#that or i have to walk a mile and a half to the bus stop anf then take a bus into town an hour early which is like i guess kinda doable but

[atopvisenyashill]

Since it's summer and hot as fuck what ice cream, smoothie, and popsicle flavors would asoiaf characters like?

first of all yes it IS hot as fuck my god i have to walk like a mile to work (and a mile back obviously) and it always feel like so much longer because i'm walking along a busy street that has NO FUCKING TREES it's hell, there is never any goddamn cloud coverage, i smell so fucking bad by the time I get to work alksjdf

ANYWAYS.

Sansa - obvious answer here is something lemony, I think she'd really like a nice, sweet lemon sorbet

Arya - arya actually also likes lemons, but given she's younger and also Siblings Don't Like Copying Each Other, i think she'd like orange creamsicle stuff. like you know that new wendy's frosty? i think she'd bankrupt ned eating those

Robb - robb is a good boy and he likes rocky road because it's an easy flavor that everyone has no matter where they go but it's also Not A Boring Flavor so he doesn't look like a square

Theon - theon will tell everyone that he really likes pistachio ice cream (because nuts, yes he does always make ball jokes) but in actuality he's a lil instagram girlie and he goes fucking wild for those delicate flower flavored things like lavender, rose, hibiscus, etc, and no one but robb and sansa know

Tyrion - he strikes me as a rum flavor guy, I remember him commenting a lot on the taste of the ales and beers and how he likes them a lil thick, so I bet he'd love a thick rum ice cream smoothie that you gotta go crazy on the straw with

Stannis - he likes french vanilla. sometimes he adds a cherry.

Davos - this is me projecting but since he grew up poor, i'm giving him part of my grandma's life (lmao) where the Local Sweet Shop lets his mom bring home leftovers so he hates most common flavors now bc that was dinner BUT he goes ham on a regional flavor. you know like the superman flavor in the midwest or tiger tail in canada, hokey pokey in i think australia? something like that that's a swirl of three really weird flavors

Shireen - she goes for sundaaaaaes baby, she loves getting funky with it with Patchface. Every time they go in one of those ice cream shops where you can add a million toppings, she loses her mind and spends like $40 for the two of them

Brienne - Butterscotch and she gets so self conscious whenever people are like "isn't that just caramel" NO there's an important flavor difference!

Catelyn - something maple flavored that was really easy to get in the riverlands but because they don't have that sort of tree in the north, it's a rare treat.

[sanguinewolves]

there’s genuinely nothing worse than being a grown man who can’t drive i need to learn to drive. this is Not sustainable

[cahootings]

um not to brag but I just walked a full half mile to a bus stop in under 15 minutes without limping and fairly symmetrical gait 💁🏻‍♀️💁🏻‍♀️💁🏻‍♀️💁🏻‍♀️💁🏻‍♀️💁🏻‍♀️💥💥💥

[tiktaalic]

i used to get beeped all the time. fuckig emergency theres a tornado growling and scratching at the door WATCH OUT !! they would also test the sirens every week? 2 weeks? in the middle of the day. remember how we used to have noises

[kiki-strike]

the metric system is so fucking stupid man ooh i’m 5 feet and 1/16 of an inch tall WHAT. the hell. isn’t it so much nicer to just say 153 cm? why can’t we do that?

[alongtidesoflight]

.

[uwooyoungs]

//

[willowed-wisp]

relationship headcanons [ ghost ]

SFW

- You didn’t know what to expect being set up by your childhood friend Kyle Garrick

- Having an inkling it would be someone he worked with in the ‘parachute regiment’. So you expected 5’11”, stocky build and maybe a Mohawk?

- What you got was 6’4”, unable to tell what build he had because of the hoodies and a mask?

- He scared you to begin with, especially when you heard his voice. And Simon was used to that, that’s why he didn’t date… he couldn’t remember the last time he had sex or even spoke romantically to a woman.

- You thought about walking out on the date, but held in there. Realising maybe he was so awkward around the other people in the pub. “Wanna take a walk?”

- “Think you can keep up?” That was the first confident thing Simon had said that night.

- Maybe walking along the canal wasn’t the best choice but he seemed harmless, not a serial killer… He leant against the railings… his eyes reflected the street lamp, the night a dreary sight.

- You went to start your car, no such luck- like your date. He hadn’t told you one thing about himself… date failed and now your car refused to work with you. Your phone at 1% charge… you couldn’t even call a taxi.

- When you started to walk to the pub, an off-road jet black 4x4 pulled up beside you. It was Simon. “Car trouble?”

- “Yeah…”

- “Get in.” Was it a bad idea to jump into the car of someone you’d only just met and communicated with through Kyle? Yes. Were you in any position to turn down his kindness? No. “I’ll drive ya home…”

- Then the pin dropped, “My house keys are in the car,” A dry laugh came from him- trying to imagine what he looked like under that thing.

- “I can’t leave you on the street…” And that’s what led you straight into the passenger seat. His truck was spotless and surprisingly comfortable, like nobody had ever sat in that spot before you. “You can stay at mine for the night, don’t tell Garrick… he’ll have a field day….”

- “Thanks, but you could just drop me at a bus stop?” Not that you wanted that, not that you wanted anything from the good samaritan at the wheel.

- His head shook, “In this area? No chance, love,” You wondered how long he had travelled to go on this date because he had been driving half an hour before he pulled into a drive. From how he looked around getting out of the car and how high the garden hedge was, you thought it was lucky he hadn’t thrown a bag over your head.

- Not that you’d remember where he had taken you anyway.

- His house was almost barren, not many belongings. “Kitchen is on your left, living room on the right and bathroom is upstairs the first door you see…” He was talking much more than he had in the crowded environment.

- “D’ya have a phone charger? I’ll call Kyle to come get me tomorrow to look at the car…” He just gave you a stare, then you realised. Kyle didn’t live in your area anymore, over a hundred miles away. “Fuck…”

- “I’ll take a look at it in the morning…”

- “You sure? I can pay you fuel money,”

- Long story short, Simon turned down your money. And he kept coming back after he fixed your car, jotting your number down in case it gave you any more trouble.

- He doesn’t take his mask off until you have sex for the first time

- After that he rarely wears it when in private with you

- It’s weird when you have guests over (TF141) and he wears the damned thing

- You make sure you wash the masks every other day and make sure Simon alternates

- Never gets spots from them, either.

- Has tattoos but would never get a matching one with anyone

- He thinks it’s a jinx on any relationship or friendship

- You’re probably his first proper relationship

- Discloses he’s in the SAS when he gets deployed about a year into your relationship

- You never realised how worried sick you’d be until he got through the front door

- Bundles you in his arms, never taking the smell of your hair, perfume and skin for granted again

- Fixes all of your car troubles- he may have gone into mechanics had he had a settled childhood

- Finds it difficult to introduce you to the family, not because of you. Because of the baggage.

- His mother welcomed you but with caution in hand. Until you got talking to her and she just seemed to open up to you.

- She invites you round for dinner every Sunday. It makes Simon smile

- Never worked through his emotional baggage about his dad

- So when the subject of kids is brought up, he shudders

- You don’t press the matter, not with Simon

- He’s stubborn and you seem to be the only one who can change his mind

- Simon doesn’t fall in love easily but when he does, it’s deep and he’s never leaving your side

- Much more of a goofball than other people see- those dad jokes are primed and ready for an occasion

- Not a jealous guy, he knows you’re his…

- He’s more worried about you when he’s away

- It’s like a hole in his heart being away from you and he strives to get out uninjured and alive not to burden you

- Knows that if you can get past his work, you’ll get through anything

NSFW

- Your first time was very spontaneous, two months into you seeing him.

- The back of his car, you couldn’t remember the cause of it but you remember making out in the back of his truck

- Going out into the woodlands to cool off but instead, you were hitched on his hips and fingers dragging across his muscular shoulders.

- Clung to each other while his body rolled into yours, you biting down slightly on his clothes. Instead of purring his into the daylight air.

- It didn’t end there, the back of the truck and back at his.

- Practically never ending until the morning… where you’d lay on his chest. He was stroking through your hair

- Whenever he’s asleep, he recounts those memories and every encounter after that.. just so he can be close to you when away

- Surprisingly gentle- knows he’s a big guy

- Though he’s not without his rugged potential. Prefers not to be too rough

- Has sexual experience but nothing above 5 women and then it wasn’t reoccurring

- Doesn’t have a vice for sex, he loves feeling close to you

- Loves facing you, he loves that intimacy

- He’s quite an intimate guy

- Never wears the mask when you have sex

- If you ask him, he refuses… finds it difficult to open up about work and his experiences

- Closer than anybody else would be able to get, over his dead body

————

cod m.list | request guidelines | ghost m.list

[sepherinaspoppies]

Only If For A Night (i/?)

pairing: Dark! Book Aemond Targaryen x Modern! Reader

summary: In Dia De Los Muertos (Day of the Dead), she gets forcefully transported to Westeros and meets her favorite book character, Aemond 'One Eye'. She asks and begs for his help to send her back home after realizing this was a world she did not want to live in. Unknowingly to her, her favorite fictional man had already grown too attached to fully let her go.

warnings for this part: profanity, tea drugging, blood magic, sexism, I think that's it... more dark stuff later. READER IS LATINA !

wc: 4,027

series masterlist

my masterlist

pt2

notes: originally I was gonna have this fic be a one shot but it is sooo long that I decided to split it into three. this is an introduction part, aemond will be on the next (I'm half way done with that part).

Chapter 1: Only If For A Night

She knows she is screwed when Doña Maribel broke the news to her that the last of the cempasuchiles were completely sold out in her shop. Making it five flower shops in the span of an hour that she walked to have fully run out of the bright orange flowers she needed for her ancestral altar that she and her abuela worked tirelessly on for the past few days. (marigolds, grandmother)

She wonders what to do next or perhaps where to go as she plays with the gravel beneath her shoes. Sure, she could walk another mile or so to another flower shop and try her luck there just as Doña Maribel suggested but she finds herself too tired to venture deeper in her small pueblo by herself. (town)

Even the walk back to her abuela’s was not something she looked forward to as of now. This was the time where she wished she had the ability to drive but alas she could not for even the streets of Mexico were more hectic and nerve wracking than back at the states. (grandmother’s)

She sighs in defeat. The cempasuchiles were the last thing on her abuela’s list of things she required for tonight’s first day of Dia de Los Muertos. The bright orange flowers illuminated the path of those who died, back into the land of the living and enjoy the offerings their family’s set up for them. (Day of the Dead)

Maybe for just tonight she could spare them.  

She sets her three mercado bags beside her as she sits down on a bench right next to a bus stop that could lead her directly to her abuela’s home. The smell of citrus of the lemon tree above her eases her disappointment and feels that this is the perfect spot to reread one of her favorite books. (shopping)

George R. R. Martin’s, Fire and Blood Vol. 1. She wondered what it was like to reside in a world of dragons (before they were all extinct), dire wolves from the North, red priestesses from Volantis, and mysterious yet powerful witches. To live inside the walls of the Red Keep and tour around the secret passageways and to fight for the rightful Queen of Westeros, Rhaenyra and the other members of the Blacks during the Dance of Dragons.  

Sadly, even if it was possible to venture deep into alternate fantasy universes. It all was pure fiction. Not real. Impossible. 

‘And so one-eyed Aemond the Kinslayer took up the iron-and-ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror, “It looks better on me than it ever did on him,” the prince proclaimed.’

“Excuse me, do you happen to know when the bus is due to arrive?” She snaps her head up meeting the most beautiful and enchanting woman she’d ever seen. Eyes round and greener than the trees itself during spring. Hair long and black like ravens in the night sky. She was tall, taller than most of the women here with skin like porcelain that had not seen a day of sun, a rarity here in Mexico. 

It was her mischievous tight lipped smile that made her feel loss of words. Unknowingly, this mysterious woman was the first person who spoke to her in English, not Spanish.

“Umm… I- I’m sorry?” 

The green eyed woman smirked as if she knew the small effect she had on her. Gods she was beautiful. 

“The bus–” 

She shook her head out of her revere, coming to reality. “Oh, I’m not sure. Perhaps a few more minutes.” She informed, pulling her mercado bags closer to her side, allowing the green eyed woman to sit, not wanting to be rude. 

She murmurs a quick thank you as she sits exceedingly close to her, shoulder to shoulder, flesh to flesh with her. Jeez, talk about personal space! However, the woman doesn’t seem to care or acknowledge that she has enough space for her own person. A feeling of uncertainty rests below her gut, telling her to be vigilant around her presence.    

“How long have you waited?” She asks, breaking away the long silence between them. She almost shivers at the intensity hue of her eyes that bore right through her. 

“About ten to twelve minutes.” She replies, looking anywhere else but her. 

A satisfactory look sketched around the woman's youthful yet elderly face which she found odd. What could be so pleasing about the bus not arriving? The woman said nothing, only sitting rather straight, almost elegant in her simple long green dress. Though, in the back of her mind, she wondered if she felt hot underneath the heaviness of the velvet fabric. She sure as hell did.

“Wait, how did you know I spoke english?” She asked as the hairs on her arms stood up straight in some kind of chilling fear. 

The woman’s eyes lowered and centered on the object sitting up on her lap. “Your book gives it away.” She snickered softly, tilting her head reading the bold letters of her very worn book she got at the thrift store for just two dollars. “An interesting read.” The green eyed woman said whilst her face held no sincere fondness of it for someone who found it interesting. 

“You’ve read this before?” She asked curiously, little taken back, that she finally found someone else who read Fire and Blood Vol 1. Or anything by George R. R. Martin. 

“Yes, almost like I've lived through it” 

She opens her mouth to speak but the green eyed woman beats her to it. “I don’t mean to pry but where are you headed?” The smile falls off her face as she remembers the warning of stranger danger she learned as a kid. 

The woman must have noticed the dubious look upon her face as she threw her head back in a laugh. “I ask because it seems a storm is coming our way. And it looks like an angry one.” 

Sure enough, as she looked up the sky had turned into a deep gray with heavy clouds ready to pour any minute. Well this wasn’t forecasted in the noticias this morning, otherwise, she’d carry an umbrella. Or better yet, she wouldn’t have walked all this way if a storm was brewing. (news) 

“My cottage is not very far from here,” the green eyed woman revealed, standing up from the bench, overlooking the seriousness of the clouds. “It is just around the corner. Would you like to come?” 

She wanted to say no, that she was better off walking an hour back to her abuela’s house, even if it meant that she’d catch a cold in the pouring rain with blisters all over her feet. Besides, she did not know anything about this woman. Every bit of her mind screamed stranger danger! Don’t go!

But as she glanced between the heavy clouds and the green eyed woman with her hand extended out, all that doubt and worriment went away. 

“I don’t even know your name,” she pointed out. If all goes bad, at least she had a name to tell the authorities.

“My name is Alyssandra Riveras.” The green eyed woman smiled, bowing at the waist. 

Though still somewhat skeptical, she walks alongside Alyssandra to her cottage. She makes small mental notes in her head, counting the red stop signs, right and left turns and any other landmarks of important significance. 

She was almost positive she could point her way back home. It did not help that five minutes into their journey, it started harshly pouring out of nowhere like a bucket of water had been poured all over, blanketing her vision. 

Alyssandra’s cottage had sat on the outskirts of the pueblo, isolated from all civilization, hidden around tall and green pine trees. A faint voice in the back of her head screamed to run and never look back. She ignored it.

From a close distance, she was able to distinguish a small window with overgrown vines and branches wrapped around the perimeter of the cottage. Bones, bells, and crystal windchimes hung from the roof and windows, mostly likely put up for some kind of spiritual protection. 

She was no stranger to the craft. Although raised catholic, both her mama and abuela had hung an old broom above their doorway to keep away unwanted guests and negative energies as well as pinning the mal de ojo sigil around the walls for the look of evil and envy against their family. (evil eye)

“Cempasuchiles,” she murmured in awe when Alyssandra’s small garden came into view. It was the most of the orange flowers she had ever seen, all bright and lively and huddled together. 

“When the storm is over, you can grab as many as you’d like,” Alyssandra offered, peering over her shoulder, unlocking the door to her cottage. She nods following her inside whilst giving a grateful smile. 

The interior of the cottage was small, meant only for one person to take residence. The same size as what a studio apartment would be back in the states.

In no way was the inside minimal, in fact it was the opposite. Almost all of the walls were covered with shelves with small trinkets adorning inside such as little statues, crystals, herbs and other supplies. 

In the center of the room lay a huge stone like table, old and antique bearing the resemblance of something medieval. And something about it, sent shivers down her spine along with the same faint voice, telling her to run. 

She ignored it, again. 

“Give me your belongings, and change into this,” Alyssandra says, tossing a strappy white chemise. She exchanges her poor-soaked mercado bags that contained pan de muerto, churros, and tamales for her ancestral ofrenda. (bread of the dead, offering)

She turns around to protect her modesty, seeing as there was no other room to change nor did Alyssandra point her to the bathroom, so she lifts the drenched garment over her head and sheds away the last clothing she had on her body, leaving her completely bare in her birthday suit. 

She couldn’t help but to feel Alyssandra’s eyes watching her very intently, examining every inch of her body as if it met her standards or so. She knows she should use her hands to cover up and give Alyssandra a piece of her mind, or better yet introduce her to a knuckle and hand sandwich for the way she was looking too closely.  

Yet her body feels frozen, unable to move under the green eyed woman’s gaze. 

“Would you like some tea to keep you warm?” Alyssandra asked, moseying to the kitchen. 

She blinks, whatever paralyzing feeling she had dispelled away. “Um, yes thank you.” Alyssandra nodded, pulling what looked to be a kettle on the stove. Meanwhile, she slipped on the white chemise in a hurry to not feel as exposed anymore. 

She takes the time to analyze the rest of Alyssandra’s cottage as she hears the droplets of rain hit the rooftop harder and the sound metal being filled with water. Various of the same purple flower plants were placed near the entrance, she notes to herself that these couldn’t possibly be lavender but another species or something within the same family. 

A small cot laid in the corner close by the hearth, with multiple open ancient books and scrolls spread on top of the bedspread. She almost wants to look through the pages and read Alyssandra’s interests but she doubts she could as she observes the handwriting is unreadable from where she stood. 

She walks forward to where the hearth is, feeling slightly warmer as something immediately catches her eye. Above the mantle, hung on the wall was a medium sized portrait of a small boy, appearing no more than three years old. He stood straight, almost regally with his hands behind his back. His face held no gentleness or warmth like a child should have. 

Gods forgive her, but the child looked cruel like the gueritos who bullied her in elementary school when she was just trying to make new friends. (white boys) 

Though, for an evil looking child, he sure was beautiful. The most striking thing about him was his set of eyes. Wide with his left eye a dark violet and his right a dark green similarly to Alyssandra’s. His hair was straight and cut short right below his ears. She looked closer at the portrait, thinking if her eyes deceived her as she noticed the peculiar color of the boy’s hair. 

Silver. 

Curiosity takes the better of her as she asks, “Is that your son?” 

Alyssandra turns, holding two mugs of steaming tea. “Yes, that’s my beautiful little boy,” She places both glasses on the stoned table before she sits adjacent to her. It doesn’t go unnoticed by her the sad look on Alyssandra’s eyes. “He looks like you,” she points out though it’s somewhat of a lie in hopes to lift up Alyssandra’s spirits.

Alyssandra throws her head back in a chortle, “For all my hard work and labor, I had hoped he looked like me but nature loves to play its cruel jokes. He is a replica of his bastard father.” The thought of her son’s father left a sour and disgusting taste in Alyssandra’s mouth. 

Alyssandra focused her attention back to her, “What about you?” She asked, sitting rather too straight. 

“Do you mean if I have kids? Gods, no.” 

Alyssandra smirked, “I take it you don’t like the idea of children. I did not either but after years of solitude, I changed my mind. I had other children before my son, but all of them died before they were due. You, however, are still young. Your mind can still change.” 

She shifted in her seat anxiously, sipping the odd taste of the herbal tea Alyssandra provided. It wasn’t like she did not like children. She respected children and found them quite cute with their little tiny hands and feet and infectious laughs. But besides the point of appearance, children were a tremendous amount of responsibility that she found herself not ready for.

Not now. Not ever. 

She could barely handle taking care of herself. Much less care and provide for a child for eighteen years or so. 

“I don’t—” 

“Oh but you will,” Alyssandra fired back without so much as blinking an eye. 

She grimaced, knowing where this conversation was heading. And it was about to be a not so pretty one. She glanced at the window by the door, the rain was still heavy if not more.

“I thank you for giving me shelter. But I really must go. I was only just supposed to be out for some groceries and my abuela is probably wondering where I am.” Polite and respectful enough just as her mama taught her.

She grabbed her belongings that were hanging by the fire and stuffed them inside her mercado bag. Her hand was on the cusp of prying the door open when Alyssandra rushed to her side, wrapping her hand around her wrist. 

“Wait. Please don’t go.” Alyssandra pleaded, “It’s just that you remind me much about myself. I didn't mean to cause offense, I’m sorry.” 

Run. Say no and run now, While you still can…

There it was again that same paralyzing feeling closing in on her feet, preventing her to move. It was strange like a shield gluing both her legs down. 

She nodded, murmuring ‘fine’ under her breath as Alyssandra slowly led her back to the woven chair with such gentleness as a porcelain doll. “I still need to call my abuela, so she can know I’m alright.” 

Alyssandra twisted her face in a wince, “I’m afraid we’re too far out for any signals to catch a telephone call.” She held back the overweening snicker to herself, it was why Alyssandra chose her cottage to be settled this far out in this very modernized realm; so no one could find her. 

Alyssandra wasn’t lying. No matter how hard she hit her Iphone against her palm or moved it around, there had not been a single signal bar glowing. She wondered if her abuela had started to grow worried and perhaps began to search for her. She hoped she didn’t and that her cousins kept her preoccupied with the rest of the decorations to notice the duration of how long she’d been out. She also wondered if they were still going to the cementerio, to clean and decorate the graves of their loved ones but with the amount of thunder and rain, she’d doubt it was still on the agenda. (cemetery)

Alyssandra prepared some more tea as the fire gradually faltered down. This one had a different taste than the previous one with tiny purple petals floating around. Alyssandra watched very intently as she sipped every last drop while she scarcely touched her own mug.

The green eyed woman began asking her multiple personal questions, mostly about where she was originally from (due to the fact that her vocabulary deemed to be more vehement in English than Spanish), her family, and if she had any siblings. She had answered them all. Letting her know that she was just visiting from the states to celebrate Dia de Los Muertos with her family she had not seen since the death of her sweet abuelo. (grandfather)

Alyssandra’s eyes glimmered even more when she explained how strangely, her very stern and overprotective mama had suddenly let her travel by herself to a country she had never been to in years since she was small. Her mama preferred her to be where she could keep a close eye on her because ‘uno nunca sabe’ especially if you’re a woman. (one never knows)

It was odd, alright. Especially when her mama gave her money that she didn’t have, and enthusiastically wished her good fortune on her travels. Yup odd…

But not to Alyssandra.

Alyssandra sat down after cleaning both mugs ready to ask the hard hitting questions she’d been warming her up to. “Have you ever been with a man?” Her eyes widened before breaking rounds of deep laughter that made the sides of her ribs ache and cramp. 

However, there wasn’t an ounce of amusement displayed on Alyssandra’s face, but rather annoyance. What was so funny? It was a simple and uncomplicated question that meant no harm. At least not to her. He couldn’t harm her any more here. Alyssandra guessed perhaps it was the side effect of the tea making her humoristic. 

“No,” She replied, wiping the humoristic tears at the corner of her eyes. “The opportunity has never presented itself?” Alyssandra asked.

All the humor that previously lingered had gone swiftly away, realizing that Alyssandra was indeed asking something so personal to her. “No,” She shook her head, feeling her face hot and red. “People don’t look at me as someone they want to be with. They’d rather be with someone exciting, adventurous, and outing. And I’m neither of those things. I’m a homebody who’s idea of fun and adventure is living through fictional books.” She answered truthfully, too truthfully. 

Alyssandra watched her face transform into a deeper shade of red. “What is it?” She questioned, taking a hold of her hand, taking in the role of someone empathetic. 

“I want my first time to be special. Like the fairytales I grew up reading about with the grand Prince sweeping the young maiden off her feet and taking her to his castle…” The way her eyes reflected small flashes of light made Alyssandra almost feel guilty for her true intentions once the repercussions of the tea ran out. 

She remembers when she too wished for a dashing knight in shining armor to take her away, far away from the shit she had been through; the pain, the suffering, and the poverty. All of it. As Alyssandra grew well into her womanhood, she realized there was no knight coming to save her. Instead, there was a selfish Prince who spared her for his desires and her many talents beyond the acts of the flesh.  

But Alyssandra needed her to go. She needed that piece that was stolen from her. She didn’t want the risk of going back and facing him again and repeating through the hell and agony he put her through. So sending her for it seemed like the better alternative. 

“I know you probably think it sounds stupid–” She stammered, her face still beet red. 

“I don’t think it sounds stupid,” Alyssandra softly smiled, giving her hand a light squeeze. Judging by the serene look upon her face, it was a good lie that she seemed to believe. 

She smiled. Finally, someone who didn’t think of the idea of waiting for the right person was silly and unrealistic. 

Her smile deterred, sensing something trickle down her nose, dropping against the skin of her hand. 

Blood. Her blood. 

Run! 

“Alyssandra?” She whispered, puzzled at the sight of more blood spilling out of her nose. Every strand of hair in her arms stood, sensing a new type of alertness course right through her. She glanced at a very blurred Alyssandra with what looked to be a smirk written on her face. 

“W-What’s happening?” She stood from the chair, but that soon turned out to be a bad idea as her knees gave out, sending her straight to the stoned cold floor. She glanced up, watching as Alyssandra sauntered in front of her, and as much as she wanted to crawl away her body was glued to the floor. 

“Look,” Alyssandra said, crouching down at her level before she took her in her arms like a newborn baby, weighing little to nothing. “We don’t have much time. When you wake up, I need you to retrieve something of mine…” 

She felt her back collide on top of the stoned table, “What was in that tea?” She questioned but Alyssandra was quick to shush her. “It doesn’t matter now. You drank it all willingly.” There was no argument there. 

Alyssandra pulled out a jar with overflowing cempasuchil petals inside and circled the petals around her. Almost like a ritualistic circle she used to watch the brujas next door do. (witches)

“You need not to be afraid. You will not be harmed as long as you do what I say. Exactly as I say.” She gulped, nodding seeing as she had no other choice. “Bruja.” She spat but Alysssandra only chuckled, “I’ve been called much worse, little dove.” (witch)

Through the corner of her eye, she saw Alyssandra holding out a small knife. “I am in need of a sapphire. It was stolen from me many years ago. It is one of a kind, which is why when you see it you’ll know it is mine.” 

She momentarily shut her eyes as the dark haired woman rapidly cut the middle of her palm spewing her blood on top of the petals. “Once you’re successful, you’ll come back here with the sapphire and gather some of my materials. The marigold petals with your blood coating them; The blood of whom you took the sapphire from and lastly you’ll lay on top of my precious table here to be transported back.” 

There was an evil smile on her lips that she desperately wanted to punch it off. “And if I don’t get the sapphire?” She questioned. 

Alyssandra combed away her unruly braided hair, “Then I won’t bring you back and you’ll be stuck there forever.” 

Fuck. 

“Stuck? Stuck where? Where am I going?” 

Alyssandra clicked her tongue, “A place where fairy tales do not exist, my little dove.” If she wanted a Prince to sweep her off her feet. Alys would gladly give her one. 

She attempted to wiggle herself out of this pendeja’s spell but whatever Alyssandra mixed in the tea it was compelling her body to still and her eyes to slowly falter shut in a peaceful sleep. (dumbass) 

“However I should warn you, this spell is only valid until tomorrow. Until Dia de Los Muertos is over and even if you do achieve in retrieving the sapphire but it is after November second, you'll be permanently trapped with him.” 

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[luveline]

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three 

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Eddie goes home, you’re on tour, and the lines between you both continue to blur.

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Hawkins, Indiana, December 1990

Eddie listens to his walkman until it runs out of juice. Through the flight from California to Indianapolis, the hours-long bus ride that stops just short of Hawkins, and the final connecting bus on the outskirts. Some metalheads listen to strictly metal, but Eddie likes variety occasionally. Plus, he doesn’t think it’s possible to have ears and not love The Rolling Stones’ Some Girls. 

He has one girl on his mind the entire journey home. He tries not to think about you. He makes himself sick shoving you down into a crevice of his heart, so he admits defeat. His fingers twitch, eager to write about you. He has some lyrics in mind. Evil wretched girl with wicked sweet hands. Heart eater. Soft around the edges. 

He wants to write about your stupid chubby thighs and how they look in skirts. He wants to write about your wrists, your knees and their ever-present bruises. Metaphors for your sickly sweetness won’t stick; cruel becomes kind. Taunting turns teasing. 

It feels like it’s eating him alive, spine first. You’re gnawing on his ribs as he hikes the half a mile from the bus stop into Forest Hills trailer park. He can feel your thumb rubbing makeup off of his cheek as he drags his suitcase up the metal steps to Wayne’s —Eddie’s— front door. 

“Wayne?” he calls. It’s pitch fucking dark. He’s surprised he got all the way here without falling in some ditch. “Could you let me in? It’s freezing.”

He hears stirring from inside. He calls out again in case his uncle changes his mind. “Wayne, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s late. Please don’t leave me out here.”

He’s joking. Wayne would sooner shoot Eddie dead than put him in harm's way. He’s always been that kind of parent, hiding his deep rooted worry underneath a feigned reluctance. Footsteps shuffle and floorboards creak. The door opens between them, and Eddie shoves his suitcase and backpack inside without properly looking at his old man. 

“Eddie, what the fuck, kid?”

“Sorry,” Eddie says, looking up. Wayne’s squinting at him. He’s wearing jeans with deep creases. He must’ve been sleeping in them. “I timed it all wrong. Started coming home and I didn’t think about it. I walked here, you know that?”

Wayne hugs him. Eddie isn’t expecting it. It’s not like Wayne isn’t affectionate, he doles out shoulder claps and hair ruffles like candy, but their hugs are usually one-armed back-slapping affairs. This is a loose encircling with a scratchy cheek against Eddie’s forehead. 

“I’ve been worrying about you.”

Guilt sinks like a stone to the bottom of his stomach. Eddie kind of feels like he might puke. He wraps his arms around his uncle and breathes in his smell. Diesel and grease, sure, but so much louder than that is his mint and rosemary soap. 

The weight of Wayne’s arms over Eddie’s shoulders is one of his favourite feelings. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it, but then… maybe he had. 

He wants to tell Wayne there’s no need to worry, but he’s never been good at lying to him. “Think I might have fallen off the wagon, Wayne.”

“Well. Happens to all of us.” He pats Eddie’s back and steps away. He doesn’t look any older than the last time Eddie saw him. In fact, he looks good. Puffy-eyed but healthy. “I thought for sure I’d have to come track you down and drag you back for Christmas myself.”

Eddie locks the door and Wayne shuffles into the kitchen promising coffee and cake. He should protest, tell Wayne he can go back to bed and they’ll catch up in the morning, but he missed the small stuff like this, when he’d get home late from band practice or a midnight premiere of a sci-fi flick and his uncle would be sitting up waiting. 

Eddie loves being home. There’s something to be said about living like the rich —he loves all the high ceilings and endless cushy carpeting— but nothing feels as good as coming home. His room is exactly how he left it minus a few ashtrays and his super unsecret pot stash. The poster wallpaper and the cheap paint. His raggedy bedspread and the corners tucked in haphazardly by tired hands. Eddie resists the want to dive under the covers and slide into the dip in his mattress. He knows every box spring in that fucker, and he missed it. 

Eddie drops his bags at the end of the bed. All the clothes in his suitcase smell like Coors Light, so he changes into rags he left behind, a too-big pair of plaid pyjamas that slip down his hips and a sleeveless Motörhead shirt. Maybe. The emblem is worn to nothing but black lines. 

He follows the smell of coffee through the hallway and into the Munson kitchen, tightening the drawstrings of his pants as he goes, chin tucked to his chest. “I’m losing weight, Wayne, I’m like a fucking twig.”

“Don’t tell me that shit. God knows I taught you how to take care of yourself.”

“I’m stupid. I’m really stupid, actually.”

Wayne whacks the coffee maker. It whirs. “Pick a mug, son.”

“You been cleaning? I don’t wanna look down and see a spider in my cup.”

“Have you been cleaning?” Wayne asks. 

“It’s insane how much I haven’t been cleaning.”

“Some things don’t change.”

“You fucker,” Eddie says, laughing up a storm as he picks out his favourite mug, the Garfield one with a big scratch down the left side. 

“You fucker,” Wayne snaps back. “I should send you packing for the bad language alone.”

“They don’t make you clean your hotel rooms, Wayne, that’s the point of them.”

“I raised you better than that.”

“You did. I keep it classy, I swear, I just,” —Eddie sits down in his chair, watching Wayne stir in milk and sugar just the way he likes it, and feels more than sees as a familiar contentedness like a Gaussian film settles over their easy conversation— “don’t clean up after Gareth. He’s a monster.”

“Do me a favour, Eds. Try and be the best you can be, alright?”

He swallows. He purses his lips. A peculiar lump grows in his throat, but he bites it back and squares himself up. “Yeah. I will.” He thinks about all the parties and powders and girls. He’s never done any cruel shit to anybody and he’s a sweetheart with the ladies, but  there are times when he’d known he was lying before he even said he’d call. He thinks about some of the shit he’s said to you and has to wipe his sweaty palms off on his shirt. 

“I know we didn’t have shit when you were growing up,” Wayne says, not tearful or resentful, just honest as he passes Eddie his mug of coffee and sits down. “And all that money must feel good–”

“It’s not like that,” Eddie says.

“When I see my nephew on TV smashing up equipment worth more than his house–”

“I already told you on the phone it was an accident. And it wouldn’t be worth more than this if you actually cashed the cheques I send you. I know they aren’t bouncing.”

“I don’t want your money, Eddie,” Wayne says gently. It’s odd but not uncommon to hear him speak in such dulcet tones. “That’s not what I raised you for.”

“I know, you–” He cuts his insult off at the stem and scratches his head instead.

Eddie isn’t hankering for a tongue lashing tonight and his scalp is too itchy to focus. He hasn’t washed his hair in a week. It’s obvious just looking at him, curls weighed down and straightened out from the sheer grossness of it. “Shit, I’m disgusting,” he says. 

“You’re gross,” Wayne agrees. “I’ll cash a cheque when the bank opens and get you a bottle of degreaser.”

Eddie hides his smile with a long sip of coffee. It’s hot and awful, ‘cause no matter how much love Wayne puts into it, dollar store coffee tastes like burnt grounds from the get go. Eddie missed it more than anything. Sometimes he’s in the back of the queasy tour bus or lying on the floor in his hotel room coming down off of something risky and all he can think about is Wayne’s coffee.

Wayne has a hard and fast rule about drugs: if it isn’t green, I don’t want you touching it. Eddie still remembers the gasket he blew when he found that little baggy of red and white pills shoved inside an altoids tin. He can’t imagine telling his uncle what he really meant when he said he fell off the wagon. 

Hey, Uncle Wayne, I have this weird love-hate relationship with a girl I don’t really know, and I got caught up doing party drugs (unrelated to our relationship) until I got so high I blacked out, and when I woke up she was there and she was looking at me like you look at a bird with a broken wing, you know? Anyway, the memory of her face won’t leave me alone. It makes me feel like crying. So I haven’t touched anything in two weeks and I thought coming home for Christmas would make up for all the secrets I’m keeping, but now—

Now Eddie doesn’t know what he was thinking. He can’t tell Wayne any of that shit. He wouldn’t even know where to start. 

Wayne would ask something like, It took a girl for you to realise drugs are bad news? And Eddie would say back, No, that’s not it, it wasn’t just her. 

“I’m sooooo fucked,” Eddie says slowly, mildly, scrubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He drags his hands down his face and blinks against the burning he’s left in his wake. 

“You’re not fucked, kid. Lemme cut you a slice of cake.”

Wayne cuts him a slice of cranberry coffee cake and Eddie eats it in two bites. Wayne makes him a burger after that. He doesn’t know what time it is, if it’s closer to night or morning, but Wayne doesn’t mention it until the burger’s gone and an alarm clock is ringing. Eddie watches his uncle truck into the living room and feels crestfallen though he doesn’t deserve to. Eddie hasn’t been home in months. He imagines Wayne alone at the kitchen table with an empty greasy plate waiting on him and wants to cry again. 

Wayne returns in coveralls. He gets a good look at Eddie’s face and sighs, dropping a heavy hand into Eddie’s dark hair. 

“It’ll be fine,” Wayne says. 

I’m sorry, Eddie thinks. For being a bad kid. 

He’d said that once. Wayne was sweeping up a smashed plate after a long shift and Eddie, thirteen and defeated with an ache where his mom should’ve been, had been trying to apologise. It had felt so crushing, that broken plate. The last straw. He’d had tears running down his pale cheeks, his hands in his hoodie pocket desperately grabbing at one another. 

And when he’d said it, Wayne had just looked at him. On his knees with a brush, glass shards shining on the linoleum between them. 

You think you’re a bad kid?

Wayne isn’t old and he definitely hadn’t been back then. Thirty something with a crying teenager and what felt like all the world's self-loathing crammed into a tiny kitchen. Eddie’s older now, and he knows how much Wayne gave up for him. Not just his bedroom, which had been relinquished with little more than a shoulder squeeze and five dollars for posters, but a life. Wayne could’ve done anything. Could’ve been a rockstar. 

I ruin everything, he’d said. Teenage angst, maybe, but Eddie felt it in his bones. 

You ain’t ruined anything. 

He hadn’t known what to say so he’d cried, waiting for that nice heavy hand that tussles his hair and pats his back to finally strike out. 

Eds, you’re not a bad kid. Said so quietly. With a steadiness that meant truth. You’re my kid. Could I make a bad kid?

And yeah, there had been a threshold of sincerity and they were passing it. It was the late 70’s. Boys really didn’t cry. At least, not in public. So Eddie wiped his snotty nose in his sleeve and laughed, and then he got on his knees to clean up. 

“Try and sleep,” Wayne says now, older but unchanged otherwise. Still ridiculously forgiving of his not-so-young sprog. He looks at Eddie with his lips pressed together. Eddie wonders if he’s going to hug him again, but Wayne shakes his head. “Shower, you animal. I’ll be back early.”

Eddie sleeps. He showers. He washes his hair three times and doesn’t use conditioner so his curls don’t really curl but it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. He had a moment in the shower where he swore he remembered something you said to him when he was blackout on sniff cut with procaine and booze. Your voice tentative, the heat of your hand on his cheek. “Are you okay?”

He moans into his damp hands, limp hair hanging either side of his head and dripping into his pyjama pants. He can’t forgive his younger self for all the sleeveless shirts, not when Hawkins feels colder than the arctic circle and the window seal in the kitchen has been leaky for the last five years.

He thinks about going shopping, because no matter what Wayne says about degreaser, Eddie’s starting to realise that his uncle won’t be cashing any of the cheques he sent home, and if he wants Wayne taken care of he’s gonna have to do this shit himself, but he doesn’t know where his key is. 

“I’m a fuck up,” he says, catching his eye in the mirror as he straightens out. 

His reflection frowns at him. 

He did manage to get Wayne some shit from California before he came home; a real brown leather jacket from the 60s with minimal wear, though if Wayne wears it is another thing entirely; a Roy Orbinson record that’s miraculously unwarped despite Eddie’s poor packing; more sweatshirts than his uncle could ever wear through. Eddie knows he’ll try. 

There’s some other stuff. CD’s and a nice edition of War of the World’s. Whatever he could stuff in his backpack. 

“Are you going home for Christmas?” you’d asked him. 

He sat on the bottom step of a huge staircase and you the one above him. People walked around you without notice. Two rocks in a stream bed.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? You aren’t sure?”

He’d got stuck looking at your cheek, the soft curve of it and the highest point, where light like a small star had kissed you and turned his stomach, that’s how sick with envy he was. 

“I get it,” you’d said, “things at home aren’t always easy.”

“Not that. My Uncle Wayne is my hero.”

“And you still don’t wanna go home?” you’d asked gently. 

“It’s not about what I want.” He remembers this part in detail. He’d stopped looking at you, laying back against the stairs, each step digging into his back. The ceiling had been far away. 

You’d inched into his frame of view, looking down at him with an expression unreadable to his mixed up head. You weren't quite smiling. He still isn’t sure what it meant. 

“It is. That’s the whole point,” you’d said. 

Eddie’s all memory this morning. The ones with Wayne had felt less memory and more story, because memory is unfaithful, and over time we start to break down on the details, putting want in place of fact. But your face hovering above his as the soft strands of your hair ghost against his jaw, all your glitters and the shiny pink sheen on your lips, that’s closer. He remembers how you smelled, and how your tongue peeked out to wet your lips uselessly between words. 

Jet lag and the general feeling of you keeps him lethargic, but he cleans the house (and he’s always said house, even if some people don’t agree, it houses him, fuck you Jenny P from eighth grade grade) and makes dinner ready for Wayne when he gets home. He puts the radio on and tunes into Roller FM. When one of Godless’ songs comes on, he’s not surprised. He listens with his head lolled against the kitchen wall, eyes closed, and tries not to think about your fingers choking the neck of your bass guitar. 

—

Indy Rock Centre, Indianapolis, January 1991

Whoever arranged the tour is a sadist. You can’t believe that a team of professionals sat around a long glossy table with their coffee cups and finger foods and thought, yeah, that will work. You feel like you’re being fucking yo-yo’d between states. 

When you’d joined godless as a stand in for Millyanna, your dates had been plentiful but never as disorganised. Nothing compares to this shit. You wonder if going crazy is a sign of making it big, or if maybe you’re not cut out for all of this after all. 

Jan 22, Kalamazoo, Missouri. Jan 23, Toledo, Ohio. Jan 25, Los Angeles, California. Jan 26, Philadelphia; Jan 28, Indiana, Jan 29, Wisconsin. February? Back in Missouri, back in Ohio, a couple more state dates and then bam — Canada. Don’t worry though, after a week in Canada, you’ll never guess where you’re playing. 

Fucking Florida. 

At least you aren’t alone in your torture. For starters, there’s Morgan, your singer, and Ananya, your drummer, who will also endure and suffer. Then there’s the roadies, the techies and the groupies. The opening acts. The managers, the assistants, the personal assistants, the boyfriends and girlfriends and wives and mistresses. 

And what’s more, you're one of the hundreds of bands touring in North America this year. Maybe thousands. You certainly aren’t the first musician to have to suck it up and tough it out. 

Still, you like to complain. 

It’s your right, for dealing with Morgan. And also— you aren’t getting paid for the tour until after the tour is over, so really complaining is the wealth of the soul. You do get a weekly allowance, which is awesome and not something you were getting beforehand, working instead on an invoice. You’d play a show, you’d get paid for the show. This time you’re getting a flat rate at the end of the tour that’s been contractually agreed upon. It’s more money than you’ll ever know what to do with. One of the more shameful ways you waste time in your little bus bunk is trying to figure out where to put it.

I want a house, you think. A mortgage on a small, pretty house where the weather isn't too hot or too cold. And a puppy. Probably. Maybe a fish tank. I want a bed that spans from one wall to another and… 

You wince. For a moment, you’d seen something stupid, a pale face hidden in the pillow across the way. 

Two puppies, you think forcefully. 

You’ve played four shows already this week. You have one tonight in Indy Rock Centre, and another tomorrow in Wisconsin. You got to stay in the warm, non-vibrating luxury of a hotel room last night, but tonight you have to play the show and get straight back on the bus. 

“You’re gonna glare holes in her. What did she do?”

You stop your mindless staring and come back down to earth. Ananya’s smiling at you, thick eyebrows lifted in wait for your answering gossip. You’d been staring at Morgan where she’s sitting across the room in a plush armchair, cucumbers over her eyes and swarmed by makeup artists and hairstylists with a pedicurist at her feet. 

Ananya does all her make up herself. You want to ask her to do yours, but you worry her messy sweetness won’t suit you. She overlines her already big lips with a sticky red-pink, giving her an effect of having just been kissed (a lot), and rings brown eyes with a slick black kohl. 

“She hasn’t done anything. Yet. Today.”

“She has been a monster, hasn’t she?” she asks, sinking down into the couch with a sigh. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. Her curls are so healthy they bounce.

You hum your agreement and slide down with her. Touring again, Ananya has remembered how much it sucks to be alone without allies. Morgan gets especially volatile from the stress and close quarters. She’s nicer when you’re alone. 

She’ll still ditch you at a moment's notice, but you get it. It’s like high school. 

You miss Dornie. 

It’s cruel to make a friend and suddenly lose them. You can’t help thinking he won’t want to be your friend again the next time you see him. It had been so nice… so peaceful, to know there was someone in your corner. Dornie doesn’t care how famous you are or how much money you’re making. He just wanted to make sure you got home safe and talk about old movies. 

“I’m gonna go find something to drink,” you say. 

Ananya nods. “Bring me back a coke?”

“Yeah.”

Morgan stops you on your way out with a foot in front of your legs. “Hey, killer, I gave one of your passes to a fan earlier. Is that cool?”

“Morgan, when have you ever cared about my opinion?”

“Ooh, meow,” she croons, taking a cucumber from her eye to squint at you. “What’s the matter, baby? I figured you weren’t using them.”

You smile at her. You can’t help yourself. She stopped hurting your feelings a long time ago. “You want a drink from the machine?”

“Sparkling water, serf.”

If you smudge her nail polish on the way past it isn’t your fault. It isn’t cool with you that she’s given away one of your passes, even though you ask your general manager Angel to give them out at the beginning of the show every night. It’s presumptuous! Normal people don’t do stuff like that without asking.

Serf…

Your nose wrinkles. The dressing room door closes at your back and you take a moment to recall where you’d seen the bank of vending machines in the maze of white hallways. Indy Rock Centre is one of the biggest venues in Indianapolis, and you’ve been here before countless times on the other side to see Black Sabbath, Metallica, The Stacey’s, Doorway to Cooperstown. It’s where all the biggest and best get to play. You wish they’d given you a map. 

You can still walk around without getting recognised. You’re not a superstar, just a guitarist. You smile at people who smile at you and avoid the rest, dodging past black polo shorts wheeling equipment and busybody higher ups barking orders. Someone stands in a corner talking on a brick of a handheld phone. You stare at him for a bit. You’ll never get used to it, phones without wires. Next there’ll be TVs without satellites and electric guitars without amps. 

The vending machine shines like a red beacon at the end of the hallway. You hurry to it, feeding the machine your crumpled per diem one dollar at a time. You get a coke for Ananya, sparkling water for Morgan. When it gets to your own drink, the machine starts to revolt. It spits your dollar out unsympathetically. You pull it from the mouth and flatten it against your thigh.

It doesn’t work again. You nibble your bottom lip. Dollar pulled taut between your two hands, you lift your knee and rub it against your stockings. 

“Fucking fuck,” you whisper, watching in mild horror as the machine accepts and then rejects your dollar for a third time. 

You tuck it back into your purse, a pretty leather thing that clasps shut and fits perfectly in the small pocket of your jacket. It’s your luck, but whatever. They’ll probably bring a couple of bottles of water to the dressing room in a bit. Maybe even a cocktail bar. 

“Hey.”

Your internal monologue chokes. You question your senses for the split second it takes you to meet his eyes — baby browns, soft and flush with gorgeously long lashes. If there’s one thing about Eddie Munson, it’s that he has very sweet eyes. Not the kind you can replicate in daydreams. 

He’s dressed like a bitch. You’re so sick of him. He has his jacket tied around his waist and his shirt has no sleeves, the alarmingly shapely stretch of his arms on full display. Black ink climbs the hills and ridges of his stark veins, his herd of bats jumping as he offers you a dollar. 

You take it. You aren’t sure what to say, so you bask in the almost-silence, every nerve aflame as you feed the vending machine and click the button for your drink. Equipment cages rattle. Radios chirp. Your drink thinks from behind the red Coca Cola panel down into the bottom of the machine for collection. 

“What’re you doing here?” you ask finally, squatting to grab your drink. 

You stand, train your eyes on the floor, shove your drink under your arm, and crack open your purse to give him your defective dollar in exchange. He takes it without fanfare. 

“Are you busy?” he asks. 

Regrettably, no. The majority of soundcheck is done, and the show doesn’t start for hours. He gestures to the left and you follow, stupidly, with no idea where he’s leading you to and not a clue what he wants, leaving Morgan and Ananya’s drinks for whoever finds them. Eddie’s jeans aren’t as loose on his hips as they were the last time you saw him. His distracting arms are bigger, biceps like a taunt as he holds a door open for you. You take a breath as you pass him, but he doesn’t smell like anything. No sweat or cologne, no cigarette smoke. 

“Is it mean if I say you look good with clean hair?” you ask, squinting in the sudden brightness. 

He’s led you outside to the back of the venue. Your tour bus stands imposing at the end of the lot, surrounded by Godless branded vans and fancy cars. A truck beeps as it loads into the receiving area backward. 

“Probably.”

“You do, though. Look good.”

“So people tell me.”

Fuck, you think. Fuck it. If he’s gonna be weird about it then you’re pulling the olive branch back in and snapping it in half. 

The sky is white as snow. It hurts to look at, the sun like a steaming egg yolk covered in its own whites, thick clouds shielding her warmth. You pull the sides of your jacket together and button up, uninterested in catching a cold when the next six months of your life are planned down to the hour. Eddie puts his jacket on and zips it tight. 

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asks. 

“Why?”

He pushes his hands into his pockets. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he felt self conscious. “Why not?” he asks. 

You nod. You and Eddie aren’t friends, but you aren’t not friends, either. You’re being cold because you’re seized with embarrassment, not because he deserves it. You have memories of his hand on your cheek, and a cherry stem between his teeth, and you don’t know what you said exactly but you know it hadn’t been amicable small talk. You hate him for knowing stuff about you that you’d wanted to keep secret, and you hate yourself more for telling him in the first place. 

“I came home for Christmas. I’m back in Los Angeles tomorrow night.”

“That’s convenient,” you say. 

“Just had to see you before I went,” he agrees. Deadpan humour is terrifying on him. 

He ducks under a low tree branch and holds it away from your face. Together, you begin to walk down the street and into the city, over patched sidewalks and past brand new stores. The mom and pop shops of your childhood are mostly gone. 

Conversations between you two have this odd oscillation between over familiarity and stilted nothings. You like over familiarity better, when you’re both prone to misunderstandings. You’d take snipping at one another over this strange quiet.  

“Is it nice? Being home?” he asks finally. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’ve been here for what, a month now? I just got here, and it wasn’t to see the ‘rents.”

Eddie lifts his chin to the sky a touch. Molasses of sunlight seep through the clouds now, racing to caress his waved hair and high cheekbones. “It’s been awesome,” he says, his eyes closed. His voice like tree bark, uneven but tough. “Makes me wonder what I liked about L.A. so much.”

“All the free stuff,” you offer. “And free girls.”

“The girls aren’t free,” he protests.

“You aren’t getting free girls?” you ask. 

“Are you?”

“Would that bother you?”

Close-lipped, his tongue pokes the skin under his bottom lip.

“You think stuff like that bothers me?” he asks. 

“It bothers some people.”

Eddie isn’t meeting your eyes consistently, but you don’t think he’s lying when he says, “No, it wouldn’t bother me. But my Uncle Wayne would fucking kill me if he heard me agree that the women are free.”

“How progressive.”

He visually bites back a laugh. He looks up from his shoes and sees you smiling and it breaks him, his laugh sputtering out in bits and pieces. “Shit, I’m just trying to be an okay person.”

You concede, “Fine, the girls aren’t free. They’re just very happy to sleep with you for very little reward.”

“Some might say the reward was, you know, pleasure–”

“Ew–”

“Don’t be childish. What did you want me to say? The reward is a long night of rough and tumble fucking–”

“I liked pleasure better,” you interject. You dance around a huge crack in the sidewalk and pause as you and Eddie reach a crossing. “All night? Really?”

“Want me to prove it?”

“I don’t think you could, Munson.”

“I could…” He rests his hand between your shoulder blades. “But I don’t think we’re there yet.”

He encourages you to cross the street, weaving and winding between parked cars, moving cyclists, and a small family bulldozing passers-bys with a twin stroller. When you’ve crossed to the other side uninjured, his hand falls away. The heat of his palm lingers.

“Good observation.”

“You’re sarcastic today. Or is being on the road making you cranky?”

“Being on the road is definitely making me cranky. It fucking sucks, I forgot how badly it sucks, and I don’t get paid day to day like I used to.”

“Oh, you’re getting a flat rate now? Go you, superstar.” Your walk is more of a crawl, the two of you turned to the left side of the street where children shriek and giggle in the outdoor seating of a restaurant. Eddie stops. “How’s the allowance?”

“You get one of those too?”

Eddie bumps his elbow into yours. “We’re kids. They know it. It’s pretty shitty considering how much money they make off of us in the end, but that’s an asshole thing to say, right? We’re lucky.”

You roll your shoulders. He’s more than right. Coming from nothing, a small town, with no college degree and no rich parents to float you, Eddie’s right. You might have talent and you might work hard but so do a lot of other people, and you’re here, and they’re working for minimum wage back home still hoping. 

You wish every kid like you could get to where you are, but they won’t. You’re more than lucky. You should buy a scratcher. 

“We’re fucking lucky,” Eddie says slowly. “And it’s awful anyways.” He grins. “Come to dinner with me?”

You blink. “What?”

“Dinner? I’ve been there before,” —he points to the restaurant you’d stopped across from— “and it’s nice.”

You’re insane and you agree. It’s not too fancy to feel like you’re on a date from the outside, and once you’re indoors you feel relaxed. With a glass of cider in your hands you feel positively giddy.

Eddie slouches back into a velvet booth seat that might’ve once been red. He keeps the jacket on and you’re grateful for it, lest you see his stupid nice arms and turn ditzy. His nose twitches as looks out over the restaurant floor toward the kitchen visible through a long window. It’s warm but not stuffy in here, the air fragrant with browning butter and minced garlic. 

The menus are sticky. You pretend to pour over one, not knowing what to say to break the silence. 

“I know I said you were being sarcastic,” Eddie says, “but I think I meant quiet. Even when you sound annoyed, I can barely hear you.”

“That’s dramatic,” you murmur, proving his point. 

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Well, in what way?”

“What way feels wrong to you?” he asks. 

Trapped. You sip your cold cider. He raps his knuckles against the table. “Come on, what have you got to lose? What did you say to me before?” His eyes soften. “Nobody would believe me if I told them.”

You tap your glass with your thumbnail. 

“I’m okay,” you say honestly. “Most of the time, I feel fine. Or, I forget what’s wrong.”

Eddie flicks his own glass. “Is this about feeling like nothing?”

“I don’t know why I told you that.”

“I have one of those faces.”

“And you were feeding me booze.”

“Don’t say that. You make it sound so shitty.”

“It wasn’t shitty,” you say. “Free drinks, right? What’s shitty about letting a pretty guy pay for you?”

“You think I’m pretty?” he asks.

You kick him under the table. You don’t know what comes over you, shy at your own honesty and irritated with his ridiculousness. I let you kiss me, you want to say. I’d let you do worse. Of course I think you’re pretty. You aren’t cruel — it’s more of a shove with the toe of your shoe. Eddie laughs through a gasp and kicks you back, heel of his converse flat to your calf. 

“You fucking–”

“Sweetheart?” he finishes. 

“No, fuck you. You string me around with your hot and cold act and now you’re coming to my shows taking me to dinner,” —your voice stiffens, thickens, as you glare at him from across the table— “asking me how I’m doing? And I’m the one who has to explain themselves? You tell me, Munson. Do I think that you’re pretty?”

Eddie’s sort of frozen, like a laugh got stuck in his throat and he really is surprised by your sudden anger. You might feel surprised yourself if you had the wherewithal. As it stands, your irritation and your want for an answer is too much.

He hits the toe of his shoe into yours. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry. I’m not… trying to string you around.” 

He doesn’t say anything else. You deflate, ashamed of your sudden outburst. Tired of all the games. 

“I think you’re pretty,” he says. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what I’ve been trying to say.”

The food arrives and saves him. You want him to explain —you want him to expand, needily, on what he means and how much he means it— and he clearly doesn’t. He grabs his fork and starts shovelling pasta into his mouth like it’ll magically turn the conversation to something more palatable for him. 

“I’d like to change my answer,” you say.

Eddie swallows harshly. “Can’t. All compliments have been locked in. Maybe at our next cat fight.”

—

Eddie’s heart isn’t pounding like he worried it might when he asked you to follow him into the bathroom. He pictured sweaty, shaking palms, his hands hesitant, a reminiscent picture of a past self who didn’t know how to make girls make noise. He thought the next time he was alone with you, it would be the tragic scene from the movies where the boy bears his heart and the girl can’t accept it. He’s not expecting you to understand. It’s getting to the point where the mean shit he said to you isn’t made up of words anymore but the image of you in the Prover Theatre with your sparkling dress and your dull eyes. He hates that he made you feel that way, and he should say sorry. He feels fucking sorry. 

“Don’t cut me,” you say, quiet so you won’t be caught together. 

“I won’t.”

“When was the last time you did this?” 

“It’s like riding a bike,” he insists. “I haven’t forgotten.”

You simper. Propped up on the sink’s counter, your skirt hiking up your thighs (imagine him covering his face with his hands, rocking his head from side to side, you’re wearing garters) and your jacket falling into the basin. You’ve turned one arm toward him trustingly, but apprehension plays clear as day over your mouth. He wants to remark that your mouth is pretty, but it’s not the right word. Perfect feels closer, but again, it’s not what he wants. He has a fascination with how you talk and when you don’t, how your lips have a mind of their own sometimes, nibbled and popped and pouting. 

“It’s easier if you take your shirt off.”

“How many girls believed that one?” you ask happily. He’s ecstatic. Dinner perked you up and now you’re all smiles and warm laughs. He doesn’t know why you’d been angry with him (he does) because you started it (not really), but you got something off your chest at least. 

“None,” he says. “I’m serious that it’s easier. But you really don’t have to take it off for me to make it look good.”

Eddie wields his small pen knife toward your arm. 

“I like my sleeves,” you say as he takes the hem of one such sleeve into his free hand. 

“Don’t be a baby.” He pulls it taut from your skin. You’re both smiling. Carbs are good like that.

“I have fat arms,” you try. 

He’s out of his mind. Eddie leans down and kisses the top of your arm quickly. “Shut up,” he says.

He doesn’t have time to think about what he’s done. It’ll torture him tonight when all he has for distraction are hotel sheets, and then tomorrow on the red eye back to L.A. He honestly doesn’t wanna look at you because if your nose is even slightly wrinkled he’ll have to turn to the gross toilet in the corner and chuck up, but he also doesn't want to freak you out. He looks up at you from under his lashes. 

You look flustered. 

Not disgusted. 

“I’m doing it,” he warns. 

“Yeah,” you say, nearly normal. “Fine. Make me look cool.”

“You admit that I look cool.”

“No.”

Eddie digs the tip of his pen knife into your sleeve and starts pulling. The fabric tears away in a jagged-lined but even circle around your arm, broadening a tantalising stretch. His stomach hurts a bit. To reach your second arm, the one furthest from him, he has to take up station between your spread legs. Or maybe he doesn’t have to, but he does, your thighs like two warm spots either side of him as he leans in close. 

“And this is what’s gonna make them all like me, right? This is the cement of my street cred?”

“Your street cred? No. And I don’t think anything you do could make them like you.” You lean back at his words. He pulls you back in, fingers braceleting your arm as he fakes taking a measurement. “If they don’t like you already, they won’t. Not your fault, not your problem. Who says you even like them?”

“I do, though. That’s my problem. I even like Little Miss Fleetwood,” you grumble. 

He raises his eyebrows to show he’s listening, stabbing at your sleeve and tearing slow. “She still tripping you up?”

“No. I’m just trying to make you laugh.”

He laughs under his breath. “Mission accomplished, baby,” he murmurs. 

Both sleeves sliced, Eddie steps away from you, ignoring the heat in his stomach to take you in. People who don’t know where they stand shouldn’t be so close to one another, he decides, ‘cause wishful thinking has him marking your hands as wanting. Your fingers move slowly as if through water, tip of your index on the left hand stroking down the back of your right marriage. Eddie pins salaciousness on everybody he meets —coke is falling out of fashion fast but sex is always in— but he can’t get a faithful read on you now. He wants you to want to be kissed. Doesn’t trust that you do. 

“You look edgy.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” you ask.

“An awful way.”

You go quiet, your hands go still. You raise your head until it’s too much, and he realises he’s been moving back in. He drops the penknife in the sink on top of your jacket, putting his hand on your freshly bared arm and bunching the sleeve up as much as he can without it pulling at you. He’s greedy and he wants to palm at your skin like an asshole, that’s not your problem. 

“That bad?” you ask. 

He angles his face over yours. He needs two inches maybe three, and you’d be kissing. His hand falls down your arm to your elbow, clasping weakly over your skin. 

“No,” he says. He can barely hear himself. 

Greedy. His second hand comes up to your face, waiting, and when you lift your jaw just so he slots his hand under it and holds you. 

“What are we doing?” you whisper. 

What are ‘we’ doing? 

“Nothing you don’t want to do.” He widens the gap between you. 

“I know– I know that.” Your arm ventured forward, fingers twisting around the hem of his shirt. You tug it gently, pulling him forward again. “I just don’t understand it. You. I don’t get what’s happening, Eddie.”

“Well… I was going to kiss you.” Eddie fights to sound the way he feels, out of his element but so earnest his chest aches. “I really, really… want to kiss you.”

It doesn’t feel like admitting defeat, as he’d initially thought it might. Neither does it feel confessional. You can’t confess to a secret already known. 

He kisses you just once. A light brush of his lips against yours. Anymore than that and he knows he’ll start making promises like someone who has room for them. His eyes scrunch closed hard and he struggles not to squeeze your poor cheek as the pressure of your lips builds, as they part, as he pulls back and you chase him. He can’t kiss your mouth anymore than that, but your hands are grabbing at him, pleading and twitching and cold against the searing skin of his abdomen as they search underneath his shirt. Eddie feels the soft curve of your hip under his hand, knowing he can’t fuck you here, and undecided on whether that’ll be his ruin or his saviour. 

You shudder as he kisses down. His hands are hungry but his mouth is sweet, gentle like you deserve as he noses down the column of your throat. 

“I don’t get you,” you say, your fingertips sewn into his hair, scratching over his scalp lightly. Your breath catches as he parts his lips. His teeth scratch over the damp crescents of previous kisses. 

He loses himself in the ticklish feeling of your hand and the heat of your skin. “Hm?” he hums. 

“I understood you better when I thought you didn’t like me.”

He kisses up to the soft crook of your jaw before edging you away, just enough to see the sad set of your eyes. 

“Hey,” he says, utters, like you’re trading secrets. His thumb rubs your cheek, a rough touch. He’s never been much good at aligning his words with actions; his heart and his hands. 

He doesn’t know what to do to fix your sad frown. He kisses you again in case that’s what you wanted but couldn’t say, and it works for a handful of blessed, wretched seconds. You kiss back hard. Eddie has to break it to take a breath. 

You rest your forehead against his. It slides slowly to his nose, and eventually you’ve bowed your head, your hands slipping down to his elbows. 

“I feel sick all the time,” you say. Your hands flex against his skin. “The only time I feel alright is when I’m playing– when I’m making something.” You press your head to his chest. “Or when I’m with you.”

Eddie thinks of all the shitty decisions he’s made. His restlessness, his bad attitude. His propensity to assume the worst. How he’d taken your thumb rubbing a smudge off of his cheek in the Prover Theatre as a jab, rather than a helping hand. 

He wraps his arms around you. 

Your head fits under his rather well. 

“I know what you mean,” he says. And out of everything he’s told you today, that’s the hardest to say aloud. 

Eddie hugs you in the dim light of that dingy bathroom knowing he’s running on borrowed time. All too soon, you’re pulling apart and he’s helping you off of the counter unnecessarily. You don’t hold hands on the way back to Wings Stadium. He thought you might. You’re quiet. He tries to cheer you up, feeling more and more like he’s done something wrong the closer you get to the venue.

He doesn’t have anything to offer. You’re both on tour now. He doesn’t have a clue when he’ll see you next, or what he’ll say when he does. 

Miraculously, he gets you back to your dressing room. He gives your cheek a quick squeeze. 

“Play well tonight,” he says. 

“I always play well.”

You do. He watches you from the VIP section a couple of hours later, impressed. Mildly nauseous. His thumb worries the edge of the pass until it splits in his hand, paper coming apart from cardboard. Your singer might be a handful, but she knows when to be discreet. He slinks out before your set finishes through a side entrance, and his head races with your image. If it weren’t for your cut sleeves and the flank of your upper arm glowing under the stage lights, he’d put his kisses down to surreal delusion. 

Eddie doesn’t notice the lone photographer hiding in the eaves. 

The photographer notices him. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

!!! thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging, it helps so much! Let me know what you thought, what bits you liked and what you want to see next

can you feel another spat coming along 0.0 I honestly had so much fun writing this one especially the scene with Wayne and then the end scene in the bathroom <3 it’s always crazy to see hours and hours condensed into chapters like this but idc I’m having the time of my life and hope u guys r too! the word count is now at a solid 26k I believe though so it does feel rewarding in that way

[skellyflowers]

Tour Bus Cuddles

Masterlist

Phantom x reader 

The European leg of the tour has been going fantastic so far. I was excited to be on the road and get the opportunity to travel around. However no one mentioned how hard being a Tour Manager Assistant would be! 

When Phantom dragged me into Brother Kevin’s office to nominate me as the new assistant I thought he was being a clingy boyfriend. He told me that he would miss me. I would miss him too. I was going to work on a schedule for us to still be able to still talk while he was gone. I wasn't expecting this. When Phantom first mentioned Kevin needing an assistant it was during our pillow talk so I didn’t take him too seriously.

I was surprised that Kevin made me his new tour assistant, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was because of how hard headed Phantom is. Kevin has me in charge of checking in the band at any hotel we stay at, ensuring the Green room has what the ghouls need and running last minute errands. 

However this show is in the biggest arena so far. So I have to cover way more ground than before helping the ghouls and completing my pre-show checklist. And to make things more complex two of the main stage speakers have been damaged. Lucky us the crew as backup speakers, they are not as loud but they are just as good. Unfortunately for me that means I need to help load the new speakers off the crew truck and bring them half a mile from the parking lot to the arena. 

When it is time for a sound check I can’t feel my arms and can barely pay attention to what the merch team is telling me. It doesn’t help that Phantom likes to keep me up after shows and work out his leftover adrenaline. I love him and we always have a great time together but it is going to be hard to do my job if I can’t feel both my arms and legs.

I’m in the Green room sitting on the couch when the ghouls come back after they finish the sound check. Phantom closes in on me and sits in my lap like a little cat. He starts to purr like one too. I smile at his actions and start to scratch at one of his horns, he starts to purr even louder.

“I missed you babe.” Phantom says.

“It’s only been 30 minutes, Bat.”

“30 minutes too long.” he pouts, cuddling into my neck.

“GET THAT CUTE SHIT OUT OF HERE!” Dew yells, startling me.

“Shut up, like you aren't going to come to me and beg for attention.” Rain says, rolling his eyes.

Phantom doesn’t get off my lap until it is time for the ghouls to get on stage and Mountain picks him up. We hold hands and walk from the Green Room to backstage and give a kiss before he gets on stage to the screaming crowd.

The show is amazing, just as all the others have been. When the final bow is taken and Papa has said the last goodnight I help the crew take down the stage and pack up so we can get on the road as soon as we can. The process is smooth and we are able to pack up the crew bus in under an hour. A new personal record.

When I get on the ghouls’ bus I am exhausted. I am happy to be the first on the bus tonight. Papa could herd the ghouls perfectly without my help but I felt a little guilty about texting him that I went straight to the bus and crawled into the first unclaimed bunk I found. Ghoul shepherding is part of my job.

I started to fall asleep when I heard the bus door open and close. I hear footsteps shuffle around until they stop in front of the bunk row I am in. I also hear sniffing? The curtain separating me from the mystery ghoul in the bus slowly opens. I’m surprised that I see Phantom, eyes bright and tail wagging.

“This spot taken?” He asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

I let out a quiet giggle and scoot back as much as I can. Phantom gets a big smile on his face and crawls in next to me. He turns my body so he can be the big spoon, his second favorite cuddling position. If it was always up to him I would be laying on top of him at all times. I find his hand and lace our fingers together and he starts purring against my back and plants a kiss on my neck.

“Did you have fun at the concert?” I ask.

“It was fun, Swiss fell off his stage. But I missed you.”

“Maybe if you teach me to play the guitar Papa will add me to the band.” I said as a joke.

“That’s a great idea. We can start tomorrow.”

“You are so silly, Bat.”

“It is a good idea. We could spend more time together.”

“You never leave me alone. You're the reason I got this job.”

“And I will never give you a moment's peace.” He says, giving me a squeeze.

“We can talk about it in the morning.” I say, with a yawn. “Love you Phantom.”

“I love you too, My Angel.” kissing the back of my head.

I let his purring lull me to sleep as the other ghouls get on the bus and settle in for the overnight drive to the next sold out area.

[lostintransist]

Liaison - Chapter 2 - Da’ Fuck is a Roadman

The worst part about your job had to be the commute. The trip to the office each day took nearly an hour. Between the two trains, one bus, and a half-mile walk any energy you might have had been used up. You did not mention to anyone on the team where you lived and that you refused to buy a car. Mostly you were sure that your years of driving on the right side of the road and turning on red lights would lead to you killing someone in a vehicular collision and would rather avoid that.

The old building you shared with three other tenets creaked every time the wind blew and your small studio in the basement required two dehumidifiers to keep mold from overtaking the space. The jaw-cracking yawn overtook you as you stepped off the bus. You make it as far as the front door before the exhaustion becomes too much. You manage to brush your teeth, rip off your bra, and toss on an overlarge shirt you stole from an ex before sleep steals you away.

The weekend slips by too quickly for your liking. You can see the emails piling up in the inbox of your work email, anything truly urgent would CC Kate who worked nonstop. You stop into a cafe on your way home from the weekend market, happy to start to recognize the barista behind the counter. Sunday afternoons you did your shopping for the week and rewarded yourself with a scone and a warm latte. The day is capped off with a video call with a friend in Maryland and by eight you are asleep.

You wake early, 4 AM the alarm goes off to make it to the office for your 6:15 call. You dress simply in jeans, rain boots, and a long-sleeved green shirt. Starting on the walk for the bus you clock the young man posted up at the edge of an alley. You keep an eye on him but don’t change course as you continue closer to where he stands.

When you get within ten feet of him he jumps out and mumbles some words at you.

Tilting your head at him you try and process the sounds you heard.

“Wanna run that by me again kid?”

He mumbles the same words, louder and makes a vaguely threatening gesture.

“Yeah, I got nothing. Good luck with whatever you need,” you step into the road to continue past him.

Mumbler jumps in front of you, shouting now.

“I’m trying to rob ya you stupid American!”

“Why didn’t you say that back there?” Hooking a thumb over your shoulder to point to where this interaction started. “Also you don’t have a gun, do you even have a knife?”

As he starts to sputter the youth in his face is evident.

“Okay, so how does this shtick work?” gesturing to all of him, you continued. “Do you just walk up to people and demand their wallets or what?”

“Yeah, give me all your money!”

Mentioning wallets seemed to re-energize him.

“No thank you,” you start walking again. If you don’t make up the lost time you will delay yourself at least fifteen minutes and might need to call a cab to make it to work for your phone call.

❈❈❈

The hardest part of your job, second only to dealing with people who didn’t understand your role, would be the lack of consistency of who might be in the office from day to day. Harold hadn’t been at his desk when you finally rolled in, already accepting the call you had scheduled for this morning in the lobby. You waved to the one person at a computer as you dumped your things and asked for a moment of patience from everyone on the call as your headphones connected.

The call dragged on for nearly an hour as you stayed on mute replying to emails. When a question could not be answered by anyone else you jumped into the conversation, explaining you had three options for a team that would fit their needs. At this point, you would need a timeline and payment. Confirming the email address took another five minutes, back and forth. When the call wrapped up the clock ticked closer to 9 AM.

Letting your head slam against the desk you took a series of deep breaths. A message tone dinged from your computer. Looking up you found a message from someone named Roach.

>Calls that bad?

Turning you catch sight of the person who had been in the office when you arrived.

“You Roach?”

>That’s me.

Masked and covered from head to toe, the man looked as innocent as a bloodied tiger. You saw a lot of men like that lately. Something about this job had them covering up more than a nun in a convent.

“Okay, I’m still meeting everyone. And no? The call wasn’t that bad but I ended up being late because some fucker I think tried to rob me?” After explaining the whole situation this morning to Roach he sends you a message through the chatting platform.

>You met a roadman.

“Da’ fuck is a roadman?” Incredulity had become a familiar state since moving to England.

Staring at Roach you wait for his typed response. He looks at you, makes a face beneath his mask, bobs his head from shoulder to shoulder, sighs, and puts his fingers on the keys.

>A roadman is what you might call a mugger in the US.

“No, a mugger has a gun or a knife and can back up his threats. That child told me to give him all my money and couldn’t even find a decent threat to make me comply. All the bastard did was make me late.”

Roach’s only reply to this is a hearty shrug.

A voice from behind has both you and Roach spinning in place.

“Liaison I need a contract confirmed,” someone barked at you.

The demand hits wrong after the roadman incident and the achingly long call. You turn to see a large man, again in a mask, staring at you from near the door. This mask looked hard, the upper face half of a skull. This must be Ghost; Kate had warned you about him.

“I must have missed the question in that statement, care to try again?”

Roach’s brows nearly touch his hairline as he quickly averts his gaze.

The tall, broad Lieutenant moved faster than his shape would indicate he could. He looms over you, hard skull and eye black leaving no color beyond the whites of his eyes.

“Did I stutter Liaison?”

“No, but you might need to if you try to tell me what to do without asking again.” You flick a nail against his mask. “Now if you’ll excuse me I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Slipping from beneath Ghost’s shoulders you make it two steps before his hand wraps around your bicep. Snapping back to look at him you contemplate the wisdom of punching him.

“Ghost! Let her go,” Price’s command splits the air.

He lets you go with exaggerated care. You flip him the bird, hiding the move from Price using your body. You stalk up to Price who is staring Ghost down over your shoulder.

“Did he hurt you?” Price asks as you draw near. He wasn’t Ghost’s captain but had recently been promoted to work directly below the elusive Sheppard. You tried to keep up on who worked under who but with so many moving parts you had to check your spreadsheets every time you had a question.

“No, I’m fine. But next time the meathead needs something from me tell him to send an email and to use all his manners.” You sweep past Price and head for the kitchen. Might as well start some bread so you can beat something up.

That second interaction with Ghost solidified the tone of your relationship. The same day he threatened you with his size and laid hands on you he found you in the kitchen. You pulled the tray of rolls out of the oven when he spoke.

“I’ll take one of those.”

Without pausing to consider you shut the oven softly and tip the hot pan over, spilling the steaming buns onto the floor. You don’t even try to make it look like an accident.

“Whoops. Guess you forgot to ask for something you wanted.”

You ignored the fuming soldier behind you as you set the hot pan on the stove to cool and cover the dough and place it in the fridge for later. You gave it an hour before checking back to find the kitchen clear and cleaned up the rolls from the floor.

Three weeks later you are pulled from an important email by a fist in your hair. Ghost growls in your face.

“What the hell did you agree to with Sarcosis?”

A wince you can’t stop slips. “Hair pulling is a kinky thing for me Ghost, you ready to follow up on this offer?”

Disgusted, he lets you go. Then Soap is there, pushing between you two. Rubbing the back of your head you decide to answer. He did ask a question after all.

“Sarcosis needs to borrow one man, someone who can play spotter for one of their snipers. Job is less than three days. I wrangled a favor to borrowing one of their men if we ever need ‘em.”

“Why take the job?” Soap peers over his shoulder, hand still firmly placed on Ghost.

“All Keith is asking for is an impartial set of eyes to confirm a kill. They aren’t on the no-fly list. Do they need to be?”

“No-fly list?” This question comes from Ghost.

“Yeah, the no-fly list.” You pop open a sticky note from your screen, enlarging both the note and the words you let the men read the list you got from Kate. “Taking jobs with these guys won’t fly, hence the no-fly list.”

Ghost takes a deep breath, tucking the demon’s demeanor back behind his vest. Soap lets his hand drop back to his sides.

“Now if all this excitement is over I am going back to my emails,” turning your back to the men you return your screen to normal and type away at your ongoing email.

Roach sends you a message that you see but don’t reply to.

>Sarcosis nearly got Ghost killed on their last job, might want to flag them for your no-fly list.

Ghost and Soap stand behind you for an uncomfortably long time. When they eventually move you pull your headphones on and settle into the chaos of never-ending emails.

❈❈❈

It took you six months to figure out the rules for jobs. You had asked Kate, repeatedly. Each time she gave an answer about whether to accept or reject, you would question her. Why accept this job and not this one? Over and over you asked and the answer always amounted to a feeling. Vibes. You took notes on every call and Kate’s decision since she couldn’t articulate why to accept one job over another. She had worked with the 141 for so long that she had a sense for these things.

Those six months were grueling, but you found a pattern. The price of a job could be relied upon to weed out anything the team wouldn’t take. The numbers broke down to roughly £20,000 per man per job. The more complicated the explanation the more guys you figured would be needed. That rule of thumb would be right more often than not.

The guys would take rescue missions but were better equipped to handle situations where there would be no witnesses. They worked well with teams from most companies and governments but there were a few that several men refused to work with again. It was a small list but the fact you recognized each name on sight often gave you a queasy sensation in your stomach.

Enough of the team would submit requests to take one job or another you had to start a running list of preferences and skills. Pinning down hard skills turned into a bit of an issue so you had a self-reported list and a list of skills reported by others. The sheer number of interconnected spreadsheets and the random formulas learned to create boggled your mind. Once one of the members of the accounting team, Doreen, saw your massive spreadsheet she collected the general information known about the office to add to your knowledge pool. She also helped you break out the information about each member into a separate file that fed into your master sheet. Doreen, for as old as she was, had a vast understanding of spreadsheets. The search function would become a new god in your role.

Chapter 1 |

Masterlist

@nicroyal02 Chapter 26 is up on A03

[justlemmeadoreyou]

windfall | (mechanic!harry part2)

summary: part 2 to this

word count: 2k

warnings: cursing

masterlist | ask box(requests are open!)

As you walked away from the garage, frustration and annoyance built up within you. Harry's indifferent and grumpy attitude was not making this situation any easier. You considered finding another garage, but deep down, you knew that might not be a feasible option given the state of your car.

You didn’t even want to go to work today. Sleeping curled up in the backseat of the car had made your body sore, especially your back. But leaving work would mean staying at the garage all day, listening to scolds from Harry, and you didn’t want that either.

So, you decided to go to work.

Walking to the nearest bus stop, you managed to get a bus that dropped you off near your office, but you still would have to walk half a mile.

Great.

You reached the office after about an hour, completely disheveled and tired. You had gotten a bit sweaty too, that failed the purpose of taking a shower, and you were already in the need of another.

Walking in, the receptionist as well as the other few looked at you judgmentally, but you successfully managed to ignore them, too tired to start a conversation and explain your circumstances.

Walking to your worn-out leather chair, you threw your bag on the table, and slumped down on the chair. You looked at your computer, and then at the pile of files you had on your table, as well as the reports you had to finish working on, to get signed by Jake, your boss. You pouted; it was so much work for just one person. The worn-out chair creaked as you shifted, contemplating how to tackle the mountain of tasks in front of you.

Turning on the computer, you got up from your chair, and decided to go for a coffee run.

Turning the coffee machine on, and placing your cup below, you stared at the liquid pouring down as it gradually filled the cup. After a few moments, another person entered the room, and you looked over your shoulder.

Thankfully, it was your friend, Mia.

Mia was one of the very few girls in the office who worked at the same position as you, and you two had grown really close over the past  6 months, when she had driven you home one night from the bar, you had been really wasted and she was he only one sober. She had made you drink water, take a Tylenol, and tucked you in.  She was so caring.

She walked with a smile up to you, proceeding to retrieve her own cup. She then came and stood next to you, while the machine was still filling up your cup.

“Morning.”

“Morning. You look tired. What happened?” she asked. You sighed and frowned, as all of the things that had happened in just the last 24 hours came rushing back, making you want to cry so bad.

“Yeah, I took the bus, and walked like, half a mile to reach here”

“Oh god. What about your car?”

“It totaled. And my apartment too, it’s gone. My landlord kicked me out.”

“Jesus, that’s awful. So you slept in your car?”

“Mhm” you removed your cup, and replaced it with hers. Taking a sip, you closed your eyes as it cascaded down your throat. You hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon, and the coffee gave you some energy to finish some of your work, till the afternoon at least.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” she frowned too, feeling sorry for you.

“It’s alright. Should have seen that coming. I mean, I spent so much money on the concert tickets last month, I almost went broke. I couldn’t even pay rent, and it was due since so many months”

“Still. That’s so bad. If you want, you can stay at mine for a few days. My roommate has gone for a trip and I think she’ll come back next week”

Your eyes brightened. She was such a gem. You immediately put your cup down, and hugged her.

“Thank you so much. So so much”

Rest of the day went by great. You were able to submit 5 reports, and completed most of the files and cleared them off your desk. You had finally managed to find a place to live, at least for the next few days, and you were sure you could figure something out till then.

Walking back to the garage, you had a cute smile on your face. The prospect of having a place to stay for the next few days infused you with a sense of relief, and not having to see Harry everyday was an added advantage.

Reaching the garage, you spotted your car and walked to it. There was someone down below, working on it. You decided to sit by for a bit, to find Harry and tell him about the new conditions. Surely, he will be glad to see less of you throughout the week.

You knocked the hood of the car, hoping the person below would listen.

He came sliding out, but he wasn’t Harry.

And he was gorgeous. Bright blue eyes, with brunette hair. He was wearing a tank-top, the shirt tied around his waist. There was a bit of grease here and there, but you didn’t mind.

“Yeah?”

You blinked and shook your head, bringing your eyes back up to his face.

“Uh-yeah. I was just-I came to ask that-Oh-this-this is my car. I wanted to ask, is there any progress?” you stumbled a bit around your words, but managed to blurt out at least an understandable sentence.

“Oh, yeah. I checked the engine and it was…well, in a bad condition. I will have to replace the air filters, check the exhaust and combustion, and the fuel too. Will have to replace the battery too”

He got up, cleaning his hands on a stray cloth.

“Oh. It’s not totaled yet, is it?”

“No, lord no.  It’ll be much lower than that. How much did you buy this for?”

“About 35,000 dollars”

“Nope, this will be about 600 dollars.”

“Oh, thank god. I met, Harry? In the morning. And he scared me so bad. I felt that it was gone”

“No, he just likes to give hard time to everyone. I’m Niall, by the way” he extended his hand for a handshake, and you gladly did.

“Hi. I’m Y/N. And he really scared me so much.”

“Yeah, he just does that so people use their cars better. Or at least live in fear till the repair is done. “

You shook your head, and remembered that you had to pack up your stuff, since Mia, and the moving truck was going to be here soon.

“That’s so bad. Is he around?”

“Yeah, he’s in the back. I’ll call him.”

“Sure”

He went in and came back after a while, and Harry still had his nose scrunched up, and shoulders slumped, hands crossed in the front.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Oh-I wanted to tell you that-my friend, she offered me her apartment for a while, so for a week, I will be living with her. So I’ll take my stuff away and you can take my number, call me if it’s done.”

“Cool. But I don’t do calls. You’ll have to be come and check yourself”

“Don’t be a dick” Niall interrupted, “I can take your number. I’ll call you if it’s done early”

You smiled, and gave him your number. He promised to call you, and reassured you that he’ll do his best work on it. It made you feel a bit relaxed, and at ease. At least, everyone was not as rude as Harry. Soon, Mia came with her car and a truck, so you could move your stuff from your old apartment as soon as possible. There wasn’t much: a couch, two almirahs, your bed which had been dissembled, the mattress a TV, a refrigerator, an oven, kitchen utensils and an induction. Some other small appliances too, like the iron, straightener, etc, but that could fit in your bag.

After everything was loaded and your car was empty, you gave the keys to Niall, and picked up your bag, walking to Mia’s car and keeping it in the backseat. You went around and sat in the front, as she drove away to her place, the truck following behind.

The night was dark as Mia's car cruised through the quiet streets. You sat in the front seat, staring out of the window as the city lights blurred and headlights blinked. The stress of your car and the situation of next week, when her roommate would be back, still lingered on your shoulders. But, you were glad to have found a temporary refuge at her place.

Upon reaching Mia's place, you stepped out of the car. The air inside was cozy and inviting. Mia led the way, and you followed suit, hauling your heavy back awkwardly.

After moving your stuff to a corner, you both slumped down on the couch. The day had been tiring, but the welcoming aroma of her home made you feel at ease.

With Mia's help, you settled into the spare room she had graciously offered. It wasn't much, but it was a haven compared to the uncertainty of your car. You thanked Mia again, overwhelmed by her kindness, and assured her that you would find a more permanent solution soon.

The night unfolded with shared laughter, stories, and a home-cooked meal. Mia was a great cook, and you hadn’t tasted her food in so many months. You talked and laughed, and having dinner with a friend was so comforting. As the clock ticked away, fatigue set in, and you found solace in the softness of the spare bed.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, gently waking you from a restful sleep. You opened your bag and took out your toiletries, and laid out the clothes for the day. Brushing your teeth, freshening up and taking a bath, you felt so much better than you did yesterday.

As you sat on the dining table drinking coffee with Mia, your phone buzzed.

It was an unknown number.

Hey, it’s Niall

Your heartbeat increased in your chest. The gorgeous brunette had messaged you?!

You put the cup down, taking the phone down. Opening his chat, you quickly typed out a reply:

Hi, good morning, Niall :)

You didn’t respond to texts from unknown mechanics with a good morning message and a smile usually, but he was different. He treated you with so much kindness, and to be honest, you had a little crush on him.

His response was quick,

Morning, love. How you been? Sleep well?

Your heart fluttered at the endearment in his message. It was unexpected, especially considering your recent interactions with mechanics, particularly the grumpy Harry. Niall's tone was a stark contrast, and you couldn't help but smile at the screen.

Yeah, slept better knowing my car is in good hands. Thanks again for your help. And you?

you replied, genuinely interested in how his night had been.

Niall's response was swift,

Glad to hear that! I slept like a log, thanks. You off to work? Yeah. You? Already there. Was working on your car just before I texted Oh. Well…good luck, I guess??? Lol. Yeah, it's all in a day's work. Don't worry; I've got it covered. Your car will be up and running smoothly in no time. Thanks, Niall. I appreciate it. No worries, love. Call me if you need anything. Sure, thanks

You closed your phone, throwing it inside your bag, you walked out to the door with a huge smile on your face.

a/n: i tried writing it better!hoip

lovely divider by @cafekitsune

i hope you like this! please don't hate me

here's my ko-fi if you feel generous

requests and feedback is welcome and much appreciated!!

>>>

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[p0ssywhippedcream]

oooh what do you think would happen if jason (grace) stood you up by accident like he was doing something and he just... forgot

Tangerines. Orange peels littered your thighs as you nervously chewed on the fruit. It had been an hour since the start time of your picnic with Jason and you'd gone through 6 tangerines.

You sat with upright posture, despite doubts, he had to show up soon. Your eyes were wide and alert as you searched the crowd on the green patch of park you occupied. He would show up soon with some excuse about getting lost in his work with minor deities and he would give you that lovely, toothy smile as he sat down.

One minute, two, four, seven, eleven, twenty went by. Two more tangerines filled your belly. Why had you brought so many tangerines? You dropped the ninth fruit back in the basket and sighed. The tangy acid of the fruit stung in your nail beds and your fingernails had stringy pieces stuck underneath them.

You pushed your hair behind your ear and left a strand of it sticky with the juice. Your posture failed, you uncrossed your legs with a huff and finally let the tears take your eyes. Just thirty more minutes and then you'd leave. You just had to make sure he wasn't coming.

You sipped at your cup of orange juice and groaned as the sun disappeared behind a cloud. It was dipping steadily, Apollo clearly had no mercy for your need for warmth. Clouds took the sky, popping up out of nowhere and turning the day gray. You looked up and you could swear the gods were laughing at you as a raindrop exploded on your eyebrow.

With a few curses, you began to pack up the picnic basket that was busy with watermelon and pb&j sandwhiches. You stuffed all the peels in unceremoniously as the rain really began to pour. Your ponytail got soaked and allowed the water a single path down your back, each droplet in your hair flowing down it and drenching your clothes.

Snatching the blanket and basket with growing rage, you tilted your chin to the sky and shouted, "I get it! Ha ha! Very funny, Jupiter!"

Several mortals also running for cover in the park gave you strange looks that you discarded. Whatever, fine, Jason and his dad could go sit and spin for all you cared. A little voice in your head reminded you that you did care, that it hurt and that your cheeks weren't wet with only precipitation.

You wiped them with the picnic blanket and when you were done, let it drag behind you in the mud. God, did it have to rain this hard? Thunder boomed in the distance, a reminder of sky daddy's chuckles at your state.

The bus ride home to near Camp Half Blood was barely acknowledged. Walking the half mile from the stop was, the rain blinding you even with the dirty fabric of picnic blanket draped over your head. Entering the border, the weather receded to dark clouds and you dropped your belongings, shaking yourself like a wet dog. Peleus sniffed you and grunted when the droplets hit his face, pulling away and re-tucking his head in the truck of Thalia's tree.

You grabbed your things and marched to the cabins with a frown that couldn't be turned upside down. Right as you passed Cabin 1, a flurry of orange and blonde flew out the door and knocked you on your butt.

Your boyfriend landed on his as well, his eyes flashing with joy that was cut short by realization as he sees you.

"Y/n! I was just about to leave-"

He was on his feet before you, a calloused hand in your face which you pushed away roughly.

"Yeah? Two and a half fricking hours late?"

Jason winced. "I didn't mean- I was sketching a stat-"

You stood up with a red face. "No, no! I get it! You're a busy guy, Jason. You can't be bothered to show up to a picnic you planned because you're so busy!"

A few campers had come to the doors of their cabins to check out the commotion and at Cabin 7, Kayla muttered "Damn."

"I'm sorry, I lost-"

"Lost track of time?" You finished for him. His hands halted halfway up to hold your face, his guilt was obvious and maybe later you'd feel bad for yelling so publicly but Jason had forgotten you one too many times. "Do you know what a clock is, Jason? It tells time. Maybe buy one and you won't loose track of it! Or-! Or even better, Jason, buy an alarm clock! That's a clock that lets you know when you have to do something, like go on a date with your girlfriend!"

You shook with rage for a moment, probably looking ridiculous dripping wet with mud splattered on your legs and shoes and washed away mascara. Nobody said anything for a moment, not even the other kids watching with interest. You met his sad eyes and all the fight left you. Disappointment replaced anger and you sighed, looking away.

"I know that your work is important to you, Jason. I won't give you an ultimatum and that's mainly because I know... you wouldn't choose me. I just wish-I just wish you would try to care about me half as much as you care about that. That's all."

Without another look at your devastated boyfriend, you dragged yourself and your dirty belongings away and trudged to your cabin. Nobody stopped you but one of your siblings did help you out of your dirty shoes at the door and handed you a towel with a hand on your back steering you to the showers.

You brought your hands to your head to detangle your hair and caught a whiff of tangy fruit. You paused and examined your muddy fingers that reeked of tangerines and knew you'd never be able to eat another one without a reminder of today. You practically threw your hands in the sink as you gave them a deep scrubbing.

Jason stood outside for a moment, looking only at the spot you'd been just seconds before. Self-hate bubbled up in his lungs and he couldn't breathe, his hands clenching and unclenching.

"I'm sorry.." He murmured and looked up to see the other campers quickly evade his gaze and duck away. He turned and stalked off into his cabin again, his eyes quickly filling as his brain clouded with shame.

[outofmydepthatapublicbeach]

comfort from the rain- Julien Baker x fem!reader

summary: Julien takes care of your after a bad day.

jj chats: this was originally gonna be a blurb but then it turned into an entire fic!! i really liked writing it though and i hope you guys like it too!! love y'all &lt;;33

word count: 1100ish

warnings: RPF, undressing (not in a sexual way), kisses, hugs, no use of y/n, pet names used (honey, princess, baby).

feedback is encouraged and i'd love to get some just please be kind!!!

It was one of those days.

The sky had gotten increasingly dark as you walked from the bus stop to your apartment. Funny how after a long day those 2 blocks felt like 4 miles. Trudging through the sidewalk, hands in your pockets trying to keep warm. It was freezing this year, especially at night. The wind wouldn’t stop whipping into you, causing you to freeze even more. When you left in the morning it wasn’t even that cold, so you thought a sweater would suffice for the day. Forgotten was the memories of how cold it gets when the sun goes down. The trees had no leaves due to the coming of winter, the small patches of grass were dirt brown, and your shoes were covered in muddy slush. It seemed like wherever you looked you just saw negativity. 

Your eyes felt heavy from your lack of sleep over the past few days. A co-worker was transferred and so all their leftovers went to you. You made the fatal mistake of trying to be helpful and ended up stuck in a trap, unable to refuse at risk your job, you accepted the later hours and more work. Regret filled your mind. You just wanted to get home.

Finally, your building came into view, only a little while longer until you were within the safe walls of your shared home. An abandoned apartment that you and your long-time girlfriend Julien had transformed into a home. You saw the green painted door and approached it fast, excited to finally be home, sweet, home. You tried the door handle, expecting it to open with ease since Julien was inside. Except it didn’t. It was locked. You sighed before taking your bag off and rifling through for your keys. You moved around a pack of gum, a half empty notebook, wallet, but you found no keys. 

“Come on!” you whisper yelled to yourself, frustrated. And as if the little cloud controllers in the sky could hear you. Suddenly you felt droplets of rain plummet to the ground and hit your body. You had forgotten about the chances of rain today. Great. The rain was cold, soaking into your sweater as you now desperately tried searching for your key. But to no avail. The rain came down hard, it almost immediately drenched your clothes and hair.

Even on a good day it didn’t take much for you to cry, and with your horrible day the chances were up 100%. And with that rain, came your tears. You leaned against the door, starting to gently sob. It was a minute or two before you remembered that Julien was home, and you could have called her at any time and she would have come sprinting to the door to let you in. You quickly clicked on her contact, the call screen filling your phone. 

“Hey baby! Are you almost home?” Julien asked, her voice like a rainbow after a storm.

“Yeah-” your voice cracked halfway through your attempt to communicate.

“Honey, are you okay? You sound like you’ve been crying,” Julien murmurs to the phone, of course she would already know how you're feeling.

“I forgot my keys this morning and I’m locked out and it's raining.” You say, tears still falling from your eyes, mascara running down your face. 

“Oh baby, I’m almost at the door,” as soon as the sound of her voice travels from your phone to your ears the door is already open. You see Julien, bundled up in one of your sweatshirts and a pair of sweatpants, her hair soaked. 

Julien immediately surged forward, hugging you tightly despite the downpour of rain and the fact your sweater is soggy. She steps back, following her form back into your home. You feel another wave hit you and you wrap your arms around your love, holding her for dear life. 

About a minute passes by, Julien just holding you, rubbing your back through your clothes. She says “It’s okay baby, you’re home now.” You start to pull away from her, but your hand falls right into hers to which she squeezes it lightly: reassurance. “Let's get you all warm. Then we can go lay down and cuddle?” Her smile is warm, full of love.

Julien leads you into the laundry room. You sit on a bench as she bends down to unlace your boots, then she gently places them to the side. “Can I take off your sweater? I don’t want you to catch a cold.” She asks, hands placed on your sides.  You hum a sound of approval and she continues, gently sliding it over your head and returning to you, clad in a pair of jeans and a bra. She moves to go hang up your sweater, an attempt to dry it out. You reach down to unbutton your jeans, the material tough, sliding them down your legs you feel a shiver. Julien turns back around and graciously takes your jeans from you, hanging them up alongside your sweater. You slip your socks off and leave them next to your boots. 

“Wait right here,” Julien says, kissing you on the forehead before quickly running out the room. She’s back within 20 seconds, a fluffy towel, pair of sweatpants, and a hoodie in her arms. She hands the towel to you, and throws the clothes into the dryer, turning the heat to max. 

“I’m sorry Jules,” you sigh, using the towel more to warm up than to dry off. The guilt of causing an inconvenience to Julien starts the flourish in your mind.

“Why are you sorry princess?” Julien asks, head tilting to the side. “You were doing something before I got home, I didn’t mean to throw a wrench in your plans.”

“You didn’t throw any wrench in any plans baby, I was waiting for you when you called. I’m sorry I left the door locked. I must have forgotten to unlock it after I got out of the shower.” She smiled, then opened the dryer, pulling out your clothes and handing them over to you. They were warm enough to melt your sadness, warm enough to remind you of the positive side. 

“Thank you for this, it means a lot.” You confess to your girlfriend.

“Of course, I’m always here for you and I will do anything you need, anything you want.” 

Quickly you threw on the clothes and then walked over to Julien, leaning in to meet in a chaste kiss. Pulling away you both smiled at each other. “I love you Jules,” You fall into another hug, “So much.”  Your face, buried in her neck.

You could feel her smile in the crook of your neck, and then she sighed, then whispered “Love you, forever princess.”

[allthingsmpreg]

The Walk Home

“Hsss ah, guys calm down.” I said to my hugely pregnant belly, running my hands inside my shirt over my huge stomach. Another contraction had hit me, I sat at the bus stop waiting for my usual late bus. I was heading to my last class that I would be attending in person, the next week I was my expected due date.

I’m a college student, first year actually and I had already managed to get myself pregnant. I was definitely afraid when I found out, but I was determined to make this work and prove myself and everyone wrong. I was still attending classes, and had plans in motion in order to attend school still and take care of my babies.

There I was, nine months and hugely pregnant sitting at the bus still. I still made myself walk to the bus stop, a half a mile walk, it was something I had done my entire pregnancy. I hadn’t thought of anything different, despite waking up that morning with an contractions. I had been experiencing random ones for days now, I had figured they were Braxton hicks.

God, was I wrong.

“Oh, jeeez guys let’s stop. Oh wow.” I groaned as a strong contraction clenched through me. I took a deep breath, continued my breathing as I gripped onto ky backpack. The contractions were so intense, I clenched my bag, until finally it was over.

I gripped the seat and pulled myself up, my entire belly needing help. Sometimes I wondered how I was so small and still do, how my huge belly was supported by my small frame. Standing up I decided to pace around for few seconds, then I felt it.

“Oh not you have, ahhh.” I moaned in shock. My legs spread as I felt a large gust of water spill frok me and into my underwear, down my legs. My water had broken. “Nooo no no babies please, oooooo!” I gripped the bench as the next contraction ripped through me.

I was in labor

When the contraction ended, I pulled my phone and opened the Uber app. I never took Uber because I was saving money, however I felt that day could be the exception. To my horror it said that their was no available drivers at that moment, I cursed myself as I panicked. I had no choice but to walk home.

I started waddling myself back to the corner to cross the extremely busy intersection where I take the bus. Pressing the walk sign, I looked both ways frantically as I continued to press the button for it to change allow me to walk. I was trying to get home, or at least get a close as possible before my next contraction came.

‘Walk sign is on’ I heard and the walking sign appeared.

I stepped into the busy intersection, cars all around stopped as the hugely pregnant boy walked through the street. I placed my hand on my back as I waddled through the street. I had just passed halfway, then the pain of another contraction hit me.

“Ahhh.” I groaned as i gripped my bag again, my walking getting slower. The pains of the contraction made me want to all but stop. But I was so damn close and I knew I had to keep going. I turtle walked, eventually make it back onto the side walk on the other side. I gave in and leaned against a light post, breathing through that contraction. “MHMMMMMM!” I groaned.

When it was gone, I took deep breaths as I continued my walking. The rest of the walk was thankfully only straight down the street, I only needed to cross a small not busy street. I continued waddling, I was trying to walk as fast as I could. Which wasn’t that fast, but I was steadily walking my way home.

The next one, I knew that I needed to get home and fast.

“Ahhh, fuckk no.” I groaned, forced to lean over as a contraction came over me. However, it was different. I felt the strong pain change to an intense pressure in my stomach. My legs wanting to spread and push. “Ooooooo.” I cried as I had to try, with all of my might to sofp myself from pushing.

It stopped and I kept walking, frantic and desperate to get myself home. As I walked home, I felt like the babies were so low and going to fall out any damn second. My legs felt like they wanted to give out, my body wanted to lay down in the street and just push them out.

I struggled them made it to the next intersection, pressing the button as it immediately told me that I could walk. I walked and made it to the other side, the next contraction came though and I had to give in and stop walking.

“Ahhhhh!” I yelled as my attempt to stop myself stopped working. I leaned against the street light and my body started to make me push, my legs felt weak as I tried my best now to crouch down.

It subsided for, as I reached into my pants and felt my stretched hole. I gasped and whimpered in agony as I felt the the babies head.

I was crowning.

Thankfully I could see my apartment from there, I just needed to get there. I stood up again, take deep breaths as I pushed myself off the light post and kept walking again. I was forced to waddle even more to account for my extensor low stomach, and my legs have to be spread apart fathwr as I walked.

I made it into my complex, just in time as the next contraction came on. I screamed this time, denying my body from pushing. I leaned against a car, not caring if anyone saw or not.

When it subsided I waddled to my front door, i shoved my key so hard into the lock I thought it would break, I got in and Slammed the door behind me. I grabbed the over sized shirt and pulled it over my head, half of it covered in my sweat.

“Ah! Okay okay okay. OOOOO!”

The next one hit I didn’t hold back or try and stop it, I fully started pushing as the next contraction hit. I felt my hole stretched and burn, the baby passing though and stretching me out. Despite the pain, it almost felt like a relief in a sense because I was allowing myself to push.

I could feel my lose pants tenting in the back, I pulled them off carefully as I took a break. When I looked back in the mirror in the corner of the room I saw that the first babies head was completely out.

I waddled over to the area I set up for myself, silently thanking myself for setting it up days ago as well. As soon as I laid down on my back it was time, I gripped the blankets I laid on and started pushing. In a weird way it felt like a relief allowing myself to push. The pain almost subsiding as the rest of my first sons body slid out of me.

I placed him on my bare chest and held him, enjoying the few moments I had before I was forced to push again. The moment was short lived as I bore down and pushed once more, this time a lot easier then first then the first one. After only a few pushes my second son came out of me, I smiled placing him on my chest as well.

Just as I was enjoying the moment, it was ruined as another intense contraction came over me. “What the fuckk?!” I groaned as I was confused, I knew that it wasn’t an immediate process. I was confused still though because it still felt like I was giving birth. I groaned as I reach down, shoving fingers inside my gaping hole when I felt the top of another head.

I was having triplets.

“Oooo, ahhhhh!” I let out a low mild groan as I continued my pushing. I felt the baby go down my birth canal, I groaned and gripped tighter. The baby was even bigger then it’s two brothers, and this one was going to require more effort.

After pushing and pushing, I felt the baby crowning but still stuck in the same place as before. I set my babies down and managed to get myself to my knees. I lifted myself up a little, then began pushing harder this time then other two.

“Ahhhhh!” I groaned as I felt my asshole slowly being stretched by the babies head even further. I took a few moments to breath, before going back to pushing. Finally I felt his head completely come out fully, I moan in pleasure at the huge head being out of me. The rest of him falls out of me with only two pushes.

I laid back down, my three sons laying on my chest.