’ his eyes during whatever he’s watching, spreads out and snores like hell. its the most infuriating thing, and arthur does not hold back when beating him with a pillow.

-however if it was lenny or one of the girls who’d fallen asleep on the sofa, lets just say hes sneaking back into the house after late night adventures, and he finds them, arthur would absolutely cover them with a blanket or even carry them to bed depending on how tired he was.

-the men of the gang have differing opinions on drugs, strippers, etc. some will absolutely spend their money on that, others will never even consider it. you gotta remember, this is a gang and theyre criminals.

-movie nights are very random as theyre all constantly in and out, doing this and that, but it is nice when a group of them can settle down and watch something. but you know theyre getting interrupted constantly, because lenny thinks that doesnt make sense and johns hungry and sean thinks theyre hot and tilly cant decide if she wants some of the blanket or not and micah’s just walked in and decided the whole ordeal is very gay etc etc

-STREET RACING. sean, lenny, arthur, john, javier, karen, sadie, even abigail all love it, and it miiiight just be one of hosea’s guilty pleasures.

-leopold strauss does not like dutch’s music. imagine, theyre coming back from a job and he rides with dutch and hosea, who plays ‘old classics’ because dutch thinks thats what theyre into. cut to strauss staring longingly out of the window, watching arthurs car with the roof down and pitbull up. he is a very unhappy old man in that moment. he does NOT WANT to listen to big iron, HE WANTS TIMBER!!

-booktok is lenny’s biggest opp. he likes the classics and to wander around bookshops (sean trailing behind him and picking up random books on weeds and fitness to offer him because he doesnt actually know what theyre about) looking for his own books to read and get his own opinion on.

-sean can read, but does struggle with dyslexia and still dislikes books for this reason. he doesnt mind being read too, but feels overwhelmed and gets upset with himself when actually attempting to read.

-mary-beth loves to watch tv in her room only to fall asleep with it on, causing susan to poke her head around the door and yell at her to turn it off at like 3am. but trust me, the girls seen everything. every dating show, reality show, drama, documentary, she has seen it! she also has teddys/stuffed animals!!

-john never grew out of enjoying sleepovers, but thankfully neither did javier. they’d always get drunk and high together, do dumb shit, snuggle only to deny they did in the morning, and get yelled at to shut up. of course, john’d eventually get to have a sleepover every night with abigail, but he feels like its just not the same…

-charles WILL go to sleep in your car and you cant stop him. arthur finds it cute tho.

-the cupboards do not have snacks because everyone is too possessive over what they want and just keep it in their rooms.

-a lot of the time only a few people are having stew, since the rest are off getting fast food or just not eating.

-sean misses ireland so much, homesickness is a big problem for him (to the point he may actually be sick from upsetting himself so much) and he wishes him and his da never had to leave donegal. though obviously he struggles with booking flights and decides to just not do it instead of asking for help. for a perfect birthday present, lenny booked a trip for them!!

-seans da is not dead!! though he lives quite far from where the gang are staying (different state, not back in ireland) and sean misses him more than he likes to admit. the little irishboy loves to sit in his da’s house with a cup of tea, stealing all the biscuits and yapping on. he used to like to bring lenny too, when they were closer (in distance, not relationship)and his da decided he liked lenny more than sean, joking ofc.

[toasttt11]

friends

November 31, 2021

Allison stretched out from where she has been sitting on the floor her back leaning against the couch. Ryan was sprawled on the couch behind her, Zeev sitting in the corner of the couch, Gabe sitting on the floor next to her and Will curled up on the chair next to the couch.

They have all been working on school work together at Allison’s house since the morning when Ryan and Will came over and now it was past noon.

Allison groaned and shut her computer, she was finished for school for the day and she could not do anymore today.

“Oh thank god.” Ryan immediately shut his computer once he saw Allison shut her’s, “I’m done.” Ryan groaned throwing his arm over his face.

“My brain is melted.“ Zeev grumbled tiredly as he closed his own computer and buried his face in a pillow.

Will and Gabe both eventually closed their computers too and the living room was just silent, all of them mentally exhausted after the school work they just did that day.

“You know what we need?” Ryan perked up at his own idea as he was lying on his back on the couch with his head handing off the edge and he looked over at Allison who was sitting near him.

“Coffee!” Allison immediately knew what he was thinking of, “Yes yes.” Allison quickly nodded, coffee fixes everything but especially fixes everything after a long school day.

“Coffeeeee.” Ryan immediately looked excited at the idea making Will snort to himself seeing how happy the grumpy two in the friend group get just thinking about coffee.

“Gaboooooo!” Ryan sung out looking teasingly as he looked over at Gabe.

Gabe groaned immediately shaking his head knowing what Ryan and Allison want, “No.” Gabe groaned hiding his face in his hands, he didn’t want to move anywhere for a good few hours.

“Willooo!” Allison looked at Will next with a mischievous grin.

“You do know Leno can drive right?” Zeev asked through his own laughs, it wasn’t anything new with Ryan and Allison asking Will or Gabe to drive them to get coffee.

“Yeah.” Ryan just shrugged it was more fun bugging Gabe or Will even if he likes driving more, it’s still fun to bug the two.

“Absolutely not.” Will was not getting up.

“Sorry Lenny.” Allison gave Ryan a teasing smirk as Ryan would be driving them now.

“Yeah yeah.” Ryan just stood up cracking his back as Allison stood up too as she pulled her blonde hair into another messy braid.

Ryan and Allison left her house getting into the car Will and Ryan came in and they drove to the closest coffee shop.

They got back into the car after going inside to get this coffee and drinks for everyone else and Ryan and Allison both let out a happy sighs as they drank their coffees.

Allison carried the tray into the house and handed each boy their drinks and noticed they had put a movie on when Ryan and her was gone and she plopped onto the couch next to Zeev.

Allison gave Zeev a look as he used her shoulder as a pillow but she didn’t push him off making him grin and get more comfortable sipping on his lemonade.

The group of five ended up watching the rest of the movie before they all had to get up for practice, Allison headed to her bedroom to change real quick.

She came out of the bathroom seeing all four boys chilling in her room and shook her head not even surprised they followed her.

Allison froze seeing Will holding her goose stuff animal in his hands, he was holding it gently.

“It’s so cute.” Will said honestly loping at the goose softly seeing the little red hat and pink polka dot scarf on the goose, it looked old but well kept and exactly how he knew Allison would take care of her sentimental things.

Ryan had plopped on her bed when they came in and a goose came out from under her pile of pillows and he gently picked it up and Will took it from him.

Gabe and Zeev didn’t seem surprised to see the stuff animal as they have seen glimpses of it in her room and Zeev has seen it a few times on road games.

Allison’s shoulders lost some tension at Will’s words, “Yeah.” Allison mumbled in reply, she still felt a bit uncomfortable with them seeing something so important to her.

“Who gave it to you?“ Ryan asked her curiously, he gently touched the goose softly.

Allison shifted on her feet before slowly answering, “My brothers when i was born.”

“Wait is this why your called Goose?” Zeev realized and looked at her for an answer.

“Mhm.” Allison softly nodded, she relaxed a bit seeing just how gently Will was holding her goose as he softly handed it to Ryan to hold next.

“Wait are those handmade?” Gabe asked as he got a closer look of her goose seeing the scarf and little hat.

“Yeah Jack made the hat and Quinn made the scarf.” Allison answered her eyes softening as she looked at the hat and the scarf, she didn’t really change the scarf and hat anymore like she did when she was a kid so she keeps these two on made from her two brothers.

“That’s sick!” Zeev exclaimed being completely genuine.

Allison smiled a bit at his words, all of the boys didn’t give her one weird or judgement look after seeing her goose not that she thought they would but it is nice that they didn’t. They are all really good friends and she’s lucky she has them.

“Thanks.” Allison mumbled and gently took her goose out of Ryan’s hands and gently brushed her finger over her goose’s head before setting the stuff animal on top of her bed and not under the covers.

“Come on we have practice.” Allison gave her boys a look and started walking out of her room.