#worn on General Hospital

[burned-lariat]

GirlPeter's brainrot is so fascinating. She really thinks a fire is going to get her out of a stone fortress. The audacity is hilarious.

[kovilm]

Rada Krivokapic Radonjic is a famous fashion designer and stylist whose signature style of classic, elegant yet luxurious ready-to-wear helped introduce ease and streamlined modernity to 21th-century dressing.

Early life

Rada Krivokapic Radonjic is originally from Kotor, Montenegro. Her parents are father Djuro Krivokapic and mother Vidosava Kaludjerovic. She also has an older brother named Radoslav Rajo Krivokapic. Her brother is a sailor, her mother a health care worker/nurse at Kotor General Hospital, and her father a factory worker.

Education

Talking about her educational background, she passed her Master's level in 2018. The program was funded by the German Government and was also designed according to the German education system. She had enrolled in Law, Professional, and Occupational Pedagogy, Trade, and Economy. She joined the School of Fashion and Specialization for Fashion Designer and Stylist. She graduated from this school of fashion from Belgrade in 1996, which was under the Paris system in collaboration with the Academy of Fine Arts. For her fashion school, she did an internship under Giorgio Armani Milan in 1997. Working for one of the world's most famous fashion creators, she got the opportunity to meet the best fashion creators to advance her knowledge base. Likewise, she completed her Ph.D. in Fashion Design in Belgrade in 1998.

Rada Krivokapic Radonjic, a visionary in the world of fashion, hails from the picturesque town of Kotor, Montenegro. Her creative journey has been nothing short of exceptional, combining classic designs with a deep commitment to sustainability. Born into a humble family, Rada’s passion for fashion stemmed from her early exposure to the industry through her work with esteemed designers like Giorgio Armani, Gianni Versace, Valentino Garavani, Karl Lagerfeld, and Roberto Cavalli.

Professional Life and Career

Talking about her professional life, she is famous as a designer and a stylist. She is the founder of Rada Krivokapic Radonjic, Kovilm and Rada Radonjic luxury clothing brands. They were established in the city of Kotor, Montenegro. In 2006, she designed the collection "Ostvarene Rijeci". The collection was inspired by her deceased father. Moreover, she collaborated with model Filip Kapisoda in 2010 and had a number of fashion shows in 2018. Furthermore, she also organized several fashion shows in the city of Yugoslavia. She also work as Costume Designer in Kotor. Moreover, Rada also designed a new fashion accessory called "Kovilm". She designed it for the 2019 fashion show called "Svijet Bez Sukoba". Kovilm is a garment worn around the neck, which symbolizes the transformation from tie and bow-tie. Additionally, Rada has also written the books 'Odijevanje' that translates to "Dressing" and 'Krojenje i sivenje' that translates to "Tailoring and sewing". Her books are related to the issues in the fashion and clothing world, which is influential for aspiring models, designers, and stylists. She is mostly based in her hometown Kotor. However, she also has her professional links in Podgorica, the capital of Montenegro. She designed common folk costume called Zentivns 2022.

Awards, Net Worth

Rada Krivokapic Radonjic has won several awards for her humanitarian contributions and assistance. She has also received Humanitarian Contribution Awards. In 2023, Rada Krivokapic Radonjic is The World's Best Fashion Designer of The Year 2023 London, United Kingdom by Corporate LiveWire.

Personal Life

Reflecting on her personal life, Rada Krivokapic Radonjic gave birth to four children Nedjeljka Nadja Radonjic (1999), Valentina Radonjic (2001), Nebojsa Radonjic (2007) and Teodora Radonjic (2013). Furthermore, she maintains a good professional and personal life, free of scandals and controversies.

[t-tomuras]

༺༻ ─── • 𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥

Pairing: Jing Yuan x Foxian!reader

Warnings: Teasing, fingering, slight pussyjob, nipping, slight clawing, light marking, biting, creampie

Wordcount: 3.1k

Notes: Here I am tentatively trying to dip my toes into the fandom with the dozing general < 3

Even the general has his vices, requiring moments of reprieve as he sees fit, what with the stresses of his position of authority despite how effortlessly carefree he can always appear to be. 

As does your own position, operating in tandem with the general on assignment as the Realm Keeping Commissions liaison, always maintaining an air of detached professionalism while equally being hospitable to uphold the Xianzhou’s pristine reputation while dealing with various crises simultaneously. Spine always pin straight, seeming perpetually perfectly posed from the moment you stand next to your general to the second you’re finally within the sanctity of solitude. 

Save for one other, that is, as his fingers trace down the exposed skin of your back after unclasping the fasteners on the high collar of your ensemble. 

“How do you dress yourself alone in the morning?” Jing Yuan questions on a light chuckle after shedding the ornamentation of his uniform followed by the layered top until his torso is bare before you. “It seems as though you always require aid to remove it.” 

“Then who better to supply it than the protector of the Xianzhou himself?” Cooed coyly before you spin on the balls of your feet, perfectly manicured tail sweeping the ground as fabric pools around them after it slips from your body. Stark nude as you drape yourself against Jing Yuan, reaching to loop your arms around his shoulders as he presses you into him by the small of your back. The soft flesh of your full chest crushed to the hard planes of his own, wasting no time in increasing contact with him as your lips seal over his own with a barely subdued hunger.

A kiss that’s returned with fervor as you’re walked backwards to his elegantly decorated mattress, too big for one man to occupy. Adorned with all the comforts one could crave, only complete when he lays you in it; so it’s fortunate you’ve come to warm it more often as the man that holds you works to soothe your worn bodies and sate shared salacious needs.  

Between the satin sheets and crushed velvet comforter you can truly see how tense he typically is as it translates into the passion you like to believe transcends a ‘mutually beneficial’ exchange between the both of you. You could convince yourself of it with the way he devours you in private if you caught the lingering glances in public, but always with your back turned or caught in conversation with other political figures and offworld visitors alike. 

Even so he likes to take his time with you, generous with his foreplay and typically you relish it but it’s been a long day of nonstop interaction. 

Whining into starving kisses when your general takes your wrists in one broad palm to halt you in the process of undoing his belt and shedding away the final layers of clothing that separate you from carnal contact. 

Writhing beneath him in a vain attempt to free yourself before his free hand is pinning your hips to the plush pillowtop while slotting himself between your spread legs. Close enough to feel the heat of his body but not enough to truly experience it even as you arch into the kiss. 

Eager tongue breaching the seam of his lips with a mewl, goading Jing into indulging in you, if even slightly. One hand still holding fast to both of yours, keeping your arms above your head while the hand at your hip slides beneath your body. Aiding in your arch as he caresses the small of your back, sinking slightly as he trails kisses from your lips, over your jaw and along your throat. 

Open mouthed and wanting, urging your thighs to reflexively clench at his sides, groaning when the only contact to your quickly dampening folds is his lower abdomen. Slicking the tantalizing trail of hair from his navel to his pelvis before Jing Yuan finally affords you with some reprieve. 

Touch blazing when calloused pads from years of finely honed swordplay roll over your sensitive bud. Melting easily into Jing Yuan’s touch as your hips twitch upwards, jerking needily and it births a softened expression on handsome features, neglected cock tenting his trousers as your pretty voice grows in volume. 

Soft whimpers crescendoing into sweet mewls in time with the slick clicking of your cunt as he preps you. Giving you just enough to feel good, to loosen up in more ways than one, but not tip you over the edge, not yet. 

Fixing you with a relaxed gaze as he props himself up slightly, fingers gliding through steadily soaking folds for thick digits to tease at your entrance. Prodding lazily until a well timed buck of your hips paired with a frustrated noise from plush lips forces his fingers to fill you.

Sighing out in relief even as he chuckles at your impatience, momentarily conceding to you now as he curls his fingers perfectly into that spongy spot that has you seeing stars the infinite cosmos could never compare to. Well versed in your body by now as he pumps his fingers expertly but he keeps the friction to your clit from the heel of his palm to a minimum. 

Winding the coil in your lower belly gradually while you’re steadily consumed in an inferno from meager kindling. Taunting you with release and you know it the moment your lidded gaze flits to his. 

Years of working closely with the man has allowed an ease in understanding his motives, you could read him like a book by now. Rolling your hips up into his hand and you can feel Jing Yuan pull back slightly before you click your tongue at him. 

Grasping at his wrist tightly, fighting the urge to roll your eyes at the amused quirk to his brow before you force yourself to soften. Loosening the knit of your brows to look more pleading than frustrated as you cup the general's cheek, pad of your thumb swiping affectionately over the mark that decorates the outer corner of his eye. 

“Kiss me,” a suspire of a sound as you sit up slightly while letting your fingers caress along his jawline before tilting his chin up. Leaving him to chuckle under his breath before chasing your lips, caging you beneath him as you lay flat amongst his pillows once more. 

Knees falling further open as if to make more room for him before your fingers fiddle with the copious buckles securing the harness like belt to his pelvis. Fumbling to undo the final clasp as his tongue swipes over your own, supplying a whine of annoyance for him to swallow when his hand rests over your increasingly frustrated fingers. 

“Require assistance?” Voice bearing a teasing lilt as he, much to your relief, effortlessly undoes his belt and pushes down the layers of his bottoms before lowering himself to you. Flushed tip gliding through your folds to coat himself in your wetness, rutting slowly into you with shallow rolls. Each rock leaves you twitching with every sweet kiss to your clit until your thighs wrap around his hips and the movement finally has Jing Yuan catching on your entrance. 

Sighing at the feel of him, thighs tensing as if that alone could hold him in place as your fingers press insistently into his latissimus muscles. Mewling slightly as he dips for a kiss, uttering a low “so eager,” against your lips. 

“You tease,” it could almost be taken in admonishment if a pleasured purr didn’t taint the tone. 

“I savor,” exhaled on a stolen gasp as he finally sinks into you, stretching you slowly. Staying true to his comment as he fills you inch by inch, broad palms pushing down on your hips as you arch from the mattress up into him. 

Finally tipping you over the edge for the first time tonight as he buries himself to the hilt, velvet walls convulsing sinfully around his cock as he drags his hips backwards slowly. Glancing down at where your bodies are joined to admire how you take him, relish the creamy rings that coat the base of his cock before your ankles hook at the base of his spine. Digging your heels into the toned flesh insistently, silently pleading for more.

Wrapping your arms around him in an embrace as you cling to Jing Yuan, rolling your lower body in time with the slow strokes he gives you but it isn’t enough. Shuddering breath along the shell of his ear, panting and whining while you try to hasten the pace but Jing Yuan has always been one for leisure. 

Chuckling into your own ear as he uses one arm to stabilize himself on the mattress while the other holds you to him. Low coo’s of ‘I’ve got you, slow down’ in contrast to your breathless ‘faster Jing Yuan, more.’ 

Frustration mounting when you feel the general flex corded muscles and expend a modicum of strength to keep you from bucking haphazardly and hastily into him. 

Leaning back just enough for golden irises, alight in the night, to drink in the desperate furrow of your brow and needy pout to pretty features. Softening him with the display so easily as the pad of his thumb swipes over the apple of your cheek before leaning down for another kiss as his arms lips beneath your back to press you into him. 

There’s an inherent tenderness to the action, the slow meld of his lips to yours before his tongue breaches the seam to taste you once more. Every encounter from the very beginning with Jing Yuan has been the epitome of intimacy and typically you reveled in it but tonight you’re starving. 

Evident in how you nip at his lower lip, pulling it away playfully before releasing it only to chase the contact again. Amusing Jing Yuan in the process, softening him as your hands splay over his broad back and knees climb higher as they frame his tapered waist now. Pelvis angled to feel each stroke deeply enough to steal air from your lungs, rip gasps from kiss swollen lips that leaves your general curious of just how delectable you look for him now. Urging him to pull back and bask in your pleasure, momentarily distracted as he appreciates the view. 

It allows you the opening to thrust your weight into his, allowing you to roll your bodies and switch the position. Straddling Jing Yuan now and his surprise fans the flames of your hunger, chasing his lips as your palm pushes into his shoulder. Pinning him to the mattress as you inhale deeply, exhaling with a throaty groan of relief as you rise and fall on his cock in a pace you have easier control of. 

But even still, his hands find the natural curve of your body, resting them leisurely as his head falls back into the mound of pillows.

“You seem especially worked up today.”

“Why would you think that, General? Could it be that I already had a tight schedule before receiving more work thanks to your delegation?” Your usually sweet and placating tone takes on a slight hiss as your nails dig into his shoulder blades, threatening to break skin as his hips slow in the methodical rhythm. Leaving you to emit a noise of complaint when even your attempts at bouncing to maintain the build of pleasure proves fruitless, resorting to pouting with agitated flicks of your ear. 

“Oh so you’re angry with me, is that what this is?” Clicking your tongue over his glib tone before a much more vocal whine rips from your throat when broad palms force your own hips to still. 

“Yes, I am angry and you’re doing well to exacerbate the feeling,” finally fixing him with a glare he thinks is precious as your delicate digits uselessly pry at his calloused ones.  

He gives a haughty face, handsome features fixed with that placating gaze he uses to diffuse the Grand Diviner as if that’ll melt away the scowl that pinches at plush lips. Eyes rolling at how Jing Yuan only chuckles at you now, the sound growing more boisterously as you swat away the hand that grips at the base of your tail and runs down the expanse of it affectionately. 

Adding a teasing, ‘so fierce’ when your ears pin backwards and your lip snarls. Writhing in his hold for a moment and your lids flutter at the fleeting friction applied to your clit. Grinding slowly until a shallow breath shudders from your lips, a gasp broken by a moan following suit as the hands at your hips drag you along his pelvis. Aiding the movement for a moment before your general is adjusting to sit up, pressing at the small of your back to keep you close to him as he does so. 

“Forgive me, little fox,” husked against the apple of your cheek as he moves in languid strokes, methodically and pointedly to reach all the places that make you twitch involuntarily. 

Jing yuans forehead nudging against your own, nose brushing yours and his lips a hairsbreadth away from your own. Humid puffs of breath mingling in the minimal space but he pulls away when you mean to close the gap, interrupting you with a cooly insistent, “forgive me.” 

“Fine,” your reply tinged with the slightest bit of exasperation before he’s muffling your clipped ‘forgiven.’ Swallowing the sound to keep for himself as he cups the curve of your skull. Limbs now lax with no intention of inhibiting your pursuit of pleasure. 

Whatever he did now, save for holding you still completely, would give you stimulation regardless. Bouncing eagerly and earnestly on his lap as your head lolls back, palms splayed out on whatever sculpted surface of his skin you could reach as pitchy keens tumble from your lips so much more effortlessly now. 

Feeling the telltale coil of your impending climax wind tightly in your lower belly and you chase the feeling, pelvis jerking into Jing Yuans. Racing to rapture and he doesn’t stop you now, makes no move to slow you down at all and relishes in how much noisier you become. 

Airy moans and soft babbling of his name slip from your tongue before you’re lost in the euphoria. Gasping sharply as the coil gives way and the feeling is so intense you think your vision blurs, not realizing the pearly tears that have gathered in your lash line are the cause. 

Nails digging deeply into your generals back as he fucks you through the high, rutting up into you with equal fervor. Filling the room with a cacophony of lewd squelching, the wet slap of skin, low growls and sweet ‘ah ah ah’s’ punctuated by hurried bounces. 

Until you show no signs of stopping, sure to coast into overstimulation and he’s well aware of what that does to you in the afterglow of your coupling. Leading to strong hands gripping more insistently to hold you to his body; his own climax could wait for now. 

Using his strength to halt your movements and threatening to ruin your return to rapture but you voice your displeasure less petulantly than before. Usually rounded pupils now narrowed into slits as your head snaps back to Jing Yuan's face. Confusion marring his face, hand rising to push hair from your face and his lips parting to explain himself before your fingers knot into long ivory locks. Yanking with enough force to angle his head to the wide and expose porcelain skin to sink your teeth into the sensitive flesh of his trapezius muscle.

Surprising the both of you that births a harrowing moment of clarity from the craze. Not from the deep groan that rumbles in his chest and reverberates against your own or the way he grips you with a near bruising force.

But from the following warmth that fills you full and how Jing Yuan’s biceps flex and tighten around your body while his own suddenly seizes. Turning his face to tuck his nose into your throat as his hips jerk up into your own for sticky seed to paint your walls in pearly ropes. 

Pulling a pleased hum from you as the fingers knotted in his stylishly disheveled locks loosen to move higher and rake soothingly at his scalp. Grinding slowly, rolling your lower body in languid circles to work your general through his sudden climax. Milking him for all he’s worth as you nudge gently at him, thoroughly enjoying how, in moments like these, he’s the most pliant. 

“Oh? That’s new,” giggling softly, voice a sweet coo that bears no real tease to the man, considering you quite liked his reaction. 

Now moving to brush your lips against the charming mark that adorns the outer corner of his eye as you follow the sculpt of his skull. Smile tugging at the corner of your mouth as his thumbs dig into the spaces where your legs connect to your pelvis, kneading small circles as Jing Yuan works to steady his breathing. 

The heaving of his broad chest gradually slows to even draws by the time you reach his throat, tongue swiping to taste the saline of his tacky skin and feel his thrumming pulse beneath your wet muscle.  

Another tinkling giggling sounds in the space between you as your innocent lapping turns to teasing nips dotted between insistent suckles in order to marr pristine alabaster. Earning a groan from Jing Yuan as his jaw tilts upwards reflexively, lolling slightly as you cradle his jaw opposite of your affections. 

Only satisfied with your work when you can already see the beginnings of bursted blood vessels bloom in the shape of your lips. Sighing as your litter him with more loving kisses as your general adjusts your positions, finally laying down to bask in the post coital bliss. 

Only moderately lamenting the loss of that full feeling you only ever receive when you’re alone with him. 

Taking a moment of reprieve yourself as you stare up at the ceiling before you feel Jing Yuan flex to pull you closer to him. Leaning up yourself to lean against his torso, drumming your fingers along his chest before tucking stray strands of starlight locks behind his ear. 

“I wish you the best of luck explaining the budding bruise near your Adam's apple, General.” 

“I’m certain the Realm Keeping Commission wouldn’t mind loaning me their most competent and dutiful administrator for all my delegation needs.” 

Caressing his jaw lovingly, body now free of the day's tension as your mold into Jing Yuan’s side. Silent for a full moment before your nails poke gently into the soft flesh of his cheek as you press into his skin and angle his head to meet your gaze, “don’t push your luck.” 

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗬 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗥𝗦 - part three lando norris x  fem! streamer! reader (fluff) “. . . lando finds himself addicted to playing video games with this girl he cant get out of his head.”

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests ) ( previous | next )

devilsdare03 posted a tiktok

> replies . . .

user the guy is hooked, good luck devi 👍

user this confirms the suspicions. devi, you are the hottest woman on earth if you got lando norris all smiley like that

user the way he was in the middle of a convo with max and totally forgot the world around him once he saw her and sat up ⤷ user someone tell him her favorite type of flowers fr

mclaren is that our lando?? 😲 ⤷ devi.03 yep, it is

user the smile omg my heart ⤷ user girl just the smile?!! look at the little wave! he’s so cute i cant!

user the way he looks at her tho awwww

user ok but like, lando better ask her out, she went out of her way to go see him ⤷ user better not mess this up, lando norris ⤷ user on god 

user honestly im so glad they finally met, i've been waiting for this moment since december

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

How to approach you, how to approach you, Lando pondered watching you standing at the little bar in the mclaren hospitality, waiting for your drink. "Suck it up." he mumbled, brushing his hand through his hair one last time before walking up to you. He was lucky enough that you wore the merch and the watch he got you, he would’ve thought you were an influencer if you hadn’t run your hand through your hair which showed the richard mille that identified you as you.

Lando awkwardly cleared his throat before asking the bartender for a drink. You looked up from your phone upon hearing the new but familiar voice. The brit in papaya tried to act cool, leaning on the counter and looking out of the glass wall onto the paddock. You smirked, leaning on your forearms as well. Taking a sip from your drink once it was set in front of you, you lightly nudged Lando.

He hummed, turning his head to face you. You shrugged your right sleeve up to reveal the watch. “I think I broke it.” Your words drew a frown from Lando, making him hold your wrist gently to inspect the watch. 

“You haven’t had it for two months.” He scolded trying to find where the fault would’ve been. You held in a smile, watching him put his ear down to listen to the ticks. 

“I’m telling you, man. Every third tick is slower.” Lando furrowed his eyebrows, staying there to see the apparent faulty watch. It was only when he realized you quoted the line from the movie cars did he nudge you with a huff. 

“You scared me. I thought you broke it.” He scolded, taking his monster drink and popping it open with a grumble. 

“I’d never even put a scratch on it.” you assured, nudging his shoulder with a laugh. “This is the first time I’ve worn it anyways, I wanted it to be a special occasion” You sighed happily, admiring the watch. Lando glanced at you while taking a sip from the drink.

“You think this is a special occasion?” he asked quietly, looking the other way as if he saw something when he was just trying to hide his smile. 

“Oh yeah, for sure.” you nodded, giggling. “I finally get to meet Max Verstappen.” the brunette turned to you with a deadpan while you tried to hold in your smile. You both knew you were joking. Lando would’ve thought you were playing a trick on him if you weren’t wearing his ln4 world merch and McLaren cap.

“So,” you pushed off the counter, “P4 for tomorrow's race, you think you can get a podium? A win maybe?” Lando tried to hold in a smile as he followed you, walking with you from the hospitality to the garage. 

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"I'm not letting you stay in a hotel?"

"What? Where should I stay? The curb?" You held your hands up confused. 

"You can't even afford the meal plan!" Lando scolded as he pushed you from behind in the parking lot.

The awkwardness a person would get from meeting someone for the first time didn't last long between you and Lando. It lasted only 30 seconds before you nearly gave the brit a heart attack by telling him you broke the watch. You randomly read it somewhere, it doesn't always work but it sure did this time because Lando was the same silly and funny guy who always butts in asking for a partner or a teammate in a game when he doesn't need one.

"I can just eat out??" You tried to argue not seeing where he was going with the conversation.

"That's wasting even more money!" He scolded, turning you right and letting you hop down the sidewalk into the rows upon rows of cars. 

"What am I supposed to do then?!" you threw your hands up just as Lando stopped to search for the car keys, with you still frozen, hands up in the air.

"Are you summoning god or something?" Oscar mumbled as he walked by. 

"I wish, I think he's going to throw me on the side of a highway or something." you replied, sighing. 

"Dev's staying in my room so I'm sleeping at yours." Lando told Oscar as he pulled the car door open. The aussie paused in his tracks, turning back and looking at you.

"You're dev?" Oscar more like stated before walking away, mumbling something about his girlfriend Lily. When the other papaya driver was out of earshot, you took the opportunity to roughly punch Lando's shoulder. 

"Ow! What was that for?" 

"You're giving out who I am?! What if someone hears? My face would be all over and I'm not gonna be able to set foot in campus!" You scolded him.

"What am I supposed to call you?!" he whisper shouted back. 

"My name, duh." ". . ." "I've spent 5 hours with you, how do you not know my name?"

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"De- Y/N." Lando corrected himself. After a long night of secretly eating room service pizza in his room and getting up early for the race, you and Lando decided to spend the morning in the paddock. You stopped chewing on the grapes you somehow got your hands on and looked up at him. Lando looked right and left before pulling a box of biscuits from his shirt.

Your eyebrows rose in surprise as you took the box happily, opening it as the boy took the seat beside you. The best thing about this certain hospitality is that there were no current fangirls sneaking around or trying to take pictures. So you and Lando were safe, fighting over cookies with no one noticing or paying any mind.

"I'm the one who got them!"

 "I'm the guest!" you argued back, trying to reach forward and take it back. 

"Yeah, but I'm the driver and I have a big race today so I need it!" 

"You need healthy food! Not carbohydrates—" un-thankfully for you, Oscar came up from the side and took the cookie while both of you were distracted.

He chewed peacefully while you and Lando had a face of utter despair. "It's my home race." he justified, taking another bite. "Also," he pointed the tiny piece of the cookie left at you. "I heard some people are looking for you." Your eyes widened in confusion. 

"Am I getting deported?" Now both of the McLaren boys were looking at you in confusion.

devs03 and landonorris posted on their stories

credits to proofreading to the lovely @classiclitfreak <3

[steviesbicrisis]

Steve’s best relationship wasn’t even a relationship. He could barely call it a fling, a flirt. They never even went on a date. They never kissed.

Steve still thinks of it as the best whatever-it-is he has ever had with someone.

At the beginning it was mostly infuriating, how quickly Eddie managed to win the kids over, compared to Steve’s months of work as babysitter/nailbat swinger/monster fighter. Steve had to literally bleed multiple times to get an ounce of respect, Eddie only had to run a nerdy club about fictional bleeding and monster-fighting.

Then somehow, and Steve still has trouble pinpointing when and how it happened, everything changed.

Taking the kids back home from hellfire became something he impatiently waited for.

He and Eddie would barely talk for a few minutes and he would find himself replaying the conversation in his head for days. Anything he could say to get a reaction out of Eddie became fundamental, and if he started by picking subjects to piss him off, he ended learning about Eddie’s favorites, because few minutes after hellfire were never enough and Steve needed Eddie to talk as much as possible, until the kids were begging to drop it and go home.

Steve never questioned the change, most likely out of fear. He doesn’t think he ever was clueless, just really scared about what would potentially mean to be staring at another dude’s eyelashes as he goes on a rant about why Ozzy Osbourne is the best artist of his generation. Or blush whenever said dude would call him “baby”, or “sweetheart”.

Steve convinced himself that the thing he and Eddie were having was as good as it was going to get, nothing more.

Then Chrissy Cunningham died, Eddie ran, and Steve realized that the thing will never be enough for him.

He couldn’t not have Eddie. Not watch him as he entertains a bunch of freshmen, as he stomps with his worn out sneakers on top of forniture, as he puts his terrible music on to push away anyone who doesn’t care enough about him to stay.

Steve needed to see Eddie being alive, doing what his heart desires, and he needed to be next to him when he does.

Obviously, this realization came at the worst possible time.

Steve tried to tell him so many times: when they found him at the boathouse, when he was hiding at refer Rick’s house, when they were taking a stroll in the upside down, and even when they were driving a stolen trailer to a gunshop.

But, it seemed, Eddie had come to a realization just as important and he tried his best to avoid Steve at every given chance.

Steve tried to initiate the conversation as Eddie did his best to run away from it. And he ran until Steve had no chances left to tell him how he actually felt.

———

Steve doesn’t know if he’s allowed to say he lost something he never had. To mourn a relationship he never began. A partner that, technically, never became a partner.

After Eddie dies, Steve has no one to be next to but he can’t say he ever did.

Steve just exists waiting. He can’t tell if he’s waiting for the pain to go away or for Eddie to jump out of a bush and yell “ah! I got you sucker!! By the way, I’m in love with you too.”

For obvious reasons, that never happens.

What does happen, is a call.

It’s a normal Tuesday, as normal as you could define it after Hawkins almost collapsed into the upside down. Steve got into a routine, between checking on the ones at the hospital, helping out at the shelter, allowing Robin to check on him to see if he’s still alive.

The call happens while Robin is doing her kitchen check up - aka making sure he has food and that he’s eating it-, so she picks the phone like she did a million times before.

“Harrington residence, this is Robin” she says, cheerfully.

Steve doesn’t pay much attention to it as he’s folding his dad’s old clothes that intends to donate to the shelter, until he hears Robin’s loud gasp.

“What is it? Is it the hospital? Is it Max?” He rushes to the other room where Robin is.

She doesn’t answer but she gives him a look as she passes him the receiver.

Steve goes quiet, a million thoughts going through his head as he takes the phone from Robin.

He’s still unprepared when he hears that unmistakable voice “Baby”.

Steve gasps for breath “Eddie?”

Is that really you? What happened? Are you hurt? Isn’t this impossible? Is what goes on in Steve’s head, but he ends up just asking “are you okay?”

He can hear a chuckle, Eddie’s wicked chuckle, a further confirmation that it is him, “I’m- hanging in there… are you okay?”

Steve finds the question absurd. He isn’t the one who got left in the upside down, the one that got eaten by demonic bats, the one who died before Steve had the chance to tell him how he felt.

He answers truthfully nonetheless, “I’m… I’m not okay.”

“I’ll be there soon, I promise.”

“Please Eddie, come quick.”

“I’ll break the sound barrier for you.”

[doctorbeth]

Bubbles the Bunny

Bubbles is cross between a doll and a stuffed animal. Animal head and limbs, cloth body that looks like clothes. Not an unusual combination. Like many of her style animal, her cloth body had worn over the years much more than her furry animal parts (which are a thicker material).

Her person first wrote back in December 2020, asking about help for Bubbles. But as we all know... time kind of went all wibbly wobbly over the last few years, and Bubbles, even though her family is local, didn't make it to the hospital till this winter. Here are the second batch of diagnosis photos, from right before she came to the hospital:

What you may or may not be able to see, is that there are a few layers of clothes on Bubbles. She also has some inner ear tearing, her nose and mouth are gone, and she has some balding on her fur. The plan was to treat all of this, plus give her a spa. Her family was providing the fabric for her new clothes.

Here she is in her bubble bath:

And here's here heart being made and installed with a bit of her original stuffing and the new fabric we'd be using for her cotton body parts:

After some time in surgery, she was feeling much better with her new flowered fabric, balding treated, and newly lined inner ears:

Last touch... a bit more stuffing and new nose:

Her family picked her up and she got hugs from every one... in multiple generations!

[thelastofhyde]

a mercenary named time.

pairing. jackson!joel x fem!reader

synopsis. as joel begins to age, memories of sarah are beginning to fade. though he wants nothing more than to talk to you about his troubles, there's something standing in his way: he never told you about sarah.

warnings. this is more joel x sarah centric than joel x reader oops, hurt/comfort, ageing + difficulties that come with it, grief, mentions of death/religion/afterlife+ generally other sensitive topics, fluff, does this count as whump? (v minimum editing/proofreading)

word count. 4.9k

hyde’s input. wrote this as an attempt to distract myself from the fact i was on a plane (i hate flying). not much happens plot wise, and it just becomes me analyzing joel (in my own way) halfway through but hey, i wrote it and, though it's nowhere near perfect, i'm gonna post it!

due to the ties tlou has with zionism, here are helpful posts/links regarding the ongoing genocide in palestine. from the river to the sea. ( post, link, post )

Aging has become a threat again.

A part of him wonders if the threat ever truly left, or if it simply migrated south of his brain, chasing a warmth only leisure possesses, to make way for a survivalist winter’s cold. With the safety of walls and the sanctity of the commune, at last he’s caught on to the passing of time, the slow-crawling spider who spun its web into his skin. 

During the cold, there'd only been movement. Pacing down streets divided by those who live in fear and those who brandish riot gear, and tip-toeing past fungal-faced mutations, and stumbling in a daze of pain through snow to find her. A safety distance of unmarked miles, away from that hospital, is what it took for him to finally pull over, cut the engine and exhale. Out with the panic, and the urgency, and the fear. Ellie was there, laid across the back seats, a paper gown as blue as any April sky, a cursed relic upon her sleeping form, terrorising him with images of what could’ve been, had he failed to save her too.

In the warmth, there’s tranquillity. Stretched out legs upon worn out sofas, quiet hums of forgotten tunes on rescued guitars, tangled limbs on love-stained sheets. A home, a daughter, and a you, whatever you may be. A fallen angel, a summer fairy, a ray of sun. Any form you come from, he accepts it, welcomes it. Thanks it for bringing you to him, smelling fresh as a daisy, riding up next to him on his first patrol, smiling as sweet as the honey he’d eaten with his breakfast when you asked him if he needed help reigning in his horse.

No, he’d grunted more than spoken to you. And wound up flung off its back, ten paces later. From the ground staring up, he’d watched your face appear above him. Bitten back laughter, a stretched out hand, and a question of if he wanted to swap rides, take your mare for the day.

She’s far friendlier, you’d assured him, after he let you think it was your strength that pulled him back to his feet. Takes to strangers a little easier than him, you’ll be safe.

And he’d believed it, against his own nature.

Tommy had been the one to notice, to nudge him hours later and nod his head in your direction. Real sweetheart, ain’t she? Joel’d said nothing. Shrugged his shoulders, dipped his head, sipped the whiskey out his cup. Tracked your movement across the room like a hunter stalks its prey. Or, maybe, it was more like a bee examining a flower, wondering if the pretty vibrance of your outsides carried a match to your insides, if the taste of your soft petals was a great enough sweetness to satisfy a craving he’d long foregone.

Four months of observing later, spring came and he stung.

Since then, you’ve been his, whatever that may mean anymore.

He’d already been yours.

And yet he finds himself unable to tell you of his recent trouble, the emerging signs of his age that the needle of time has begun to stitch into his seams.

The greys that curl upon his head grow more frequent. Blink, and they seem to double. His skin stretches differently than before, at times it feels he wears it more than owns it. There’s aches, and pains, and cracks from his joints, where before there’d been numbness and tiredness. A back that refuses to straighten like it used to, no matter how hard he stretches under the fleeting warm drops of his morning shower.

A guilty conscience whispers in a voice much like Tess’, a memory of her telling him ageing means he’s still here, even if she’s not. It’s harder to find the good in it, anymore, when he has so much to lose again.

It’s his memory that scares him most. Like a photo album, the images within seem to fade with time and, the more he grabs at them, the more they wear away.

It started with something small. Forgetting you’d told him you would be heading over to visit Maria and the baby after your patrol shift, leading his heart to near beat out his chest as he raced down to the stables like some crazed man, rambling about how something’s happened to you, you’re not back, only for some kid- Jessie, a friend of Ellie’s- to tell him you came back hours ago. He’d pulled you a little tighter against him that night as you crawled into bed, the earlier unnecessary fear a little too visceral in his racing heart.

Then, it happened more often.

Ellie asked him to help her clean out the garage space for her, he forgot and agreed to cover someone’s turn cleaning the stables.

You told him of your love of mint tea, and instead he found you green.

Tommy asked him across the dinner table- a double date, a cause to debut Ellie’s first solo babysitting duties- if he remembered the name of that old bar they’d liked, and his mind was blank. Empty.

All of it, inconvenient. Yet he could brush it off, let it affect him only like a bruise: momentarily, till it faded.

Until recently.

Until the memories of her began to fade.

He’d woken up one morning, earlier than you like always. Kissed your sleeping face, creeped down the creaking staircase, switched on the stove to boil some coffee. And realised he could no longer remember what she’d liked better: pancakes or waffles.

A few weeks later, he tried recalling what shade of blue her soccer team’s kit was. Was it light blue? Or a darker blue, like fresh denim? Was it even blue at all?

Ellie asked him, the caution she used to bring towards mentioning her name long gone with the changing of seasons, if she’d liked any comic books. The sound of a runner, itching and twitching behind some fence interrupted before she could notice he didn’t have an answer.

Sure, she read. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d caught her curled up in bed, the light of her torch illuminating more than just the pages of a book, but her face, too expressive for her own good at times, reacting to each twist and turn of the story. Sometimes, he’d stand in that doorway, unnoticed, till her eyes dropped shut and the light rolled out her hand. Other times, he’d clear his throat, catch her off guard, and tell her get to bed, kiddo, or I’ll tell Mrs. Atkinson you’ll be round after school tomorrow.

What use is it, however, remembering all that, if he can’t remember if she liked comics?

He should talk to someone about it, he knows. He’d tried to, at first. Had tried to drink the courage into him, sat across Tommy one late night, sat around a fire as they settled in for a night in the ski lodge, stranded by some heavy snowfall. He failed then, just like he failed when he tried to tell Ellie, till she raced off to throw snowballs at some kids and he remembered she was too young to listen to his burden, too beaten by life already to deserve stress within the respite of Jackson’s sanctuary. When he failed a fourth time to speak to Tommy, the real issue dawned on him.

He wants to talk to you. You’re the one he talks to, the one he goes to bear his wounds to, trusting no other’s love but your own to patch him up and calm him down. There’s only one issue, however.

He’s not told you about Sarah.

It was never a conscious decision, some secret he’d chosen to hide. Speaking about her simply hurt and, after the arduous months of crossing the country with Ellie, finding a place to call home in Jackson, and learning to hold somebody close again, he’d wanted to get away from pain, for a little while.

Then came the first anniversary of her death spent inside the commune. He’d drank himself blind, like every year before. There’s a hazy memory of that night he’s glad to suppress, one where he’s covered in his own vomit and you’re struggling to hold his weight up under a pouring shower, the sounds of his sobs muffled into your soaked sweater. He’d awakened, and awaited the questioning. Expected to open his eyes and find you stood at the foot of his bed, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. Seeing the room empty was a shock, but drifting slowly down the stairs and finding you scrubbing the stains out of his shirts near floored him. 

The very same shirt you wear now, curled up on the sofa. Your eyes are shut, legs are bare, and there’s a gentle breeze that blows at the curtains you’d hung up, your first act upon moving in with him.

With a careful step, he avoids the creaking floorboard as he crosses the threshold. Slow as he can, he lowers the bag off his shoulder and props it gently against the wall, careful it doesn’t slip and let its contents spill out. Then he works at his laces, undoes them one by one, loosens them so his feet meet no resistance as he steps out of them. The summer’s heat affords him the liberation from heavy coats, less layers to shed now he’s returned to you at last.

You lay right, he strays left. Towards the kitchen, footsteps light as he can manage. Two chairs are pulled out at the table, two bowls sit drying neatly by the sink. Ellie must’ve stopped by for dinner. He’s glad to know she’s eaten, glad to know you kept each other company, glad to know the light is off in the shed and her snoring fills the hollow space. And he’s glad to find some food for him. He takes a bite, lifts the plate, finds a note beneath. Your handwriting, what do Joel Miller and breakfast have in common? followed by an arrow, urging him to turn the page around. The answer’s there, weakening his ageing knees. I can’t start my day without them.

Back by the sofa, a book sits split open, spine broken and pages pressed into ageing wood. Its cover is faded, frayed, much like he feels himself becoming.

He recognises it as one he’d gifted you, seasons ago. If he tries hard enough, he can remember the snow collecting in his unruly hair as he waited at your doorstep, and the way your smile melted the chill away, and the mumbling fool he’d made of himself upon handing the present over to you, some version of said you were bored, so I found this for you all he managed before turning on his heel and striding back to his own home, ignoring the teasing smile upon Ellie’s face.

After all this time, you still have it. Still read it. The fact slows his heart, soothes his aching back. Suddenly, he’s more than ready to head back out there, beyond the walls of Jackson, if it means collecting more books for you to remember him by when he’s long gone and withered away, no more than a familiar smell stained into your sheets and a fading warmth in the palm of your hand.

Two loud pops sound out of his knees as he crouches down by your side, the smell of your shampoo flooding his senses the closer he grows to your sleeping form. There’s a want, nestled deep inside his bones, to pull you into his arms and deliver you upstairs to a bed made for two, in search of a peace his soul has not found since he’d left for his shift in the early hours of the morning. It would be cruel, however, to wake you when you’re so beautiful.

Joel once thought he’d liked you best when you were smiling, till you’d fallen asleep on his porch one night, after hours of talking his ears off. Since then he’s liked you best sleeping, resting. Comfortable enough to trust his watchful eye to keep any harm away while your body takes back its much needed rest, even on days like this when he’s not physically there. You’ve got his shirt, his scent embedded into every thread of it, and that’s enough to keep you safe.

The rough of his fingertips reach out to graze the soft of your cheeks, gently dancing up to comb a few strands of damp hair away from your face. It seems you’ve gained your own spider, the faintest of lines beginning to take shape upon your skin. You wear it better than him, Joel thinks, the passing of time upon your body a picture of love, and prosperity, and hope for more time to come. He wears it like a burden, however. A death sentence, a timer on how long till the cold hand of Death takes the place of your warm one clasped in his.

Adjusting to a life he fears to leave has not been easy. There’d been a time where the promise of death was a comfort. To wake each day, reckless with his time and mindless to his body, a thought of all the pain, and all the sorrow, and that overwhelming, heavy, overbearing loneliness that hung over him like a storm cloud at last coming to an end and ceasing to exist, it had kept him going. Though faith died alongside her, a dream of reuniting with his babygirl on the other side was one he clung to on nights when no drop of alcohol and no unlabeled pill was enough to send him off to sleep. Death now, however, means parting from you, from Ellie, from Tommy. It no longer comforts so much as it disturbs him.

Would you comfort yourself, in the wake of his death, with dreams of reuniting someday, down the line, when Death takes you by the hand and guides you back to Joel?

He can only hope his babygirl can forgive the way he now longs to keep living, in spite of her waiting patiently for him in whatever comes after this life. Perhaps his failing memory is a consequence of this, a punishment she sends for making her wait even longer to feel his embrace again, slowly stealing away the only parts of her Joel has anymore.

Even in guilt, he can’t bring himself to believe his Sarah would do such a thing. Her heart was never touched by the bitterness that had hardened his own, her soul pure a freshly fallen snow.

I want you to be loved, dad. Echoes of her voice in his mind, words she’d confessed to him with teary eyes, a half-eaten birthday cake sitting between them, two candles, one in the shape of three, the other a zero, tossed messily on the table. There’d been no real fuss for his thirtieth, at his own insistence. Just his parents, his brother, his daughter. Those he loved, gathered around one table, eating away at food he’d made.

I’m already loved, kiddo. I got you, don’t I?

Joel knew what it meant to feel unloved. For a long time, that’s all he felt. The love only a child could gift died just as quickly in his arms as she had, under the watchful teary eyes of his brother. Grief he dragged around with him, dedicated to both her and the love he no longer felt.

First came denial. A steady 48 hours post-mortem, in which he walked ahead of Tommy and convinced himself she was there, a few feet behind him, talking her uncle’s ears off as he made sure to clear any oncoming threats The denial culminated in him bleeding down the side of his face, a missed bullet somewhere left behind, and Tommy’s pleading voice trying to move him forward, dragging him to tents set up by the army.

Eleven stitches, each one imbedding loss and cowardice into his screaming skin. The anger settled in a few days later. It made a home within Joel, latched onto his heart and began to beat in place of it. It changed him, aged with him, convinced him it was the only partner he’d ever need. A hopeful glimmer of bargaining came in the shape of Tess. But anger and all its roots were too deeply burrowed within Joel, unwilling to be weeded out, no matter how firm the hand. 

Complacency was far easier than any fight. Tommy left, the buzz of a firefly seducing him with the idea of better, of more, of a cure. Joel convinced himself things were easier without Tommy and his morals around. The routine of waking, struggling, drinking, passing out was one he practised well and thoroughly. Till Marlene and her suicide mission.

Then, the strangest thing happened. Ellie, with all her snark, and her crass words, and her humourless puns, reminded Joel how it  felt to be loved. Laid upon his chest, a need for warmth and a plea for him to survive, she became the closest thing that felt like Sarah in twenty years. How could Marlene expect him to walk away, to leave her in that hospital?

Pain rushes in like a wave meets the shore, dampening him in a melancholy he saves for whiskey. Still resting peacefully on the sofa, your chest rises slow, steady, and constant. He tries to mimic it, matching his own breathing to it. It reminds him of dancing with you in the kitchen, barefoot and bare chested, arms entangled and forehead pressed to forehead, doing his best to stay in sync with your gentle sways.

The floorboards creek the further his aching body sinks to the floor. Like a man meets the altar, he’s on his knees. Blunt fingernails dig into the worn out brown leather of the couch, the only grip he has on reality. 

A discombobulated memory dances across his mind. One of a much younger him, with a head full of brown locks and a sleeping daughter upon his couch. Outbreak night. He’d been peacefully unaware of the happenings outdoors, happy to turn another year older next to his Sarah, when a call came through. His brother, dumped in some jail-cell and begging for release. He’d not thought it through much, sighing in frustration yet rising slowly to his feet nonetheless. If he’d known how that night would end, he’d have held his daughter a little tighter as he carried her to bed, he’d have left every kiss he could afford against her forehead, and speak every I love you he had left in him.

Grief is a river that travels the mountain of his mind. Strong, cold, descending upon a downward slope. Its currents are unforgiving, grabbing a hold of anything that blocks the path. Too easy is it for him to slip and fall into the rapids, losing hold of his footing on reality before he realises he’s struggling to breath and there’s a whole new river carving a way for itself out his eyes and down his cheeks. 

His eyes close. His breath halts. He tries to remember those breathing exercises, the same ones he uses any time the pain swells too much and the panic begins to attack his nervous system. Deep breath in. Slow breath out. Deep breath in. Choke down a sob. Slow breath out. Joel. He pictures you, feet upon solid ground, hand stretched out as you try to goad him out the trepid waters of his grief. Joel. This image of you reminds him he’s got a name, got a life, got a purpose. To help Tommy on patrols. To make sure Ellie always has a place to call home. To keep you warm in the winter, and kissed during spring, and safe no matter where the sun may sit. Joel. The tears fall faster. Messier. He’s no longer a quiet companion at your side, but a mess of ragged breathing and nose sniffles. 

“Joel?”

Skin to skin. Soft hand to wet cheek. You’re awake faster than he can process, too quick to wipe tears or feign smiles. Legs scramble off the couch, parted and bent at the knee on either side of him. Musk, and lilies, and every scent that makes him feel safe and close to you envelop the shared space between you.

“Joel, baby, what’s wrong?” Your thumb swipes uselessly at his cheeks, fresh waves rolling out his eyes before you finish wiping the last. Sleep is written all over you, woven into your breathy voice and weighing down the bags of your eyes. He feels a whole new wave of guilt, waking you from such a peaceful slumber with the sight of him and all his ailments bursting out the frayed seams that hold him together.

He thinks he says your name. It’s hard to tell. The blurred image of you through his teary eyes inspires a heavy burden of disappointing you that he can not cope with, and so he ducks his head between your legs, forehead pressing on the inside of your left thigh. His breath is short, his heart is sore, and he’s staining your delicate skin with his pain. You let him grieve upon you, pull him closer. A hand soothes up his back. Your voice tells him it’s okay, and you hum a sweet tune he’s sure he’s played you many a drunken nights, when the confidence kicks in and he’s serenading you with his country twang and guitar strings.

There’s no prying, no demand to rightfully know why you’ve awoken to your lover, steadfast and stoic at his worst, collapsing into your hold. You let him cry. He lets you hold him. You’re all he’s been missing, this feeling of support he’s denied himself for far too long. No fear of your judgement, but fear of pulling you in amongst the dangerous currents alongside him. 

An anchor comes in the shape of your fingers carding through his unruly hair, a tether that pulls him back into the living room, into your home, into you. With the patience of any saint, you let him move at his own pace, head slowly rising from your thigh, back straightening to the best of its abilities. His hand, rough and hardened by time and grit and survival, paws at your thigh, clumsy in its attempts to dry his tears off of you, a fear of it sinking into your skin and some part of his sadness taking root inside your bloodstream.

Your hand stills his, gently, coercing his fingers to thread with your own as your other hand cups his face and guides him to look at you. You're beautiful, in a way that makes Joel wish he was better with words so he could spend the rest of his days finding new ways to tell you so. Instead, he has to settle with a simple, “my pretty girl.” You smile, bashful, as if that’s enough, as if you don’t deserve more.

“Hello to you too, handsome.” You peck his cheek, he chases after you with his mouth. Two small pecks, a third he fails to achieve as you hold him back. “Don’t think you can distract me with those perfect lips of yours, Miller. I’m worried about you, and no amount of kisses are gonna change that.”

He refocuses on his breathing exercises. Deep breath in. Slow breath out. Deep breath in. No sob this time. Slow breath out. Your gaze, soft as a cloud, rests over him gently, your own chest rising and falling in sync with him. With every night he’d lay awake, trying to think of how to bring up Sarah and the details of her he’s failing to hold onto, never did he imagine the weight to fly off his chest so easily with just a supportive smile from you.

“I had someone before, who I loved.” He pauses. Clears his throat, shifts his weight. His knees are beginning to ache the longer they sit digging into the hard floor. He should have listened to your advice of scavenging a rug. “Not how I love you. Like I love Ellie.”

Silence.

Not the kind where you hear a pin drop, but one that allows the laughter of children playing down the street to blow in with the breeze, and the creaking of the old house you’ve both made a home, and the squeaks and chirps of wild-life continuing on outside, unaffected by the end of civilisation.

Then, “I know.” Joel’s eyes widen, disbelief painted across them. “Tommy’s let it slip a few times. Just when we’re on patrol and he sees something that reminds him of her. Or he’s telling me a story that’s sole purpose is to embarrass you.” A part of him wants to feel angry at his younger brother, stealing his right to reveal such a large part of who he is. The other part of him feels for him too, a reminder that Sarah’s loss is not one he tackled all by himself. She was his daughter, but she was also Tommy’s niece. How could he blame him for feeling comfortable enough to share his grief with you? “Ellie also mentioned it, once. Back before you and I were really…” You fall silent, trail off, as you both usually do when faced with tackling the task of labelling what exists between you.

“Why,” he chooses to distract himself from it, scared of a world where he asks for the right to claim himself as your husband. Those things don’t matter anymore, with the world gone to shit, but a man could still dream. “Didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s your story to tell, I didn’t want to force it out you. I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

He may not know how to label what you are to him, but he knows he loves you. God, does he love you.

“Thank you, darlin’, I really-” He’s getting choked up, caught between his grief for Sarah and his love for you. You seem to understand, as you always do, hands slowly pulling and coercing him up onto the sofa, occupying the space next to you. “Can’t thank you enough.”

“You’ve nothing to thank me for.” You promise, sealing it into his skin with a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t like to see you cry, Joel, but I prefer you do it in front of me. Don’t hide parts of yourself. I want all of you. Good, bad, and everything in between.”

There’s the urge to let himself fall into the river again, now that you’ve pulled him ashore and attached yourself to him like a life vest, an oath to never let him drown. He feels his eyes well-up, but doesn’t let them fall, as his mouth runs ahead of his mind and at last confesses the troubles he’s been keeping close to his chest.

“It used to be like this every day. Tears, unless I numbed myself free of consciousness. Then, things got better. With Ellie and you around. Anytime I felt the anger or the pain swelling, you’d be there and there’d be room for laughter. But I’m getting older, darlin’. Memories’ not the same. There’s things about my babygirl, my Sarah, that I just… can’t remember. And it scares me. Scares me so bad that I don’t know how to cope with it. If I ever woke up and couldn’t remember her face, it would kill me. I wouldn’t be able to go on.”

He speaks slowly. You cling to every word, a gentle nod lets him know you understand. A part of him wonders how deep that understanding runs, if you too had lost a child. He wants to afford you the same grace you’ve given in, and so he doesn’t pry. If you have a story to tell, he can only hope to still be around to listen.

Oblivious to the thoughts of you holding a faceless child swirling around in his head, you pull Joel into you, encouraging him to let you hold his frame. You’ve told him countless times he needs to let himself be cared for, a spark that ignited many  arguments in the early days of your love. It feels nice to comply at last, head drifting down to rest on your steady shoulder. Your legs curl up onto the couch, lay gently over his own, as an arm wraps itself around his aching back.

Only like this does Joel feel he’s finally arrived home after weeks of wading through the depths of his own sorrows, evading a bounty placed upon him by time.

Joel is ageing. Everyday, a new line appears on his face. Every year, a new ache burrows in his bones. But, if each moment he can feel your love in acts of kindness, and left-over meals, and sleepy limbs upon a shared mattress, it doesn’t feel as daunting. He wonders what awaits him in the afterlife, when he and Sarah reunite as he so hopes. He doesn’t doubt for a moment that she’d be proud of him for finding solace in a heart like yours.

“Tell me about her.” You plead to him something he’s spent years longing to do.

Without missing a beat, words flow easily and memories play on in his head, his precious daughter no longer blurry in a haze, but fully in focus, smiling wide at him with a mouthful of food.

“She loved pancakes.”

[ayyy-pee]

kind of wanna open my requests so i can flex my brain a lil bit. yall send me something to write! sldkfjksd PLSSSSSSSSS

Hi Lexi!! How’re you?? 🥹💕

Could I possible request… some fluffy dad Suguru content? 🥹🥹 I just… think he’s such a sweet dad ❤️ And so caring and adoring 🫶

Nonnie, I'm SO late answering this!! I'm doing well! I hope you are too!! I hope you enjoy this because fluffy dad Suguru also makes me meltttt. He is just such a perfect dad fr I hope you enjoy this and thank you for the request! ❤️

Discord 18+ - Twitter - JJK Masterlist

The first time Suguru holds his daughter, he is bewildered. The shock of watching her enter the world through you has not yet worn off and his mind is in overdrive. While the doctors and nurses work to ensure you’re healthy and in good condition, he’s handed this tiny human to care for in the meantime. And he has no clue where to start.

He simply watches her at first, amazed at how quiet she is, how her tiny hands are curled into fists and tucked under her chin. How her tiny chest rises and falls with calm breaths. And he’s amazed at how quiet you are, too. The baby’s entrance into the world was an emotional one for you both, Suguru holding your hand tightly as you pushed yourself to the brink of exhaustion to bring life into this world. You’re lying in bed with your eyes closed as you catch your breath and Suguru can’t help but stare at both you and your daughter.

She looks like you, he thinks. As she dozes in his embrace, he sees the uncanny resemblance. She has your best features – your nose, your cute pout, she even has a tuft of hair sitting atop her head that Suguru is certain will one day match your color and texture. He begins to wonder if he was even in the room when she came to be. This baby is all you.

But, he supposes he’s lucky. He can’t be unhappy about that. You’re wondrous. Even as you lie exhausted and sweaty, Suguru finds you to be the most ethereal being he’s ever seen. Strong, too. He’s certain he doesn’t know a single person in the world that is stronger than you right now. He definitely doesn’t know anyone as generous as you. To gift him something so extraordinary. He’s not sure he could ever express his gratitude.

The first tiny hiccup Suguru hears from his child makes him stand straighter, eyes wide as he peers down at her. And then another hiccup happens, followed by rapid breaths, a little pouty mouth that opens to let out quiet sobs. He looks at you in panic, but you meet his fear with a gentle expression on your face. One that holds encouragement, because you know that he needs it. You know he’s never seen himself as a father, never been confident in being one.

You know that he’s scared.

But you give him the boost he needs, gently rocking his baby in his arms, cooing softly. It’s like instinct kicking in. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.” He bounces the newborn, slowly walking around the hospital room as he tries to calm the baby. The cries quiet down gradually, the tight expression on her little face softening. “I’m here. Daddy’s here.”

And his heart swells as the cries stop, as her face relaxes, as his words comfort his child enough that she opens her eyes for the first time since coming into the world. She peers up, and Suguru stands still, heart nearly stopping when he sees violet eyes exactly like his own staring back at him. It’s the only thing it seems he’d passed on to her.

You are perfect. So incredibly perfect. He can’t believe what he’s seeing, that he’s holding such magnificence in his arms.

“See?” You call quietly to him from your bed. The doctor and nurses have given you the green light, letting you know they will be back to check on you soon. So it’s just you, him and the tiny world you’ve created together in Suguru’s embrace. Your eyes light up from across the room, guiding Suguru to your bedside where you smile softly as he leans forward to hand you the baby. “You’re already such a good dad. Himari is so lucky to have you.”

- - Six Years Later

“Daddy, hurry up!”

“Hold on! I need to fix my hair! Almost done!”

“Ooh! I wanna help!”

A quiet chuckle can be heard from behind Suguru as he sits in front of the vanity in the bathroom. You’re brushing through his hair, which has grown exponentially over the years. As you stroke through the strands, Suguru hums softly, a small smile curling on his lips when he hears the tiny footsteps slapping against the hardwood floors.

“She’s coming,” you tease, a sing-song lilt in your voice. You set the brush down on the vanity, stepping aside carefully as Suguru stands. He takes your hand in his, pulling you close. Well, as close as he can. Your round belly keeps him from being able to fully hold you. You’re due to give birth to your son any day now, and while Suguru begged for you to rest while he got dressed for tonight, you’d insisted on taking part in the festivities.

“Absolutely not! I want you both to look your best so I can get pictures!” You’d argued earlier, stubborn as ever.

“Oh, so you don’t think I could get Himari ready on my own?” Suguru asked, feigning offense and you scoff.

“No. Move.” You pushed past him, earning a hearty laugh from your husband. He loved your little attitude. He loved it even more when you were pregnant. It was so cute watching you waddle into the bathroom, starting the shower and barking at Suguru to wash his hair so you could style it. While he finished his shower, you got Himari ready, only returning when she was busy playing with her toys while waiting.

“Were the curls necessary?” Suguru asks, glancing at his reflection. You stand on the tips of your toes, attempting to press a sweet kiss to his cheek, only for Suguru to quickly turn his head and steal a kiss from your lips instead. You can’t help but grin.

“Stop it. I think you look –”

A loud squeal cuts through the atmosphere and you both snap your heads towards the sounds where Himari stands in the doorway of the bathroom. “Oh my gosh!! Daddy, you look so cute!!!” Your daughter claps her tiny hands, bouncing up and down.

You watch with hardly concealed amusement as she closes the gap between you three and Suguru kneels to her level immediately, forgetting all about you. “Not as cute as you, Hima.” He winks, taking Himari’s hand in his and twirling her around to take in her powder pink princess dress. Suguru wears the same colored shirt, insisting he match his baby from head to toe.

It’s adorable, because as the years have passed, any similarities Himari once shared with you have slowly disappeared. She’s practically a carbon copy of your husband – his eye shape and color, his nose and lips. Even her personality is the same as his, which is clear in the way they’re now bickering back and forth.

“Please, Daddy, pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseeeee–” your daughter whines, violet eyes wide as she juts her bottom lip out to pout.

“Please, what?” You question, glancing between the two. Suguru rolls his eyes, rising to his feet.

“She wants to put bows in my hair,” your husband mutters. You burst into a fit of giggles because you know exactly what’s going to happen next.

“What color, Hima?” Suguru asks her, moving past you to find the hair accessory drawer you keep on the bathroom shelves for your little girl.

Just what you knew would happen. What Himari wants, Himari gets. Especially when it comes to Suguru. He has said no to his daughter maybe three times in her entire six years of life. Your daughter folds her arms across her chest, closing her eyes and knitting her brows together in concentration (because this question is so very important) and God, she looks so much like her father it almost makes you emotional. Your hands find your belly, rubbing soothing circles over the soon to be new addition to the family as you observe your husband kneeling down again with the blue and purple bows that your daughter chose for him.

Himari tucks Suguru’s hair behind his ears, holding it in place by clipping a blue bow on one side and a purple bow on the other. Then Suguru does the same to hers – one blue and one purple bow to match his. He then lifts her, holding her tightly as Himari wraps her arms around his neck.

“Ready, Mommy!” They announce in unison.

- - - - - - - -

“Promise to take lots of pictures, Sugu,” you nag as your husband guides you slowly and carefully down the stairs. Himari waits impatiently at the bottom of the steps.

“Yeah, yeah. I will.”

“Suguru, I’m serious!”

He laughs, amused by the way you’re frowning. He won’t lie, everything you do while pregnant is adorable to him. He knows he shouldn’t go out of his way to annoy you, but you’re so cute and round with his baby, he can’t help it! “Yes, I know, love. I’ll take a lot of pictures.”

“Okay, good. Pictures of both of you, too. So I can frame them.”

“Yesssss, okay.”

Suguru helps you off down the last step, hands finding your belly and rubbing gentle circles. Your son kicks at his palms and he can’t help but feel his heart swell with pride. He can’t wait to hold his son the same way he held his daughter soon. Your sighing pulls Suguru from his daydreams, and he sees you staring up the staircase because he knows you likely won’t have the energy to try and get back up the stairs while he’s out. You’ll probably sleep on the sofa until he’s back and able to help you get up to bed safely. It’s become sort of a routine in these last few weeks.

Suguru leans down and places a kiss to the top of your head, a promise that he’ll take care of you when he gets home. He turns his attention to his eager daughter.

“Ready to go, Princess?”

She nods excitedly.

“Wait!” You exclaim. “Let me get a picture before you leave!”

“Babe, we’re going to be late…” Suguru groans, scooping Himari into his arms.

You roll your eyes, lifting your phone anyway. “Don’t care, smile!”

Himari beams, Suguru grins and again…twins. You snap a few photos, knowing it will only take Himari only a few seconds before her cute smile morphs into an expression that looks like she’s in pain.

“Okay!” Satisfied with your pictures, you hurry over to your husband, kissing your daughter’s cheek before Suguru gives you a quick peck on the lips. “I love you both so much. Have fun, okay?”

“Okay, Mommy!” Hima agrees, nodding with determination.

“We will, baby. I love you. Get off your feet and rest, please,” Suguru chides. “Call me if you need me. If you can’t reach me, call Satoru or Shoko, okay?”

“I will,” you reassure him, because beneath his calm request, you can hear the apprehension in his voice. These days, he’s hesitant to leave you alone for too long in case you go into labor while he’s gone. But this night is important to Himari, and with a little (a lot) of pushing, you’d finally convinced him to go.

You wave goodbye to your husband and daughter as they head out of the front door for the night. And maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones, but as you take a seat on the couch and pull up social media to share the photo of your husband and daughter, tears begin to fall. 

Himari has grown so much, and you are proud of the young girl she’s becoming. You wouldn’t be able to do this without the man who has been there with you through it all. You are so lucky to have Suguru – as a husband, as the father of your children. You can hardly believe there was ever a time where he doubted that he would excel at being a dad. These pictures are evidence enough that he was always going to be the best dad he could be. He would do anything for you, your daughter, for you, your son, your family.

With one hand you rub your belly, you sniffle quietly as you speak, “I can’t wait to take pictures like this with you, my sweet Yori…”

You hit ‘Send’ on your post, the photo of Suguru and Himari with matching outfits, matching hairbows, and matching smiles uploading with the caption: “Look at my cuties! Baby’s first Daddy-Daughter dance! ❤️”

[penkura]

My friend and I have been talking about the idea of Law ending up with a partner who's scared of Doctors/hospitals. Either as a general fear or they had a past of being used as a lab rat. Think it makes an interesting dynamic

I agree greatly! It would be so very interesting to see Law with an SO who is afraid of doctors or hospitals.

Law would notice something is up when you first join the Heart Pirates and hear that he's a doctor. You suddenly quiet and look worried about it, but he doesn't bring anything up at first. White coat syndrome and fear of doctors in general is common enough, he's not hurt by it or anything. He expects you'll move past it as you spend time with him and the crew, coming to realize they aren't going to hurt you or anything, you'll just have routine check ups when it's time and help you through any illnesses.

But when you start to avoid any check ups, even the most basic ones to just make sure you're doing well, Law knows there's something else and he's almost afraid to ask. His worries for you get worse when you actively fight him and Shachi one day when he's trying to check on a wound you got during a fight against another pirate crew. When he merely mentions possible stitches and sees how your eyes widen, he knows there's something very wrong. The fact you start crying, shoving him and Shachi away, telling them not to touch you. Law's about to tell Shachi you need to be sedated so he can check your wound before the red head takes your wrists gently in his hands and gets eye level with you.

"Shh, it's okay, I promise. Captain won't hurt you, he'd never do anything to cause you pain unless it was absolutely necessary. No one's going to hurt you, I promise."

Shachi keeps talking to you until your eyes start to close and you've slumped forward into his arms, Law wondering for a moment if you've worn yourself out before he sees Penguin’s sedated you like he'd originally wanted. It might make you more upset to know they'd done that without fully asking, but it's better so Law can check your wound and you fight him if you do need stitches.

He doesn't ask anything nor does Shachi tell him what's going on yet, not until he's checked you over and your wound is covered. You made it with no stitches, it wasn't that deep in the end.

"What--"

"She was used for medical experiments by some people who said they were doctors. They weren't, they just lied to her, took her to a fake hospital and all that, but..." Shachi sighs a bit, shaking his head and scratching the back of his neck, "She's trying, Captain, she's just scared--"

"Of doctors," Law nods while Shachi looks down, you're still asleep, and it feels weird to talk about you while you're unconscious, "because people lied to her, she doesn't trust me since I am one."

"But she does, Law, she likes you and she trusts you. She needs more time, and help, to know that everything is okay."

Law stays with you after Shachi leaves to give help Hakugan with something else. His first worry was medical negligence had scared you away from doctors, but knowing you'd been lied to and treated like a science experiment angered him. Not knowing about it until now made him believe you didn't trust him enough to tell him, but he wants to change that.

He'll have to apologize for your sudden sedation after you wake up, but at least you weren't too badly harmed during the fight. He's going to do what he can to help you believe that he won't hurt you just because he's a doctor.

(I might have to come back to this later, who knows. 👀)

[rosewaterandivy]

answer July— ah, said July—

summary: from Summersong Request-athon, inspired by "July, July!" as requested by marvelous Meg aka @courtingchaos 💜 || The soft pad of your index finger trails down the scar of his jaw, lingering there as you smile, a little different from before.

Softer, somehow. As if it’s just for him.

w.c.: 4700

pairing: e.m. x f!reader

themes: prosaic summer feels, the ephemeral nature of time, processing trauma, mention of previous bodily harm & its aftermath, insecurities and the like, body worship

a/n: long time, no see my fellow fiends. did i let this run away from me? maybe. do i care? not a wit! thanks for tagging along with the team, aka let eddie have a nice, normal summer for once - hope you enjoy! title from "Answer July" by Emily Dickinson.

Summer slipped by syrupy slow, lingering around the edges. All honey-coated and sweet, so much so in fact, that it struck one Eddie Munson as rather strange.

Granted, his spring had been touch and go what with being the town pariah and nearly bleeding his ever-loving guts out in the Upside Down and all. So maybe a slow uneventful summer was well-warranted after all of that.

May sprinted past with its final school bells ringing and a quick dash across the stage at graduation to snatch a diploma from Higgins before the school board could think better of it. He hastily threw together a quick campaign to welcome Will Byers back to town and only somewhat regretfully passed the mantle of Hellfire over to Henderson.

He got himself a job, nothing to write home about, but certainly something to pass the time and get him out of the house. Wayne insisted Eddie didn’t need to work and Eddie said the same for him, the never-ending cycle rearing its head once more.

The government hush money was, after all, nothing if not generous.

Still, he felt ill at ease in the new house. Liable to crawl out of his skin at times.

Besides, if it weren’t for the job, he’d have never set his sorry sights on the newbie behind the counter at the soda fountain.

Yes, of fucking course Hawkins, Indiana had an old-fashioned soda shop pharmacy combo.

Which did nothing to help his sweet tooth.

So, on the days he happened to close the record store, Eddie would peer across the street searching for a familiar head of hair, usually swept up onto a bun or ponytail by day’s end, and a smile that could melt the cockles of his cold, black heart.

The bell chimed as you rung up a sale for a customer at the register, the cash drawer grazing a bit of skin at your hip as you turned.

“Be with you in a sec!”

Eddie settled himself on a well-worn stool and drummed his fingers along the polished counter. He watched as you counted change for one of the old biddies who all but forced casserole down the throats of the Munson men after he’d been discharged from the hospital.

She thanks you and shoves a dollar in the tip jar as she makes to leave.

“Looking lovely as ever Pearl,” A low familiar voice says.

“Oh, you sweet talker,” The older woman swats at Munson still perched on his stool. She tsks and tugs at a lock of hair that’s fallen from where he’d tied it back in frustration. “One of these days I’ll come at you with my scissors, young man.”

Eddie sighs dramatically and swivels on the stool as she reaches the door, “Promises, promises. And yet…”

Pearl pushes the door open and says with a wink, “You’ll never see me coming.”

The door falls shut behind her, allowing him to return his attention to you behind the counter.

At the far end of the shop, you’re hefting open freezer doors and scooping out near perfect spheres of ice cream onto sugar and waffle cones, scoffing when someone requests a cup instead.

He’s surprised to see no one else behind the counter, there’s usually at least one person to man the counter with during the busier hours, the after dinner rush.

The door keeps chiming as people join the line, eyeing the offerings— campfire marshmallow, french toast, vanilla, strawberry, rainbow sherbert— the list goes on and on. Some lean over and whisper to their dates, earning a tittering giggle here and there. Sticky hands of children smack against the glass pointing out their selection as you shove another scoop onto a towering waffle cone.

And it’s then that Eddie decides he’s had quite enough of this.

Tossing his bag behind the counter and hopping over it, all long limbs and pointy elbows. His knees pop slightly as he passes behind you to grab a scoop from the water trough.

“What’re you doing?”

“Uh, helping out?”

And without another word, he turns to the next customer and takes their order, only stepping on the toes of your Keds once or twice before locating the correct flavor.

“God,” He mutters under his breath, the tendons of his forearm prominent as he scoops a glob of pink cotton candy ice cream onto a sugar cone. “People actually like this crap?”

You merely shrug in response before sliding the freezer door shut and opening the next. It goes like this for nearly half and hour before Vickie stumbles in from the service entrance, her cheeks tinged pink and accompanied by a dazed look in her eye.

“Sorry, sorry!” She frantically apologizes, clocking in with her punch card.

Tying on an apron, which Eddie never bothered to do, she greets the customers at the till and rings them up while you make what could very well be the hundredth shake ordered that day, the mixer revving loudly over your retort.

“I’ll allow it,” You turn with a knowing smirk to Vickie, “But you owe me big time, Little Red.”

“Details?” She squeaks.

“Oh, that and more Vic,” You laugh as the machine whirs to a stop.

Deftly, you pour the shake into a cup and shake the canister of whipped cream vigorously. Eddie tries and fails to hide the blush coloring his cheeks as your shirt rides up with the motion. The ‘JERK’ emblazoned on your chest pulling taut against the swell of your breasts from the movement.

He nearly chokes on his own spit.

“Shit,” He rasps as his throat pulls tight.

Passing the shake over with a polite smile to a customer, you thump him forcefully on the back.

Which would be all well and good, if not for the fact that he wasn’t expecting it, and, as a result, falls bodily into your chest, legs tangling with yours, and takes the pair of you down to the mat behind the counter.

“Ow.”

Peering open an eye, he finds Vickie, arms crossed and toe tapping the tile floor, looking down at the both of you with a bemused pull of her lips.

“See, this is why it’s employees only behind the counter,” You say with a grunt as you peel yourself from the floor. “You’re not OSHA certified, Munson.”

Eddie digs the heel of his palms into his eye sockets, hoping that maybe he can just sink into the floor and forget this ever happened.

Because you’re warm, what with having worked up a sweat manning the counter single-handedly and your legs are nice; too nice maybe, with the way his heart is kicking up in his chest, to say nothing of what’s kicking up in his pants.

“Sorry,” He sighs, coming to a seated position. “Are you okay?”

Dusting your hands against the denim cutoffs you’re sporting, you turn and give him a smile. “Never better.”

Legs still tangled, you unwind your limbs from his, crisp white Keds knocking against scuffed Reeboks. He takes the hand you offer and allows himself to be pulled up, only to be greeted by six beatific smiles and less than subtle winks or nods.

“Sooooo,” Dustin drawls, fingers drumming against the glass of the freezer, “Fun trip?”

The ensuing laughter and taunts from what was formerly his favorite group of high schoolers, is enough to make Eddie miss the solitude of Reefer Rick’s cabin.

_

If May was a sprint, then June was a dive into cool water.

Rope swings lassoed around tree branches, splashing into a placid lake from great heights. Blankets spread on rocks and grass for makeshift picnics. The hum of cicadas as lips wrapped around lifted bottles of booze from the Harrington’s liquor cabinet.

Nearly a month gone and Eddie still hadn’t worked up the courage.

Which is how he found himself perched on rock formation that bordered Lover’s Lake with the boys— Harrington, Byers, and Argyle— playing barely tipsy lifeguard as you swam circles around Nancy, Robin, and Vickie. The latter two had somehow wound themselves into a Gordian Knot of limbs and had earned an eagle-eyed glare from one former captain of the swim team.

“Go to the shallows!” Steve called out, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his feet. “No, Rob,” He huffed and stood up, “You gotta use your arms, like this!” He demonstrated with a perfect backstroke that Robin seemed woefully unequipped to replicate.

“What?!”

Robin’s befuddled call echoed against the rocks lining the shore and spurned Steve into action.

“Jesus Christ,” He muttered, passing the bottle off to Eddie. “Stay there ya dingus!”

Steve’s body elegantly cut into the water and he surfaced to a smattering of applause from those still perched on the rock.

“Good form, I’d give it a solid 8.5,” Eddie decreed before taking long pull from the bottle.

“Now way man,” Argyle piped up, “That’s at least a 9.The way he slipped into the water like that? Some top tier stuff right there.”

He elbowed Jonathan who was preoccupied with blowing rings from his joint.

“Huh? Oh, uh. 5?”

Steve merely rolled his eyes and swam toward Robin and Vickie, who where no closer to shore now than they were when this whole charade began.

“You’re shitting me dude. A 5 out of 10?”

“Oh, fuck.” Jonathan completed one rather slow blink in Eddie’s direction. “I thought it was like, out of five. My bad.”

Argyle called out the new score from the judges to Steve, who had his hands full with Robin and Vickie’s frantically kicking and thrashing limbs, so much so, that he was rather relieved when you swam up beside him to help.

Eddie placed the bottle between his feet and leaned back on his hands, face turned toward the night sky.

Stars littered the inky blue like so many twinkling lights. A few lightning bugs buzzed further along the edge of the wood, a soft yellow glow to guide through the dark. The lake grew calm again, small lapping waves skirting the shore as distant voices grew closer.

“Hey man,” Argyle nudged Eddie’s shoulder with his, knocking him from his reverie. “How’s our favorite soda jerk?”

He smiled despite himself, “She’s fine, I guess.”

“Hmm. And Operation Meatball?”

Eddie groaned and rolled his eyes, “Henderson got to you too, I see. That kid needs to get a hobby.”

Dustin, and the rest of his band of hellions, had gotten it into their heads that Eddie and you were destined to be. Had an entire notebook dedicated to plans and named the whole endeavor after a scene from Lady and the Tramp, which Eddie couldn’t even bring himself to protest.

“I dunno dude,” Argyle shrugged, “She’s schmokin and I may have seen her eye you a time or two.”

He was glad for the cover of night, because his face felt positively on fire.

“You know, if you’d—” Argyle began, only to get cut off by the sound of approaching footfalls.

“Hey guys,” You greeted, stepping onto the rock and dripping water onto Eddie’s arm. “Oh, shit, sorry Ed!” You take a step back and grab a towel from a nearby bag. Tying your hair up in the striped towel, you settle back at his side. “Ooh, got any more of that?”

He follows your eyes to the bottle at his feet, and stretches to grab it. Your damp fingers brush his along the neck of the bottle, and he, impossibly, blushes all the more.

“S’all yours.”

“Much obliged,” You say with a nod toward him.

Your lips wrap around the bottle, and Eddie can’t help but watch a rivulet of water trickle its way down your throat. His fingers itch to chase it, his tongue longs to taste it.

Jonathan deploys a well-timed cough and pointed glance in Eddie’s direction to excuse himself and Argyle.

“Catch you later chica,” Argyle promises with a grasp to your shoulder, “Lemme know when that horchata flavor comes in!”

You promise to do so with a laugh and a wave, before turning your attention back to the water. Eddie sits at your side, quiet, save for the movemnt of his fingers as he fiddles with his rings. There’s a few sounds from Steve dutifully pouring Robin and Vickie into the BMW with conferring with Nancy as she wrangles Jonathan and Argyle into the station wagon.

“You good?”

Turning at the sound of Nancy’s voice, Eddie can see your mouth pull into a smile, the white of your teeth bringing to mind a cheshire cat. Your elbow knocks into his as you duck toward him conspiratorially.

“Whaddya say, Eddie?”

“Hmm?”

Lightning bugs float around your damp hair that’s fallen from its turban, water slick waves drying slowly in the summer heat. A halo blurry gold around your head, Eddie loses all faculty of language, lost in the soft glow cast against your sun warmed skin.

“Take me home?”

He merely nods in response, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“I’m good!” You call back to Nancy and take another pull from the bottle.

“Call me when you’re home!”

The sound of car engines turning over fills the air, tires crunching over gravel and dried pine needles littering the forest floor. The heat of the day quickly dissipates, replaced with a soft breeze that alleviates a bit of the humidity. And it’s quiet on the shore, save for the clinking of the bottle as you take sips every so often.

For all his gregarious and dramatic antics, truth be told, Eddie didn’t quite know how to simply be. At least, not since spring break with the nearly dying and all of that. He’d returned to the land of the living a little more somber, recovering in the hospital between hushed tones from doctors and nurses, louder exclamations from Henderson and his brood, the comforting weight of Wayne’s hand at his shoulder.

Sure, he’d rallied.

Put on a brave face for the kids, found familiarity in a strained smile mirrored in Steve. Noticed his own body jerking in time with Robin’s at the sound of an unanticipated loud noise. Was quick to cover his discomfort with a joke buoyed by Argyle’s raucous laugh. Found himself helping Nancy plan outings to take everyone’s mind off of things. Sought out Jonathan to share a smoke when it all got to be too much.

But you—

He never minded the quiet with you.

Eddie could maybe, for a moment, let it fall away.

A clink of a glass bottle broke his reverie as it joined the others discarded on the ground.

“This is nice,” You said with a languid stretch, arms raised above your head and falling in a graceful arc as you settled back against the rock.

He had to agree.

“Can I uh, ask you something?”

Your voice had taken on an unfamiliar tone, almost as if you made yourself smaller and unsure. It wasn’t his favorite, he had to admit. Eddie preferred the unapologetic way you carried yourself, a royal flush of confidence which you bandied about with no inhibitions.

Timid didn’t suit you, at least, not in his humble opinion.

He knocked shoulders with you, tried to inject some levity into his voice.

“Shoot.”

“Well,” You squirmed next to him, “And you don’t have to answer this if like, it makes you uncomfortable— the last thing I wanna do is offend you, swear to God.” You take a breath to steel yourself. “I just, I noticed you weren’t swimming today.”

“Ah.”

“I mean,” You clear your throat, “You really never swim, not at Steve’s pool, not here. So.”

“Are you asking if I can swim?” He jokes, “Because, I’m definitely capable. Dear old Dad threw me into a creek,” crick, “And told me to get on with it.”

A hushed laugh falls from your lips, “So, you can but you don’t. Any reason why?”

“Well that,” He says, softer now, “Is quite the story.”

You hum, content with the response not pushing for more than he’s willing to share.

“Tell me someday?”

And oh, is he in trouble. Because the odds of that are more far likely than you’d think.

You’re quick to pack up after that. Eddie trails after you, tossing an odd can or cigarette butt into a trash bag and hauling it to the van. He scratches the light stubble of his jaw, nail catching along the scar decorating his cheek. It’s not as bad as it had been, mostly white with pink tinged edges, and receding into his jawline enough to slip most notice.

It’s not that Eddie regrets the scars, he did what he had to do— the whorls of pink and white puckered skin that now embellished him from hip to shoulder were a simple reminder of that.

Just not one that he’s keen to advertise.

He lets you fiddle with the radio, static crackling through the speakers before the opening riff of Cream’s “Sunshine of Your Love” sails through. An easy smile lights up your face as you lean back in the seat and sing along.

I’ll be with you my darling, soon, I’ll be with you when the stars start falling

His grip tightens on the wheel and he wills himself to focus on the road ahead and not the soft croon of your voice. Which is kind of difficult given how sweet you sound, how desperate he is for your touch.

He rolls up to your apartment complex by the song’s end, having had the pleasure of your signing for the duration of the drive. And Eddie’s probably biased, but he thinks you could give Jack Bruce a run for his money.

He parks the van in front of your building, letting it idle as you unbuckle your seatbelt. You’re grooving a little bit in your seat, and Eddie allows himself a moment to be selfish— gazing as you shake out your mostly dry hair and sway in time to the song, a secret smile pulling at his lips.

Opening your eyes, you meet his gaze. Leaning over the consol, your fingers caress his jaw, turning him to face you fully. The soft pad of your index finger trails down the scar of his jaw, lingering there as you smile, a little different from before.

Softer, somehow. As if it’s just for him.

I’ve been waiting so long, to be where I’m going in the sunshine of your love.

_

But July—

July passes like a dream, as delightful as the sugary syrup currently crawling its way down your arm. The bomb pop melting all too quickly in the height of the summer sun, trickles of red, white, and blue cascade down your sun hewn skin.

A screech pierces the air as Eddie leans over from his seat on the Harrington’s patio to lick the drips from your arm.

Loud enough to draw the attention of the kids and soon his soft huffs of laughter as replaced with a prolonged “Eeeewwww,” from the girls and an offended scoff of “Gross,” from Henderson.

“Can it!” Steve says, volleying a beach ball at his head, knocking his ever-preset baseball cap into the chlorinated water.

Eddie nods in thanks before continuing his assault of your arm.

“Shit, babe, no teeth!”

He ignores this and elects to dig his teeth into the temptation of your skin. You swat him away and recline back in your chair, Raybans affixed to your face, a pout on your lips.

“You’re no fun,” He grouses, kicking back in his recliner. “You use teeth.”

“Artfully,” You quip back in reply, “Poetry will be written about the exploits of my chompers, the deftness, the skill with which I decorate canvases of skin.”

And well yeah, Eddie would know. He has several bruises blossoming along his torso and thighs from said exploits.

So he really couldn’t complain.

He lets the clubmasters slide back onto his face, the blue polarized lenses giving the scene a cooler, dreamier tint. His hand falls to the side, fingers walking their way over to tangle with yours. You give him a quick squeeze before turning your attention back to your latest bookstore acquisition, The Handmaid’s Tale.

In fact, once Eddie got over himself and blurted out some amalgamation of ‘Can I take you out?’, you’d booped him on the nose in response, much to his horror, and waited a beat to say:

“Sure thing, stud,” — Eddie’s summer had only gotten better.

Was it annoying to have near daily occurrence of high schoolers singing “Summer Lovin’” at him? Yes. Were you worth it? Obviously.

Eddie had attempted to date, briefly and disastrously, in the past. In that respect, maybe he was a little gun shy.

But one night stands? Quickies? Handies after a deal at a party? Bjs in the back of the van?

Yeah, that he’d done. And was definitely the more enthusiastic partner in retrospect. And now, with you?

Well, suffice it to say that your first round in the sack wasn’t exactly picture perfect, and he’d nearly gotten a broken nose for all his effort. But, y’know, learning curve and all that, maybe some lighting was required so he could avoid getting socked in the mouth or something.

“Yuck, what is that?” Dustin says with thinly veiled annoyance, gesturing to your hand clasped in Eddie’s. “Hands Across America?”

“The fuck,” Eddie perks up, squinting as he flips his sunglasses onto his forehead. “Hands doing what now?”

“Pfft,” You blow a raspberry and lazily thumb over to a new page, “You don’t even know what day it is, or what’s going on.”

“Yeah, and I wish I knew even less.”

“Hands Across America was months ago, by the way.”

“Hmm, is that so?”

“Really and truly.”

“So, hey,” Eddie ignores Dustin’s gagging and turns toward you in earnest. “D’ya like sex?”

“Uh huh.”

“And travel, you like that, right?”

“Yep.”

“Well then, sweetheart,” He drops your hand from his, drawing your interest away from the plot.

You huff, perturbed by the interruption and glance his way.

“Then you can fuck right off.”

Eddie raises a solitary finger elegantly, aristocratically even. Something practiced time and time again until it became second nature. It’d be kind of impressive if he weren’t so damned annoying about it, flipping the bird every chance he got.

A trait that, unfortunately, the young Wheeler had adopted as his own.

Despite yourself, a laugh breaks from your lips, loud enough to draw the other’s attention from the pool.

“God, I hate you.”

“Really and truly?”

“Oh, you bet sunshine.”

Unbeknownst to the pair of you, Steve and Robin had corralled the kids out of the pool and lured them away with the promise of pizza. Nancy sidles out from the sliding glass door with the cordless in hand, tossing it over to Eddie.

“We got the usual— cheese, pepperoni, and cheesy bread. But I know you’re particular, so.”

“Right on, Wheels. Good lookin’ out.”

Eddie grabs for you again fingers twining with yours as he rattles off the usual to the pizza guy as Nancy makes her way back inside.

“Hey man, can I get an order of mushroom and black olive with the banana peppers and a shit ton of red pepper flakes? Uh huh, yeah.”

He pulls the phone away from his face, tucking it against his jaw to mouth something to you.

You watch his lips, red from one too many popsicles, form the words.

“Garlic sauce? Hell yeah.”

He returns to the call.

“And the— Oh, you heard that? Cool. Thanks, man.”

He hangs up and tosses the phone onto a rumpled pile of towels, tugging at your arm.

“Ugh, what,” You grouse, finally dropping your book on the patio.

“You’re so far away,” He whines, draping the back of his hand across his forehead to heave a woeful sigh. “Oh, when will my beloved return from the war?”

You roll your eyes and clamber over to his pool chair, straddling his hips. “Okay, calm down Scarlett. Tara is thattaway.” You hike a thumb somewhere in the general vicinity of what you’re pretty sure is south. You laugh and crawl your way into his lap.

And, here’s the thing:

It’s easy.

A foreign concept in Eddie’s life up until this particular point.

Which is to say, that since the advent of your relationship with him, Eddie found himself spending more time on his knees than he ever had amongst the pews.

While there’s no catechism for for this particular piety, he’ll take this act of communion for what it is—

His lips and tongue spouting devotionals as he kneels between your thighs. And he’d never been one for God, but maybe He’d made it so two bodies can fit holy wholly together.

After all, he’d been penitent enough.

You twine a streamer of his hair around your finger, head slotting into the cul-de-sac of his throat. His arms wind about your hips, anchoring you in place.

Steve sticks his head out to say he’s forcing the kids on a field-trip to get the pizza, Nance and Robin are grabbing some drinks from the store.

You hum in idle contentment and sink further into Eddie, as if he could consume you entire.

If my body is of your body and your body is of mine, can ever the two be parted? What lies in me now does in you, a reflection in kind.

The marks that decorate his skin, both intentional and accidental, fail to define him.

If they ever really could.

You’d traced their shape, plotted their paths, and transmuted them before his very eyes. The weight, the lead sinking and skittering and pulling him down was no more.

“If I could,” you’d said softly one night, a riot of arms and legs tangled against his own, a lone finger rhapsodizing against his ribs, travelling a familiar continent. “I’d paint you golden.”

No, not gilt.

But gold.

It still daunts Eddie how freely he fell— for you and the effervescent joy that flourished in your wake. It used to unnerve him, if he thought about it too much. For the longest time, he wasn’t sure if what he felt was real, or simply a facsimile of love.

He learned not to dawdle in his darker moods.

He’d hummed at your declaration, so much more accustomed to gloomier comparisons. You’d turned up at him, cleaving your chin across the ladder of his ribs, eyes big and brighter than any star he’d ever seen.

And he hadn’t known what to say.

Weeks had passed and he still hadn’t a clue how to respond.

“Hey,” Dustin yells, striding out of the sliding glass door. “Dinner’s ready!” He waits impatiently, striking a similar pose to that of Steve when he’s at his wit’s end.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie says, shooing him away and slinging a leg off of the recliner.

He takes you with him, much to your protest.

“Noooo,” you whine, “Eddie, the physical therapist said—”

“That I’m fine,” He reminds you, securing his grip under your thighs as he carries you inside the house.

Your petulant pout demands satisfaction, and he acquiesces, dipping his head to yours in a quick kiss.

“Y’know,” he says, voice rumbling and low as everyone fixes up their plates in the kitchen. He sets you on the island counter, his hands spread just past your thighs, arms loosely caging you in.

He smells like summer— sugar and chlorine and salt and the tell-tale wisp of a cigarette. His hair is loose and wild, sheltering you from prying eyes as he rests his head against yours.

It hits him like a thunderclap and descends as quickly as revelation.

“I’d follow you into the sun.”

It’s not a declaration, but a simple fact.

Love.

He’d tell you someday, but not quite yet.

For now, he’ll watch your lips kick up in that adorable smile of yours, the kind that crinkles the corner of your eyes from the sheer amount of joy packed in it. Allowing himself to float on the thinnest of air just for a moment.

This summer, you’ve been his North Star, always there.

And he hopes you always will be.

[kamotecue]

i’ve been missing your strawberry kisses ✰ s. catley

pairing: steph catley x reader

summary: the song strawberry kisses isn’t the only thing the australian captain is obsessed with.

you were held up in the hospital, being a general surgeon you would be occupied with surgeries. but it meant that you wouldn’t be able to fly out to australia to support your lover and her team at the world cup.

the sleepless nights you would have, the night shifts that you were desperate to at least get a few hours of sleep but was unable to. but you were thankful—that the hospital gave you some time off of work.

it was needed as they had notice your exhaustion. but as you entered the shared apartment, you quietly hummed to yourself. the scrubs you wore were clean, as you headed to the bedroom, looking through the closet for a certain pair of clothing.

“she wouldn’t mind if i wear this right?” you asked yourself, as you shrugged. steph loved it when you wore her jersey’s whether it was an old one or a recent match worn jersey. it suited you well, future mrs. catley as everyone would tease.

the chain that had a ring was worn around your neck—you’d always hide it underneath your clothing. as you valued privacy, and you didn’t fancy your co-workers asking about it.

as you changed into a pair of shorts, and one of her matilda jersey—you settled yourself into the bed, preparing for a deep slumber. you didn’t know how long you were sleeping, but when you had woken up—you felt a bit parched.

with a small stretch you made your way to the kitchen, only to be pulled into a tight hug. it was steph, you gave her a soft yet sleepy smile as she hummed.

“my pretty girl.” steph said, as you chuckled.

“how was the world cup, love?” you watched as she gave you a small smile.

“it was great, we weren’t able to grab the bronze medal though.” steph commented as you gave her a kiss on her cheek.

“but you did well throughout the tournament, the whole team did.” you had watched the games through fifa+ and you were proud of her team, as well as your lover.

“that we did.” steph said, as she looked at your lips only for you to be staring at hers—she had unconsciously licked hers.

she closed the distance, as she swiftly captured your lips—it definitely made you feel a bit weak in the knees as you had missed her. despite having a shared apartment, the late night shifts made you miss her a lot more.

it definitely left you buzzing, but her hands rested on your hips, pulling you a bit closer. when she pulled away, she had hummed in satisfaction.

“i’ve been missing your strawberry kisses, cause nothing’s as sweet.” steph teased, as you jokingly pushed her away—but she just pulled you closer, in a tight yet secured hug.

the strawberry chapstick that you’d always use was one of her favorites, it would always make you laugh when she’d sing strawberry kisses.

“love you, darlin.” steph said, as you said those three words back.

[weasleyreidstyles]

Serendipity

chapter seventeen

summary: it was only meant to be a purely transactional relationship. he would help her strengthen her abilities in return for her getting his friends out of his father's nasty path. he didn't mean to fall for her, but loving her was the easiest thing in his dark world.

no use of y/n, but your general nickname is Meadow. all characters are aged up to be over 18.

pairings: mattheo riddle x fem!ravenclaw reader; platonic!slytherins x fem!reader; platonic!golden trio x fem!reader

warning(s): mentions of death (its a funeral), some fluff but it's mainly angst

series masterlist; previous part; next part

In the week following Dumbledore's death, the school had emptied out almost immediately – students were leaving via the Hogwarts Express almost daily and some parents would even apparate into Hogsmeade and meet their children at the gate to escort them home themselves.

No one trusted that Hogwarts was safe for their children anymore. Nowhere was truly safe. Not without the safety that Albus Dumbledore had always provided.

The hallways were desolate by the time two weeks had passed.

Your parents had met you and Hermione at the gates to the castle on they day of Dumbledore's funeral, pulling you both into tight hugs; unwilling to let you go. Molly Weasley had praised your efforts of saving her eldest son from Greyback, not taking into account how worried your parents would become upon not knowing if you were truly alright. Your father, a healer working at St Mungo's had demanded to know whether you should still be in the Hospital Wing recovering, but you'd assured him, and your mother, that you were only left with a few ugly scars.

Scars that you abhorred, but there was nothing you could do about the way they littered the skin of your abdomen. Mattheo had done his best to rid you of those insecurities, pressing lingering kisses to the marred skin whenever the opportunity arose. But the feelings still lingered when you examined the jagged silver lines in your bathroom mirror and in your nightmares where you don't save Bill, but end up worse off.

Hermione too, had assured your parents that she had come out of the battle virtually unscathed after they had turned to her with the same brutal enthusiasm for her safety. But the worry was still apparent in their eyes. You doubted that it would disappear any time soon. Not now that they are in the Order, and know just what you've been up to this year.

A few days after the battle, Hermione and Ron had found you while you sat in the library, enjoying a moment of solitude. They'd sat in the two seats opposite you and were looking at you with nervous expressions on their faces.

"Where's Harry?" you ask without looking up from your book. He was noticeably absent, probably grieving in his own way. Ron coughs awkwardly as Hermione shuffles in her seat.

"He doesn't know we're here, but we need your insight on something." she says and you finally look up at them, both as weathered by the battle as you are, dark circles stain their eyes just as badly as they do on your own face.

"What do you need?" You ask, voice quiet, so you don't draw any unnecessary attention. Ron reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of parchment, which looks old and worn.

"Can you read this, and tell us what you think?" he asks as he places it on the table infront of you.

Hesitantly, you unfold the intricate little thing which reveals the neatest scroll of penmanship you'd ever seen.

To the Dark Lord, I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more – R.A.B

"What the hell does this mean?" You ask, looking up at them with the same confusion mirrored in their eyes. You give Hermione a look and she nods imperceptibly, prompting you to see into her recent memories. You look at them with wide eyes. "The horcrux was a fake?"

"And whoever this R.A.B person is, has the real one." Hermione mumbles with a nod. Ron looks between the two of you before shaking his head and taking the note to examine it for the thousandth time.

You sit back in your seat, disbelief marring your features. Had Dumbledore died for nothing?

~∞~

The actual funeral service was a long, arduous process. But it was truly beautiful, despite the reason for such a large gathering.

The sun shined brightly, even as it began its slow descent in the sky, sending ripples of dazzling sunlight across the surface of the lake, and it was so warm. Warm enough that you had to wear a sundress that had been stuffed right at the bottom of your trunk since you'd returned to school after the Christmas holidays.

It was held on the school grounds, near the Whomping Willow, surrounded by the cascading violet of the wisteria trees that surrounded the banks of the Black Lake, resembling an almost life-like watercolour painting from where you were sat. It seemed that every entity on the grounds, from the people to the flora and fauna, had felt the impact of Dumbledore's death and mourned it on that balmy June evening. Some of the plants were dull where they used to be vibrant; even the birds weren't singing as joyfully.

The atmosphere surrounding the crowd was taut, ripe with with the whispers of conversations that drifted across the assortment of seating like a strange, lulling birdsong. The attendees varied from young students to old scholars, most of which you don't recognise. But you can see members of The Order dotted about the rows sporadically, eying certain rows and glancing conspiratorially between eachother; you understand why when you see Delores Umbridge (and Cornelius Fudge) waltz up the centre aisle into one of the rows near where other Ministry officials, including Rufus Scrimgeour sat, dressed in a vibrant fuchsia pink cloak, a 'grieving' expression painted on her ugly face. They're followed closely by Rita Skeeter, her enchanted pen and pad at hand. The Order members around their row are tense and alert.

You took a seat closer the back of the crowd, beside your parents, dressed in a deep green sundress with embroidered vines of the deepest sepia winding up the skirt in intricate patterns with little bluebells climbing up the stems, to combat the stifling heat of summer, and your wand is tucked into a thin, onyx holster on your waist.

Ron had clearly forgiven you to some extent, evident in the way he'd willingly sought you out in the library over a week ago, but he was still wary of the Slytherins you surrounded yourself with; Harry seemed content with bypassing your existence entirely. It was probably wise to sit further away from them, especially because it was obvious that Harry blamed your friends for Dumbledore's death. You can see the back of Ginny's head, where she's sat with the Golden Trio about five rows ahead of you. Even from where you are, you can see how she grips onto Harry's hand for dear life.

You can even feel Mattheo's eyes on you from his seat at the very back of the procession.

Can feel the way his magic calls to your's.

He's sat with Pansy to his left, Theo to his right and Enzo and Blaise are beside them.

Draco is nowhere to be seen.

The five of them have received a multitude of looks from those surrounding them, and you would be stupid not to see the amount of Aurors and Order members who had ended up seated near them.

Just thinking about the fact that they were surrounded as if they were a guild of threatening wizards, when they were still students at this very school, made your blood boil.

They still were not trusted, despite Remus vouching for them personally. Only a few members: the twins, Andromeda Tonks and her husband, Ted, seemed to acknowledge the risk that your friends were taking by just being at the school. Even your own parents were wary. Especially now. Voldemort was actively gathering more support and wreaking havoc across the country – wizard and muggle world alike.

Despite all the eyes on him, Mattheo appears to be surprisingly relaxed. But that's only because you are in his eye line. Dressed in a pretty sundress, with your hair cascading down your back and shoulders in delightful curls that he has the urge to tug on. Only you and his friends know just how tense he truly was, surrounded by people he didn't trust; people who didn't trust him.

You look lovely. You smile at the warmth in his voice, body thrumming with the heat of his gaze from a few rows behind you. Discreetly, so you don't attract your parents' attention, you turn to face Mattheo, who has a smirk widening on his face as he takes in the flush that dusts your cheeks, despite the tension that sits on his broad shoulders.

So do you. You reply, catching your bottom lip with your teeth instinctively as your eyes trail the length of his body. What you can see of it, at least.

He's dressed in a suit of all black – no ounce of colour aside from the singular indigo bluebell in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, one that he'd conjured when he noticed the patterns on your dress. His hair is unruly as always, blowing wildly in the soft breeze.

Stop looking at me like that, darling. It's inappropriate. His handsome smirk widens with his smugness.

I can't help it. Especially when you look at me like that.

He narrows his onyx eyes playfully at you and you turn around before anyone can notice your brief interaction, exhaling a breathy laugh as you shake your head. His own laughter reverberates through your mind like a gentle caress, igniting a spark in your core.

Strangely, you can feel his magic like its your very own, even two weeks after it had initially exploded around you.

Neither you or Mattheo have an answer for it. And neither of you are in a hurry to share the discovery, for it felt far too intimate to involve anyone else.

~∞~

As the service began the merfolk, who had gathered at the bank of the lake, had begun a sorrowful tune, their pallid skin glistening in the sun, wirey hair spreading about the murky waters. As they sang their song of loss and despair, Hagrid had started to walk down the central aisle, his face blotchy and red with tears that fell heavily from his eyes. He was cradling something in his arms, or rather someone, wrapped in velvet fabric of the deepest purple, spangled with glittering golden stars. A cloak that many students had deemed as Professor Dumbledore's personal favourite over the years, as it was his most frequently worn one.

It was becoming harder to swallow as a sob crawled its way up your throat at the sight. You gripped your father's hand in your's tightly and he squeezed back.

At that moment, it seemed like all the warmth from the sun was sucked from the atmosphere, as a cold shiver ran down your spine. You couldn't feel the powerful allure of his magical core anymore. His covered body looked so small and frail in Hagrid's arms and you finally let out a muffled sob as he makes his way past your row.

You feel a wave of love, sorrow and care caress your mind, which lets you know that, despite the indifference he holds towards his Headmaster, Mattheo was also feeling the devastation that their safety blanket; the one who was supposed to help defeat great evil, was gone.

When Hagrid was near the front, you could hardly see what was happening due to the amount of heads that obscured your view, but you can hear the distinct sound of hooves on stone as a herd of centaurs make their presence known, but they did not move from the trees and their shadows. They were stood preternaturally still as they observed with their bows and weapons laying limply at their sides.

Dumbledore's body had been gently placed onto a table of pure white quartzite, that made the colours of his cloak shine vibrantly in the steadily setting sun. The tune from the merfolk reached a slow end and from what you could make out, a small Ministry official, dressed in plain black robes stood beside the table, where a small stand had been erected.

From your seats, you and your parents could hardly hear what was said in Dumbledore's honour and when he stopped speaking and took his seat again, a palpable silence swept over the crowd when no one else got up to pay their respects. It was like a brutal finality had swept over the courtyard.

Albus Dumbledore was never coming back. You were on your own in this battle.

Suddenly, bright white flames errupted around the quartzite table and Dumbledore's body, growing higher and higher, spiralling in pretty patterns as a pheonix flew amongst the inferno joyfully as if rising from the ashes, before disappearing with an abrupt flash of golden light. The white fire, too, had vanished with the pheonix, leaving a white marble tomb in it's place.

More cries of shock are let out as a shower of arrows soared through the air, falling like dangerous silver-tipped raindrops into a clearing far away from the crowd. The centaurs turned and disappeared without a trace once they'd paid their tribute; the merfolk sunk below the surface of the Black Lake promptly after them.

~∞~

"Well...that was depressing." Theo's voice was low, sarcasm etched in his tone. Blaise and Enzo rolled their eyes as Pansy openly gaped at him as passers by gave him looks of disgust.

"Don't disrespect the dead, Teddy." You admonish with a scathing look, that he only bats away with shrug of his shoulders.

"Oh lighten up, tesoro. We all know he wouldn't have cared for all this seriousness." He says, bringing you into a side along hug, ruffling your carefully done hair with calloused hands. You bat them away with an irritated huff.

As soon as you were able to, you'd made a beeline for your friends, wrapping a sniffling Pansy into a hug, comforting eachother in silence as you sent words of affection mind to mind.

Now the six of you are stood off to the side, ostracised from where many of Dumbledore's Army are stood, sharing recollections of Dumbledore's life. Harry, Ron and Hermione are nowhere to be seen.

Mattheo is a silent, imposing wall of stoicism. He doesn't take part in you're friend's untimely banter, and hardly reacts to the scathing, untrustworthy looks that are sent his way.

You send a wave of your emotions to him, love pooling over the anxiety, which causes his stiff muscles to loosen as you reach over to take his hand in your's. Unashamedly you press kisses to his scarred knuckles, running a careful hand across his arm, and thread your fingers with his.

His onyx eyes are alight with gratitude, as the two of you listen to Theo and Enzo bicker.

Suddenly your isolation is cut off by a woman who looks exactly like the one who subjected you to the cruciatus curse a year ago. Her presence makes you startle on instinct, but that feeling is overcome with guilt as Andromeda Tonks, strong-willed, beautiful, stoic and regal; a good friend to your mother and Remus, stands before you with warm, russett eyes.

"Hello Meadow." She greets you, her voice soft and low, matching the slight hauty expression that matched Sirius' with haunting accuracy.

"Hi Andy." You reply, your brows crease in confusion when her husband is nowhere to be found. "Where's Ted?"

"Talking to your father and Remus, I believe." She says, a gentle look overtaking her features that makes her appear youthful and stress free, but that look is gone in a split second when her dark eyes trail to Mattheo's hand, still in your grasp and up to his carefully guarded face.

"You look scarily like your father." She says and you feel the way Mattheo imperceptibly flinches at her observation. The boys and Pansy stop their conversation to form a solid wall of mistrust behind the two of you, faces resigned and stony.

She must sense their growing hostility because she relaxes the harshness from her face, replacing it with apology.

"I mean no offfence." She says slowly, face twisting with regret. "We cannot help who are parents are, after all."

Mattheo doesn't relax, but he knows that you clearly trust her. Andromeda turns to face you instead, that soft look that painted her aristocratic face when she first saw you, appearing again.

"I've come to offer an olive branch of sorts." She tells you. "Remus vouched for the all of you and my nephew during a previous meeting and I'm inclined to agree with him."

"Nephew?" Blaise questions and you turn to see that they all look equally as confused.

"This is Andromeda Tonks, previously Andromeda Black." You introduce her formally with a light smile on your face, and the recognition lights up on your friends' faces when you do. "Draco's Aunt."

"I do wish I was meeting your friends under different circumstances, Meadow." She says.

"What's this olive branch you mentioned?" You ask curiously, steering the conversation back in the direction it had been going in before being sidetracked.

"I'm offering my home as a safe house for you all." Andromeda replies, casting her eyes on your Slytherin friends again.

"What's the catch?" Mattheo asks, his voice filled with suspicion, his grip on your hand tightening with his growing paranoia. You sooth him unconsciously with a stroke of your fingers against his knuckles. Andromeda's careful eyes catch the moment almost immediately.

"We know you're already inducted into your father's regime, unwillingly." She says quietly, wary of Mattheo untrusting stance. "With Severus gone, it is imperative that we know what we're dealing with."

"You need spies." Theo says with certainty, his face twisting with barely restrained contempt.

Andromeda only nods once.

Theo, Enzo and Mattheo seem to have a three way conversation mentally before they come to a decision and it's Enzo who speaks up first.

"Who else besides Professor Lupin, know about this?"

"Meadow's parents, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Alastor Moody."

You stare up at Mattheo with uncertainty. Would they really put their lives at risk for an organisation that barely trusts them?

"Are there any other conditions?" Mattheo asks, stepping towards Andromeda slightly, but not in any threatening way.

"Gather as much information as you can, as safely as you can. And get my nephew and my sister out of that Manor."

"What about after the war?" Pansy asks, having been silent throughout the whole exchange. "Like you said, they're already inducted. If the war goes in Potter's favour, will they be pardoned?"

Andromeda seems to still at that, as if she didn't know the answer and suddenly every single one of you are on edge as you consider the possibility that, if the boys help, they could be thrown right into Azkaban to rot, simply for carrying the burden of the Dark Mark.

"After the war," Andromeda whispers, "there will be justice. But I cannot predict the outcome, and we won't win without your help. I know how Voldemort's court works, for I was part of it for much of my youth before I got out. What you're doing already is proof enough that you are inherently good, even if most people don't see it."

"But what if-" Pansy replies but Andromeda holds out one of her slim, pale hands to gently silence her trail of thought.

"Thinking of that now will not help you during this. You mustn't for it will dull your hope for a better future. Take the offer, my house is in a quiet muggle town. No one will bother you there and it's delightfully warm this time of year."

You each exchange silent but definitive looks before Mattheo nods towards her once and immediately the six of you are given the image of a quaint cottage that sits on the edge of a seaside town, seemingly in the middle of nowhere.

"Ted and I will visit occasionally, to make sure our house is not in disarray. Remus or Alastor will deliver your assignments on a biweekly basis."

"Where will you stay, if we're taking up your space?" You ask and Andromeda offers you a friendly smile.

"With your parents in a safe house of our own. With them working high profile jobs in the Ministry and St Mungo's and being 'suspected' members of the Order, they can't be living somewhere anyone can find them."

You blink back your surprise emotions at the implications of her statement. It dawns on you then. The severity of everything happening around you.

Their need for an insider means that The Order weren't as prepared as they wanted people to believe.

They were willing to send your friends to the snake pit so they would have a chance to save themselves.

~∞~

The cottage stands at the end of a winding lane in Falmouth, Cornwall. It's all cobblestoned streets and thatch roofed houses, surrounded by idyllic fields and the most stunning views of beach for as far as the eye could see.

It was certainly out of the way – the nearest village was about a thirty minute walk away.

The perfect place to erect a safe house.

The six of you are stood infront of the picket fenced gate, bags in hand as your parents, Andromeda, Ted and Remus finish putting up the final protective enchantments.

It's been a week since the funeral. In that week, you spent every possible second with your parents, who seemed reluctant to let you stay here. All week, they'd been asking you to join them in their own safe house; one accidental peak in their minds told you all you needed to know for the reason why.

They didn't trust your friends. They especially didn't trust Mattheo.

Now, you stand beside him, tucked into his side as Remus gives you a debrief of instructions for the boys' first task.

"When is the next meeting?" He asks Mattheo, head tilting as you all stand in the cramped kitchen of the cottage, your parents and the Tonks couple nowhere to be seen.

Mattheo opens his mouth to answer, but grimaces as the Mark on his forearm burns in earnest, warning him...daring him to answer. You feel his pain in the very depths of your soul, scrunching your face at the feeling that brushes over you, even as you squeeze his hand in your's.

No one seems to notice other than Remus, who stares between you and Mattheo almost too quickly that you could have missed it.

"I see." He nods to himself as Mattheo runs his hand against his agitated forearm. "Does this happen whenever you try and disclose information."

"Only with the more top secret things." Enzo says from beside Pansy, who has already found where the mugs are as she sips on a steaming cup of tea.

Remus is silent for a moment, as if contemplating whether or not this would even work, before he speaks again.

"At the next meeting, try and gather as much information as possible. Even if it seems meaningless – but only if it doesn't pain you." He says gently. Remus knows pain, and he knows how detrimental it can be for a person.

He doesn't want to see this group of young adults go through what he did, but he knows it's futile, and hypocritical of him to wish, for he's the one sending them into the snake pit.

"How's 'meaningless' information going to help the Order?" Theo asks with skeptical eyes.

"We need to buy Harry time." Remus says, but he doesn't divulge any further.

"Why?" You ask from Mattheo's side and Remus' gaze turns to you.

"You know why, Meadow." He says and your face twists in confusion before realisation sets in.

"He's going to hunt horcruxes instead of returning to Hogwarts, isn't he." It's not a question and in the way that Remus tenses, you know you're right.

"Yes, Meadow. But I'm afraid what they found wasn't a real one."

This, you already knew of course.

"What do you mean, it wasn't real?" Mattheo sounds like he doesn't believe a word Remus says, and one look up at his face confirms the disbelief in his tone.

"It was a fake. Something transfigured into a replica of the Locket." Remus pulls out a polaroid photo from his pocket. In the centre of the blurred image, sits a locket with a similar insignia to the ring that Dumbledore had handed to you in the Hospital Wing at the start of the year.

"That's not possible." Mattheo snarls and you take it upon yourself to push him into one of the chairs at the dining table, lest he try and launch himself at your old Professor.

"It is very possible." Remus says without a blink. "You see, in the first war, we had a spy. Only few of us knew of his identity but he told us that he'd discovered something. He'd found out about horcruxes and was going to singlehandedly destroy them himself.

One day he was scheduled to come to a meeting, to discuss any progress with his discovery, and to also give us more information on who was on Voldemort's side, but he didn't show up.

Three days later, his house elf, Kreacher showed up in my flat. He didn't even get a funeral."

Remus' voice was soft and desolate as he told you this information, eyes foggy as he relives one of the most traumatic times of his life. Your eyes are alight with realisation almost as soon as he's finished speaking.

"Kreature? Isn't that-"

"Sirius' family house elf? Yeah he is." Remus replied, his eyes glassy.

"Sirius had a brother-" you whisper, your voice betraying your sadness at the thought of the eccentric man.

"Yes. His name was Regulus Black."

~∞~

omg she's finally posted!😱😱

a few things...first of all i have 1000 followers!?! wtf!! thankyou with my whole heart 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

secondly...i've been revamping the layout of my posts but theres an issue with a couple of them (cough...chapter 16....cough) and it wont let me edit those posts but thats fine😶😶😶😶

anyway hope you enjoyed this one....the cliffhanger wasn't planned but then i liked how it flowed to the start of chapter 18 so hehehehe

taglist:

(striked out users are ones that i couldn't tag)

@camille-1019 @lovelyygirl8 @xluansstuff @babeylover

@thejadeazalea @undercover-smutlover @adhxmoony

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@whatsupb18

[ronearoundblindly]

I have an idea for “how would…” !

It comes from a prank I’m seeing on tiktok lately of couples staying in a hotel room with 2 beds.

How would the guys react to reader saying they can sleep in separate beds tonight? 😆

Inspo: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP81dBS8k/

That's freaking hilarious, the link, but we've got lots of babes to cover! (Also...guess who realized Jake was missing from the banner? 😳👈 This doof.)

Warnings for, well, discussing couples and bed/bedtime activities but it's not real bad. MINORS DNI to be safe!

James Mace

You know what's tiny? A space bunk. He will starfish like a mothaf**ker on that queen size, and you gotta just give him that from time to time. If the stay in the hotel is just one night (and there's been no other time away from you recently), absolutely he will stretch out, pillows everywhere, each limb under a separate layer,--seriously though why are there nine layers of blankets and sheets? that's nuts--and no alarm if at all possible. However, if the stay is longer or the hotel is for a specific couple's vacation thing, then no, he would never spend a whole night outside of your bed. Maybe a nap after too much sun, or likely some space if he (or you) is feeling ill, but otherwise, Mace is very good at sharing resources with people he likes.

Curtis Everett

Oof. I really had to think about this guy. Some of Mace applies here, too, but Curtis likes the idea of having extra room far more than he likes using the room. I think he would try to fall asleep in the other bed for whatever reason, and then inevitably just crawl back in with you. He has never made it a whole night away, even if he falls asleep on the couch at home. He always has to be within arm's reach by the time you wake up.

Jimmy Dobyne

No. Nope. Not in the slightest.

He doesn't particularly like waste, so he might call down to see if there is a room with just one bed available, in case some other guests could use the two. Jimmy also hates the fuss of cleaning. He's acutely aware of how much effort would go into remaking the second bed (washing, etc) and won't even put things on top of the unused bed for the whole stay. Not your bag. Not your butt. Not a towel. Nada.

Johnny Storm

Few quick questions: this hotel is fireproof, right? The bedding, okay, but what about the carpet? The curtains? Are the headboards made of wood? Is the varnish flammable? You don't know? Shit, well, he needs to know.

I feel like Johnny has to have like a special tarp thing to lay over normal bed linens, but honestly, I can't really see how he's ever safe to sleep outside of his own customized bedroom. People do not have complete control while they are unconscious. That's super dangerous for folks like Johnny. Reed's fine because what's the worst that could happen, his foot actually hangs off the edge of the mattress? If we were talking about Ben, the weight-capacity would be a concern, too, so even if you are fine to sleep in the same bed as Johnny and sometimes get burned a bit...I...I'm just not convinced a hotel would want extraneous furniture in there.

That's not a sexy answer, but it's the one you're getting.

Jake Jensen

Dude can fall asleep any. where. any. time. However, if he is lucid enough to pick where he'll fall asleep, it will always be with you...

...after hysterically jumping around like a kid on the extra bed.

I'll just, yeah, leave you with that image. Have fun. Stay weird, Jake.

Lloyd Hansen

If you two are actively doing something--yes, of course, I mean sex or sexual acts or whatever nasty word Lloyd wants to call it--then you are in the same...general area. That's not limited to a bed.

For sleeping, real sleeping, separate beds are 99% of the time a must. There is one exception to this: if Lloyd has been worn out or injured badly on a job--which is so rare--and if it's not quite bad enough to be in a hospital hooked to machines to keep him alive, then he becomes a sort of energy leech and keeps you very close all the time. This is Lloyd's vampire phase. As you can probably deduce, it is not about you, but he will take whatever he can from you.

Ari Levinson

50/50. Ari is moody. He changes with the wind (not in a bad way but for all the small, subtle stuff), and he sometimes just fancies a bit of something different. Take that as you will--and by that I mean run with it because I am totally talking about all sorts of different things to do in bed. He's the type of man who does better with a bit of alone time, too. Never means any offense by it. Just has spells of needing socializing and needing quiet.

Ransom Drysdale

Literally, I feel like I always have the same answer for Ran: it depends on when this is in your relationship and what the hotel stay is for.

Early on in dating, he aires on the side of caution and goes by his mood and yours. If there's been frustration in the day--due to his family or work or anything--then maybe you need some space. When Ransom is in a relationship, for real, he's actually very attuned to the tone of sex--which, of course, will happen no matter the mood of the day--so a lot of connection and intimacy will tell him it's good to stay close while a simpler, transactional need to get off tells him the other bed might be best.

Ran, however, would not get--or enjoy--the 'prank' of this challenge, and stop goddamn filming him for tiktok!

Steve Rogers

Pardon my language, but are you fucking kidding? The look on Steve's face if you so much as hinted... His head would immediately be spinning with 'what did I do wrong?' and 'what romantic gesture can I make right here right now to fix it?'

He's a simple man, and that is a simple no.

Bucky Barnes

Trickier. Much trickier.

Hmm. How to explain...

This feels like a whole season of 'What If...?' but I'll try to simplify.

Are you an Avenger or agent? Are you two on a mission together? I think Bucky is hardcore about keeping sharp and professional during those times. Sleep shifts. Minimal touching. The whole nine yards because safety is paramount. Is there some reason there could be surveillance of you two and you're supposed to be a couple? Bucky can put on one hell of a show like that. Just saying. I doubt, however, that he would mix business and pleasure unless absolutely necessary.

Are you a civilian? Is he a civilian now? Then no, he's in that one bed holding you until the second (maybe third) snooze cycle rings on his alarm. He's notorious for giving himself cushions of time, so it's never him needing to rush out on the average day. It took a while to adjust, but Buck can now also vacation with the best of them. Takes advantage of all the bells and whistles: minibar, room service, and the 'do not disturb' sign. Champion vacationer, he is, of this I have no doubt.

Thank you for asking!

A/N: Mace is a sleeper fave of mine, and I would do anything for that man, I swear... Also, would someone like to tell me why Bucky gets soooo 🥵 in all of these. My god, what am I feeding that boi?

[Main Masterlist; Who Would...Asks; Ko-Fi]

[dutiful-wildcraft]

Pack 141 - Fae!Soap Headcanons

Tags: monster au, Fae!Soap, poly 141, sfw, fluff, general lore, Soap's mom? for a minute at least, fae lore I roughly researched.

-Soap's mother was a stubborn and superstitious woman. When her baby boy was born with a caul over his face, her heart seized with dread. She had been told stories, how it was lucky to have a child able to see beyond the veil. How the caul signified a great power, coveted by the people of the forest. Her only babe, marked as Fae. 

-They would come for her child, steal him in the night and replace him with another. And it would be a cold day in hell before Jill Mactavish let anything touch her son.

-She slept with the bundle clutched tightly in her arms, refusing to sleep until she left the hospital. Left him wrapped snugly to her front as she hammered iron railroad spikes into the corners of her property; hung horseshoes above her doors, sprinkled fine lines of salt around every doorway and window of her home. 

-She thought it had worked. At least for a while. But the Fae are persistent if nothing else. Jill began to notice strange flowers pop up around the foundation of her home, odd tapping rhythms heard in the night. Would she know? Would she know if the lamb in her arms was replaced with another?

-She was so exhausted, worn thin from paranoia. Yet Jill Mactavish was no quitter. Under the light of a pale full moon she marched to the edge of her property. Her blue eyed bundle cooing and gumming happily at his fingers as he wriggled against her chest. With a final look to the boy she faced the forest with a stern resolve, “You won't take him! But I'll share him! Leave us be or help me raise him right!” 

-The winds rustled, branches creaking ominously. Leaves gathered and spun into a tornado of color in the chill autumn air. Jill would freeze in place as the leaves fell away, revealing an ethereally beautiful creature before her. All high cheekbones and sharp eyes surrounded by inky black sclera. 

-Ordinarily the Fae would swap out changelings, snag the babe once it was the right size and replace it with one of their own. Considering the wee one was already Touched….perhaps a swap would be unnecessary.  Human mother's were coveted. The milk of human kindness and all that, and the babe was truly beautiful, destined to be strong. The fae had looked Jill up and down with a calculating look. Yes. A deal could be struck. They would raise the baby together.

-And thus Soap spent his time in equal parts amongst the Fae and humans, learning to socialize with both, though he didn't completely fitting in with either. Soap was hell on wheels. Rambunctious and equally curious, constantly nosing or getting into things he ought not have. Not that he was ostracized by either group he was just..*odd.* Unable to find his footing or close friends.

-You could say that Soap has many siblings, though this term is used liberally.  By human technicalities Soap is an only child (his mum's baby boy). His mother, through the nature of her bargain,  was brought into the fold with young John. Helping to raise and nurse her own gaggle of fae children of differing bloods. Other children Soap would call family.

-Fae don't have strict family dynamics, it's certainly a community effort to rear little ones. Fae children can be produced in a myriad of ways, with no one way being seen above another, p in v? that works. Born from a flower? Sure why not. Throw some herbs and intent together until a wailing babe sounds from the cauldron? That works too.

-Soap naturally inquired about this, as any kid would. “Ma? Did I come from a flower?” “You came from my belly wee one” Soap had squinted at her, eyeing her belly incredulously, "but how?”

-It took several conversations to get the toddler to understand that the other children in his human primary school were not in fact his brothers and sisters. 

-As humans are fascinated with the Fae, the Fae are equally as fascinated by humans. As John grew into a young man he would see the differences. The Fae courts had long fallen into a peaceful rhythm. The humans? Hardly. With a powerful knack for chaos, among other abilities. Soap threw himself into the army. Keen to help as many as he could, and perhaps even find his own way. 

-Soap is a marked child. He is more resilient on average than most Fae, and shows no obvious limitations in what disciplines he can learn. However, as marked he does have particular dispositions toward the following.

-Tongues, the ability to speak any language at will. Sometimes without thinking about it. For Soap this isn't automatic, but after a few days of listening or studying he's fluent. (Albeit with the accent). This gives Soap a peculiar edge when working with varying communities, elements, and other critters/creatures.

-Glamour, a sophisticated illusion, these may allow for invisibility or changes to appearance for a brief time (upwards to an hour but possibly longer depending on the severity of the change). Living amongst the Fae made permanent changes to his body. The sclera of his eyes had shifted inky black. His teeth and nails razor sharp. There is an ethereal beauty to all Fae as well. Naturally Soap uses this ability to cover some of the obvious issues.

-Soap knows he's distracting. He's a proud thing, and rarely bothers shifting that. He's damn good at what he does and looks damn good doing it. Hshows off his muscles/skills/looks without shame. 

-Shapeshifting, self explanatory, but only works proportionally give or take a few inches. He may take on the appearance of another person or creature, briefly. But once again, only appearance. Mimicking voices is another skill.

-Sight or Clairvoyance, this ability's range depends on the court or bloodline. In Soap's case, his visions will occasionally come to him in dreams, these being more sophisticated visions or events far in the future. These visions are generally more detailed.  He is typically privy to smaller prophecies,  glimpses of events happening minutes before him. These are typically vague, but have consistently been enough to save his and his teammates asses numerous times in the field.  The Infamous Mactavish Intuition ;)

-Soap is one hell of an alchemist, and can make due with most natural items at his disposal. Poisons, potions, explosives, you name it, Soap can make it. He excelled remarkably in the maths and sciences in school, and it’s why he was also quickly assigned to demolitions so long ago. 

-Soap has a very noticeable smell. One that isn't exclusively detected by other supernatural beings. Any human standing beside him would notice it. Lemon and shortbread, with a warm curl of rose.  Clean, green and vaguely sweet. People wonder if his callsign was from this fact rather than his prowess on the field.

-Nudity has no taboo with the Fae. Raised as such, the man has literally no shame. Soap Mactavish has been naked since he was a child in the woods, and will continue to proudly do so. Does not understand why everyone else is so uptight about it. Will bust in on someone in the shower without a second thought. “Stop screamin’ it’s just me”

-Fae are very partial to music, and Soap is no exception. He is so easily captivated by the sound, swaying slightly, almost as if hypnotized. Soap isn’t as in tune with artists and genres as Gaz is, but he keeps a hoard of songs on his phone. Gaz is his main contributor, keeps him well fed with playlists he makes. Playing new records for Soap as they bop around the kitchen together, playfully dancing or headbanging together.  Soap was once pretty proficient with piano and guitar at his mam’s encouragement. His singing however, nearly got him killed in basic. 

-Many animals are the watchdogs of the Fae. Soap has been seen having conversations with himself, unknowing to onlookers that a little frog or squirrel was sitting beside him. Someone swears they saw a mouse crawl out of his tac vest once. He whistles with the birds, scoops up bugs and plops them back into the weeds.  He unfortunately doesn’t know the language of the shower spider. He doesn't bother to learn, he thinks he prefers the silence in this instance. 

-Soap can be attracted with a myriad of things just like any other fae. Music as mentioned above is one. He is also partial to pretty chimes and bells, running water, shiny and/or colorful displays, as well as anything sweet, candies or sweet creams/milks/liquors.

- Too much contact with iron on his bare skin will poison him.  Fortunately most weaponry constructed now is made of more synthetic material. It can be noticed that Soap is very particular about his gloves, and is rarely seen without them on. Iron on properties or above doors won’t exactly stop him, but it is incredibly uncomfortable and will lead to sickness if he is trapped within such a ward for too long. 

-Fae, like crows, are enamored with jewels and other shiny objects, less of a weakness really and more of a distraction. Soap, prior to his enlistment had several piercings, such as his ears, and brow…among other things. He was very fond of the adornments, and easily captivated by the shiny displays on others. (This also extends to his intense love of blowing shit up and watching the sparks fly, big ole hearts in his eyes as the colors dance)  In the event the team goes out for something special Soap will throw on a few pieces for fun~ 

-Soap can not lie, at least not directly, however Soap is a very sharp lad, and has learned to cleverly navigate around this by either not telling the whole truth, letting others assume, or simply not correcting misconceptions. He is a Fae afterall, being clever is his specialty.

-Customs of love and marriage vary among the Fae. Many Fae interpret strong love as variations of servitude, especially towards human mates.  Soap has gotten himself tangled between both of these versions of love. For Soap love is servitude. Not something to be expected of his lovers, but from him. Soap gives himself to his lovers willingly, He wants to be good, give them anything they want and let them take what they need. Love is worship, and Soap is a very devoted man.

-Soap and Gaz had bro’d up as soon as they spotted each other. Having seen through each other's glamours, they became fast friends. Two oddballs fighting side by side. Which would turn into playful banter, and kips on the helo leaning against one another. Then to wandering hands and desperate kisses, having found comfort and fondness in each other after years of hiding themselves among humans. Soap and Gaz are the most cuddly. Johnny likes to lay sprawled in his Sphinx’s nest, his arms curled around his middle, face buried against Gaz's stomach. Both of them absolutely hate to sleep alone. 

- Soap had a knack for getting into trouble. Disregarding orders to do what needed to be done. Had nearly been kicked out had his skills not saved his skin (and countless others). It was Price who sniffed him out, offered to take the man on loan for a bit. Soap's former CO was happy to be rid of him and hopeful that the notoriously stern Captain would knock some sense into him. Price, however had no such plans, he cut Soap loose, full authority, and watched the man bloom. Price did not anger at Soap’s decisions, didn’t flinch at his savagery in the field. In fact, Price had looked upon him with fondness (and a fair amount of exasperation). He kept Soap warm with lovely praises and a regular morning coffee, plus a heavy splash of sweet cream, for good measure.

-Simon had been more difficult, adamant on giving the Fae a hard time. Having seemingly been put off by Soap ever since he bounded off the truck and fist-bumped his arm on the tarmac. But Soap was determined, chatting and teasing, unphased by the lieutenants' icey behavior. They fell together in no time. Soap nestled to his chest, lips brushing over Simon's slow beating heart. Soap would never admit it. Never admit that he knew it would be like this all along. That Soap had seen him in his dreams.

[annwrites]

a house in hawkins. part five.

— pairing: billy hargrove x fem!reader

— type: part of a series

— summary: a local boxing match is held in town, & afterward, you have the worst night of your life.

— tw: rape, suicidal ideation

— word count: 7,931

— tag list: @stoneyweezin @ganjas-shit

You ride with Scott to the fight, staying pressed up against his side the whole way over to the local rec center where it's being held. It's just amateur boxing—bare fists only—with only three weight classes and four contestants in each.

Winners in each weight class will go up against each other after defeating their initial opponents, and whoever wins gets—what you assume will be—a cheap belt to show off, and bragging rights. 

Scott is going to be fighting for the heavyweight title, which makes heat pool in your core. Just the thought of him shirtless and throwing fists with another man had gotten him lucky before the two of you headed over. 

You wrap your arms around his own that’s not atop the wheel and just stare at him, making his lip twitch.

“Somethin’ on your mind?”

You drag his hand between your thighs and he chuckles. “Again?”

“Do you want to pull over somewhere?”

He grins. “I’d love nothing more, sweetheart, but you’re going to make me late if you keep it up.”

You keep his hand in-place, but don’t push it any further. You’d only been joking, anyway.

Well, half-joking.

“I want you to know that no matter what happens, even if you lose, that I’m really proud of you just for trying. Putting yourself out there.”

He smiles. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

You wonder how he doesn’t seem nervous. You're beyond jittery on his behalf. Worried something will go wrong and he’ll end up seriously injured, if not having to be taken to a hospital. But he’d told you that they would have medical care, and an ambulance as well, on standby tonight just incase. But he was sure he’d be fine.

You prayed for as much.

When he pulls into the parking lot, the place is already packed with people milling about, generally having a good time, and having little tailgate parties before the fighting begins.

You smile, feeling excited.

“There’s the big man!” Joe calls as you and Scott get closer to his truck, which has an open cooler sitting upon the tailgate, numerous tallboys sitting on ice inside of it. 

You release Scott’s hand, so he and Joe can embrace with smiles and laughs. 

You glance to your left and see that Travis is here as well. He smiles at you, and you do the same in return. 

Rhett is absent, but you’re not wholly surprised. He’d been making himself more distant from the group for awhile. Now, you supposed, you understood why.

You really do wish him all the best once he leaves for Indianapolis. You're sure he’ll make the most of it.

You then turn your full attention back to Scott, pressing yourself up against his backside, wrapping your arms around his middle and closing your eyes, smiling warmly at the feel of him; the rumble of his voice through his back as he speaks to the other guys about tonight.

Finally, he turns back to you, cupping your face in his hands. He leans down, crushing his lips to yours. 

When he pulls away, you beam up at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you. And I’m proud of you either way,” you remind him.

He smiles, kissing you one last time before heading inside. 

You watch as he disappears into the crowd, only then turning back to the rest of them, watching as Joe retrieves another beer, popping the tab on it before taking a long drink, his eyes trailing along your tight body. 

You’d done your hair in braids again, worn jean shorts that hugged your waist, and a black Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt that was cut into fringes at the bottom, a pair of flip-flops on your feet, numerous bracelets on your wrists.

You glance to Travis and see that he’s already looking at you as well, smiling.

You step closer to him, desperate to have his hands on you instead of Joe’s. 

You smile up at him. “Hi.”

He runs his knuckles along your cheek. “Hi, baby.”

“Is your friend coming?”

He raises a brow. “Already got your eyes on Cy, huh?”

You smile, laughing lightly. “No, I was just curious. I just figured if you were here, he would be, too.”

He nods toward the direction behind you. “Well, looks like you’re in luck.”

You glance behind you for only a moment to see Cyrus climbing out of an older model Chevy Impala; sleek and black and shiny. 

You then turn back to Travis. “He kind of scares me a little.”

“He can seem intimidating at first. But once you get to know him, you’ll see that he’s a pretty laid-back guy.”

You step closer to him, pressing your hands against his chest. “Like you?”

He smiles. “Difference is, I’m also fun.”

“Oh, really?”

“What?” He asks, gesturing toward himself. “You think I’m all work and no play?”

You shrug, studying him with a smile. 

He turns around then, bending at the knees. “Hop on.”

You laugh. “What? On your back? Are you serious?”

“Yeah, it’s a pretty serious piggyback.”

You step closer, gripping his shoulders, then hop up and wrap your legs around his waist. His arms support you under your calves, hands clasping at the fingers as you wrap your arms around his neck to keep yourself securely in-place as he stands straight once again. 

Honestly, being wrapped around him makes you feel just the least bit more secure since you’re going to be around Cyrus in just a moment. 

Travis turns his head to the right. “You good?”

You nod. “Mhm.”

He pretends to consider for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe I should readjust.”

He pretends to drop you for a moment, quickly bending down, loosening his hands and you squeal, laughing, hugging yourself closer to him. “No, stop!”

“Yes? Was that a yes?” He does it again.

“Travis!”

Joe jumps into the playful banter. “I don’t know. Think those shorts need adjustin’. What do you think, honey?”

He walks around behind you, squeezing your ass cheeks in both of his hands, humming his approval at the feel. You just laugh louder. “Joe!” 

You playfully kick off a flip-flop and then another and he chuckles, giving you a firm smack before retrieving both, stuffing them in one of his back pockets.

Travis then whirls you one way, then the other, and he pauses for a moment as Cyrus comes over. 

And then you spot him across the lot, watching you. 

Billy.

You can’t make out his expression. It seems…unreadable. You wonder if he’s ashamed of you. 

And then you think of your conversation from yesterday. That you’d warned him of this, so he’s aware of what’s going on. Why you’re…this girl tonight.

That this—this moment of your eyes meeting—is you saying hi; that you can’t wait to be with him again. And he’s replying; telling you that he sees you. Not the you you’re giving the boys this evening to make them happy. The you from the house. Your house—as in both of you. 

Travis whirls you back in the other direction, Billy disappearing from your line-of-sight.

You glance to Cyrus and he watches you with dark eyes, only a nearly-undetectable smirk upon his lips.

Music then blares from the entrance of the rec center—Saturday Night Special, even if it is Friday—and the boys turn in that direction. 

Joe quickly shuts his cooler, pushing it further back on the bed of his truck before slamming the tailgate up and the four of you make your way inside.

Your seats are nearly ringside, and, even if you have a ticket, meaning you have a seat, Joe just pulls you onto his lap instead. You bite back a groan and an eye-roll at the gesture as he bounces his thigh under you, wrapping an arm around your waist, his hand settling atop your thigh.

You just instead smile like a happy little idiot, and he seems pleased. 

You drown out the conversation between he and Travis and Cyrus while you glance around, pretending to just people-watch, when in reality, you’re trying to spot Billy.

And then you do. In the nosebleeds. You nearly feel guilty at your far-superior seats.

You see him before he sees you, but when he does, he merely greets you with a gentle nod and you just blink at him in response, before turning back around. You hate that you can’t even give him a smile, but God-forbid one of the guys are watching you while you watch him and you don’t know it, and then questions start getting asked.

You’re doing it to protect him.

It’s perhaps ten minutes later before someone comes onto a microphone, welcoming everyone to the event and stating that the first fight will commence in another ten minutes, essentially telling the crowd that now is the time to go to the restrooms and concessions if they so need it. 

You turn back to Joe. “I think I’m going to run to the restroom.”

He nods. “Grab me a couple beers while you’re up, honey.”

You stand on bare feet, waiting as he retrieves his wallet, and then handing you a five. “I’m going to grab a pretzel, too.”

He nods. “Just use the change from the Buds.” 

You stuff the money into your pocket, then stare at him with a soft smile. 

He smirks. “Somethin’ else you need?”

“My shoes.”

He crosses his arms. “And what do I get?”

You lean in toward him, gripping the back of his chair with one hand and you can just feel the other two’s eyes on your ass. “I’m getting you your beer, aren’t I?”

He smirks. “Alright.” He slips your shoes from his back pocket, setting them on the floor and you grip his shoulder for a moment as you slip them on. 

Just as you go to head out, Cyrus stands. “I’ll go with you. Grab something myself.”

You smile and nod, heading out into the bustling crowd of people grabbing snacks and making last-minute bathroom breaks. You head in the direction of the lady’s room, quickly giving yourself a once-over in the mirror before relieving yourself and heading back out…to find Cyrus leaning against a wall, waiting for you with crossed arm.

You blush. “You didn’t have to wait.”

He shrugs, pushing off the wall. “It’s fine.”

You follow him to the concessions and have to assure the young man running it that the beer is indeed not for you, until Cyrus grabs the cash from your hand, shoving it in his direction and telling him to give you whatever the hell you want.

And he does.

You turn back to Cyrus. “Thank you,” you say sweetly.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, taking a sip of his own beer. “You got it.”

You know by this touch alone that he already has his eyes on having you next. You wonder what all Travis has told him about you. Or Scott when they went out drinking.

You return to your seat in Joe's lap and wait for the first fight to start.

During Scott's match against his opponent, you, along with the rest of the guys, had cheered him onto victory. You'd stood for most of it, breath caught in your throat as you watched him; his body, his footwork, feeling every blow he took yourself, clenching your hands tightly against your chest, gasping each time he ended up close to the rope, terrified he was about to get pinned.

But he always got out of it, and then you'd screamed in happiness—relief—as the other man finally fell. One more round—Scott against the other heavyweight fighter that had also beaten his opponent—and then the fighting as a whole would be over.

He would be able to leave—to go home. He was going to be just fine. Just one more round and it would be done.

One more.

There's a brief intermission, so you run out to grab Joe a couple more beers, and yourself a small bag of gummy bears.

Cyrus follows you out, pulling you over to the side once you've made your purchases.

You stare up at him with a pleasant smile, hoping he doesn't notice just how on-edge he makes you feel.

"Heard a lot about you," he says, eyes flitting between yours.

"Oh?"

"Mhm," he says, a muscle in his jaw feathering.

"Like what?" You ask, taking a tiny step closer.

He smirks. "Scott told me a few things I think I'd be interested in finding out for myself."

Hearing him mention Scott in this context makes your stomach twist. You just blink up at him.

He reaches up, running the pad of his thumb along your lower lip. "Like all the things this mouth can do. Just how wet you get without any effort, always ready to be fu-"

You hear the announcer come over the microphone, informing everyone that the match will begin in less than two minutes.

Cyrus drops his hand and you feel your heart hammering, but are glad this moment is now at an end.

You make your way silently past him, back to the row the both of you are seated in, and Travis reaches over, grabbing your hand, pulling you into his lap now.

You easily wrap an arm around his neck, preferring him to Joe, who's now on his way to getting drunk.

He slides a hand along your thigh, settling it there and softly smiling at you. "You look really good tonight, baby."

You turn toward him and smile in return, pressing a kiss to his nose. "Thank you."

You then reach into your bag of candy, holding a gummy bear up to his mouth. "Want one?"

He opens and you place it on his tongue and he chews.

You hear the bell ring just as you're gently brushing your thumb along the corner of his lips, his eyes staying trained on your own, and then Joe stands up so quickly from his chair that he nearly knocks the thing over as you hear him yell "beat his fuckin' ass, Scotty!"

You jerk your head back in the direction of the ring, just in time to see Scott punching his new opponent without mercy, like he's suddenly fighting in a black rage.

You don't think you've ever seen him so angry before.

The man falls, and Scott gets on top of him, pounding away with his right fist, blood flying. You cover your mouth, worried he's about to kill him, until the referee pulls him off of him just in time, the bell dinging over and over again, signaling that it's over.

All you can think about is how...if the tables had been turned...

The referee holds up Scott's right fist, deeming him the winner of the match by knockout, and you stand, squealing, cheering.

He turns to you and you throw a probable rule that you're not allowed in the ring to the side as you climb up and jump into his arms, crushing your lips to his, running your fingers through his sweaty hair, pouring every ounce of love that you have into the embrace.

You'd been right in Scott being awarded a belt, but it'd been just the least bit nicer than you'd previously expected. Gold and red and black details, a pair of fists holding a banner between them that state 'Hawkins Heavyweight Champion '84' as the design.

Scott leaves the arena with the rest of you with the belt slung over one shoulder, you holding tightly to his opposite arm, staring up at him, completely infatuated.

You were so glad he was okay. A black eye, and some swelling in the face, but other than that he was just fine. Perfect.

Your whole world.

The four of you stand in the parking lot near Joe's truck—Cyrus having already left, due to needing to be at work soon for a late shift—talking and drinking and joking. Scott gets numerous congrats from passer-bys, while you cling to his right hand, holding ice to it as you just stare and stare, in disbelief that this man—he—is all yours.

You're so enamored that you hardly notice that he barely bothers looking at you in return; speaking to you.

Nor do you see the glare he eventually gives Travis.

Joe glances to you with a smirk and you decide you don't like the look on his face, your stomach twisting. "What'd'ya say the three of us get outta here and go have ourselves some fun?"

You blanch. He'd had far too much to drink tonight. Did he want Scott to put him on a stretcher next?

You lean back against the truck, staring up at Scott, waiting for him to shoot Joe's offer down promptly, but he just stares back at you.

Your brows furrow for only a moment. Why wasn't he...

You look down then, shrugging. "I'm not really in the mood right now."

Scott scoffs and your head shoots up. "Guarantee that's bullshit. Maybe I should check."

He shoves his free hand down the front of your shorts, plunging two fingers between your folds and you gasp in shock, wrenching his hand out and he just laughs at you.

He laughs.

He turns to Joe. "Oh, she's definitely in the fuckin' mood, man."

Your eyes sting. Maybe...maybe it was the adrenaline from the fight. Testosterone could make men act...different. Right?

They both turn back to you and Joe leans in toward you, resting an arm atop the side of the truck's bed. "His place or mine, honey?"

You look to Scott again. He can't...he can't be serious. He's never done this before—shared you with another man. When you had sex, it was just the two of you. No one else got to be involved in such intimate moments.

"Isn't your wife home?" You ask, barely turning to look at him.

"Mine it is, then," Scott replies.

Joe chuckles, looking at you. "You ridin' with him or me, then?"

You don't reply before heading in the direction of Scott's truck. You needed to talk to him. This wasn't happening. It...it couldn't.

Not this. Please, not this.

Once you're both inside the cab and the engine roars to life, you turn to him. "What...what're you doing? We-"

"Heading to my place to have a threesome, or were you not payin' attention?"

He looks behind the both of you as he backs out of the lot.

Your eyes sting again. "We don't do that. When we're together, it's just us. Please. Please don't. I don't want-"

He peels out of the parking lot, heading in the direction of his trailer. "You want to ruin a good night? Think I deserve a reward after the fight. You about to tell the both of us no?"

He barely glances to you before looking toward the road again.

Your chin wobbles. "Why're you acting like this all of a sudden? I thought you were happy? I don't understand. I...I don't want to. Please, Scott. Just...tell him you changed your mind. You're tired or don't feel well, or-"

"Feel just fuckin' fine. Great, actually. But you keep runnin' your mouth and you'll just ruin it."

Your lip trembles. "I...I love you."

He stays silent.

"I don't want to. Please, Scotty, I love you. We can, if you want. Just...not with him. I'll do whatever you want-"

"Then you'll do this."

"But-"

"Stop fuckin' whinin', Jesus."

A tear slips down your cheek. He's never acted like before. Never. Had...did he have a concussion?

"Are you sure you feel okay? You don't seem like yourself."

"Never been more clear," he spits back at you. "Sorry Trav' couldn't tag along. I'm sure you'd be jumpin' for fuckin' joy if he was to be the third instead."

Your brows furrow. "What? What're you talking about?"

"I saw you. Both of you. Siting in his lap. Just...fuckin' staring at each other. Guess you need a reminder of who you belong to."

Your bowels turn to water. "That was nothing. That's all I did was sit in his lap for a minute or two. I...I had been sitting on Joe's all night. You didn't seem to have a problem with that?"

He shakes his head. "Joe's a different case and you know it."

What was happening right now?

"Scott, I told you: I love you. Only you. Please, don't punish me like this for...for sitting on his lap. I haven't done anything-"

He pulls up outside his trailer, Joe already having parked, waiting on the porch with a smug look.

Scott exits the cab, coming around to your side and opening your door.

"Please, Scott, I don't want to. Please, I'm begging-"

He grabs your upper arm, squeezing so hard that it hurts and he pulls you from the cab, causing you to stumble before he grabs you again. "You forget who's fucking in-charge around here? You do as you're told. And you're about to."

Joe grunts from between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs, Scott's cock buried in your mouth as you suck silently, praying it'll all be over soon.

It feels like you're watching yourself from afar as you let them have at it, doing as they wish. Whatever will please them.

What you want doesn't matter.

Maybe it never did.

Joe chuckles as Scott grips the back of your head, forcing himself deeper and you gag, unable to breathe. He moans, bucking his hips.

Joe slaps your clit, then circling it with his thumb and your body jerks, betraying you.

He looks to Scott, grinning. "Sure did teach her how to suck fuckin' cock, though, didn't I?"

Scott pulls out for just a moment, leaving you gasping for breath before he shoves himself back in. "Damn straight."

"Fuckin' fourteen was the first time I had her on 'er knees. Gotta start 'em young," he says and they both laugh.

You feel sick.

How could he do this to you? Punish you like this for simply sitting on Travis' lap? Did you really deserve this?

You think him beating you within an inch of your life like he had his opponent to be a kinder punishment.

Scott pulls his cock out, slapping it against your face, humiliating you. "Open up, sweetheart. I got somethin' to keep that mouth quiet."

Using his name for you...like that... How could he?

You do as you're told. Like always. And you open.

Joe rams himself between your legs, making you gag against Scott, whimpering in pain. And he does it again, his skin slapping against yours.

"Who's daddy's good little slut? That you, honey?"

Scott looks down at you, smirking. "Think her mouth's too full to answer right now. Ain't that right, sweetheart?"

It feels like another kick to the stomach.

He pulls his cock out, stroking it as he positions his testicles over your mouth. "Think the family jewels need some attention. Why don't you polish 'em up for me?"

You gently take one into your mouth—causing his cock to twitch—and then the other. You gently lick, and suck, before Scott eases back in, grabbing the hair at the back of your head painfully. "Take it. All of it."

Tears sting your eyes as you struggle to breathe once again. You stare up at Scott, desperate for him to make it stop, but he won't even look at you.

This is what you've always been to him, isn't it? A thing. A possession. A toy.

Not a human being. Not a girl in love. Not a young woman, desperate for a different life.

You were going to die in this town. You could see it now so clearly. A horrible truth that had always been there, just waiting for you to see it.

Joe begins to moan and he breaks his condom, finishing all over your stomach, then laughing. "Woo! That's some damn fine fuckin' pussy, ain't it, Scotty? Trained just how we like it."

Scotty slips himself out of your mouth. "Guess it's my turn now."

They trade places, Joe tossing his used condom to the side as he plunges himself into your mouth, Scotty slipping himself into your cunt and you finally go away somewhere else in your mind, unable to take anymore as you feel your heart shatter.

He never loved you.

Never.

This fact...discovering it—it's the last straw. The only thing you had left to hold onto to keep you going was now gone. Forever.

You find yourself underwater, in the pond by the house, staring up at the sun from under gentle ripples of blue and green, flowers floating on the surface, even your dolls bob around you. Everything is muffled and quiet.

No more pain. No more sadness. No more anything.

You open, breathing the water in, letting it fill your lungs. One mouthful, then another and another.

At least you can choose this much; your death. How you leave this world to find another of kindness and gentility.

No one can ever touch or hurt or use you again.

You're free.

Or, at least, you will be.

You retch on the side of the road, your head now feeling fuzzy and your senses unfocused. You've never felt so distant from your own body before. You feel about a mile away, watching yourself slowly break.

This would be the last one. The last night.

You saw it now. Him. For what he is. For what so many others had told you he was. What's he's been all along.

Why hadn't you listened again?

Oh, right, love. That.

It doesn't exist anyway. At least you know that now. It'll make letting go easier.

You take in a slow breath, eyes burning, a sore feeling between your legs. Scott had done it again. He hadn't used a condom.

You and your baby would die together.

You stumble, clutching onto a tree, staring up at the silver moon in the sky, wondering if it sees you. Cares.

Perhaps that's where you'll go when you take that last breath and blink and swallow—into the stars.

At least you won't be alone there.

You hear tires slowly rolling along asphalt and you squint against the headlights blinding your vision, until the driver switches them off and you see that it's a cruiser.

Travis. He...could he help you?

Save me, please. Oh, God, help me.

It's put into park, the driver exiting.

Cyrus.

He smirks, taking you in. "You lost, hon'?"

You merely stare at him, realizing: no one is coming.

He shuts his door, heading around to you.

You get a sinking feeling in your stomach. Maybe you're going to be sick again.

He tips your head back, looking down at you. "Been thinking about you all night."

You don't reply.

He raises a brow. "Hard to get, hm? That's alright, I can work with that." He glances around. This stretch of road doesn't receive much traffic this late at night. Meaning you'll have privacy.

He looks back to you. "How about you finally give me a taste? Heard a lot about it. Maybe I'll finally see for myself what all the fuss is about."

He pulls you in the direction of his cruiser, then pushes you face-first down against the hood. You don't bother trying to fight back. Not anymore.

You rest your cheek against the warm metal, closing your eyes.

You hear a belt being thrown onto the hood next to you, then another being unclasped, a zipper being pulled down.

Next, your shorts are tugged down your hips, your legs—you'd lost your underwear somewhere. You couldn't remember where now.

And then he pushes inside of you, pressing a palm against the side of your head, the other gripping your hip painfully as your toes lift off the ground.

All is silent tonight, minus the sounds of frogs and crickets and his grunting behind you.

You barely even feel it anymore. Notice. They're all the same. All men. It's like they're one homogenous being that seek, hunt, thirst for, and eventually take one thing.

Take, because it's not nearly as good when it is freely—willingly offered. They hunt their prey, striking a killing blow between its legs.

Maybe it's what they survive off of—sex. No.

Fear.

He grips both your hips then, driving into you from behind, bucking wildly. You wince in pain, silent tears slipping from your tired eyes.

And then he finishes, crying out loudly, twitching between your walls, his hot cum leaking out of you.

Twice now. It had happened twice.

He stumbles back, pulling his pants back up, situating himself.

You lie there for a moment and then you realize you're supposed to move. Supposed to be doing something.

You stand straight then, and watch from a distance as you pull your shorts back up, even as he continues to run down your leg.

You don't look at him when he speaks, saying something about 'seeing what they're all so fuckin' crazy for now' and 'sorry, but I don't do rubbers, hon', he throws in that he 'hopes you're on something'.

You strip down naked once you reach the house, numbly walking outside, off of the porch and toward the pond, ready to make it stop.

You've nearly reached the edge, you can hear the water lapping, can feel something waiting for you, and then you feel a hand wrap around your wrist.

Not again.

Please.

Not again.

Not here.

You stare up blankly at a familiar face. Pretty. Curls. Long lashes.

He's speaking to you, but you don't hear him. You know what he wants. There's no use in fighting. You'll just give it to him. And then he'll let you go.

You reach toward his belt, quickly undoing it, cupping his penis over his jeans.

He backs away from you then and your senses clear, even minimally.

"What're you doing?"

You blink at him, your face blank. "It's ok. I can do it one more time."

You take a step toward him and his brows furrow. "What-"

"I know this is what you want. I see how you look at me. We should just do it." Another step. "I'm really good at it, too. Giving blowjobs. Gave my first one at fourteen. You don't have to use a condom."

"Stop."

"Do you want to know what I did tonight? Maybe it'll turn you on. A threesome. They said I was good. And then he fucked me on the hood of his cruiser. Three in one night is a new record for me. Maybe we can make it four."

The look on his face is that of horrification. What had they done to you?

You reach for his zipper, ready to get on your knees, or on your back, your stomach.

Whatever he wants.

Doesn't matter if you do.

And then he cups your face in his hands, his eyes searching desperately to find you still in there.

"Fuck me," you whisper.

His throat bobs. "This isn't you. This isn't my girl."

Your lip twitches. "C'mon, there's a mattress inside. We can-"

He shakes his head. "No. This isn't you. Come back to me."

You try to press your naked body to his. He'll like that.

He continues looking at you, refusing to avert his eyes. He won't look away from it—from you. He refuses. He won't let you carry this alone. Won't leave you. Because, if he does, he'll return to you lying dead in a watery grave.

"This is the you they want. Not me. I know the real you. I want her back."

You stare at him in silence.

And then you break, your face crumpling.

"It was...so horrible," you choke out through sobs.

He quickly shrugs off his jacket, wrapping it around your naked form, then holding you to him.

"I didn't want to!" You scream against his chest.

He cups the back of your head, your body trembling so hard it's shaking his own. God, what had they done to you?

You clutch yourself to him, terrified that if you let go, you'll be swallowed whole by the black hole that now surrounds you. Or, perhaps, you are it.

A gaping void of nothing.

Billy reaches down, picking you up bridal-style, carrying you back to his car.

"I'm taking you some place safe."

Doesn't he know?

Nowhere is safe. Not anymore.

Hot water beats down on you from above and you watch as a stream of blood flows down the drain from between your legs. It's not your period.

You shut your eyes, resting your cheek atop your bent knees, wrapping your arms more tightly around them, making yourself as small as possible.

Maybe you'd been asking for it. Look at the way you'd dressed tonight; acted. Giggling and touching them, letting them touch you. Just like they always do.

They didn't know any better, because this—rather, that—was all they've ever known. At least with you, that is.

You wonder if they're thinking about it right now with a feeling of guilt. If they feel as empty as you do. Completely hopeless.

What do you have that's worth going on for now? How, in a few hours, had your entire world fell out from under your feet?

And you just kept falling.

Your chin wobbles, and you squeeze your eyes shut more tightly.

Not all men.

That's what they say, isn't it? When it's implied that all any of them think about is sex.

You want to believe Billy is different. He could've so easily done anything he wanted to you just an hour ago. Instead, he'd not even been hard from the naked sight of you. He'd looked into your eyes, not at your body. Had spoken to your soul, not your ears.

He saw you. And he hadn't turned away at the hideous, broken sight.

Was life worth giving one last try, then?

For what, though? You'd trusted Scott. Had worshiped him. And then he had betrayed you.

Judas.

You resolve in the moment, knowing: he'll pay.

You'll have to use and hurt another to do it, but that's fine. Because he deserves it, too. They all do.

You'd merely become a product of their own creation. Now, you would finally come to life.

You stir the chicken and broccoli Billy had made you for dinner idly around your plate while he sits across from you, watching.

"Do you want me to make you something else?" He asks softly.

You look at him, having forgotten he was even there, lost in your own mind. You look around the kitchen for a moment, then back to him. "This is your house."

He's wondering if he shouldn't take you to a hospital.

"Yes."

You gently grip the t-shirt he'd given you to wear for tonight, then run your hand along the soft sweatpants that were too big for you that were also his. "It's nice."

You take a very, very small bite of your food, chewing for a long time before swallowing.

"Thank you," he replies quietly. "It still needs a lot of work, but I'm doing what I can."

He doesn't give a shit about the house right now, but if he can get you to talk at all—he doesn't give a damn what the conversation is about.

You nod, taking another bite.

He wants to ask you to tell him what happened tonight exactly, but knows it'll ruin what little appetite you seem to have just found. So he holds off, watching as you take a sip of water.

"You can take my bed tonight to sleep in." He says with a small smile, reassuring you that it's okay; he won't be joining you.

You look at him, surprised. He...isn't going to send you back there? You aren't sure it was ever a home for you.

"Where will you-"

He jerks his head toward the living room behind him, off of the kitchen. "I have a pullout couch."

"Then I should-"

He shakes his head. "It's okay, really." His lip twitches. "The truth is, sometimes I sleep on it just so I can stay up watching TV."

Lie. The only time he watches TV is when he's eating dinner in there. And even that was only occasionally.

You nod. "Oh."

You eat the rest of your meal in silence.

You toss and turn in Billy's bed—he'd even put clean sheets on it while you'd washed your dishes; you'd insisted on doing at least that much, even if he'd told you he would get to them once you were in bed for the night—for nearly half-an-hour before you finally relent, knowing you'll never fall asleep like this. Alone.

You don't want to close your eyes.

You quietly pad toward the direction of the living room, hoping Billy is still awake. You assume so, since the TV is casting colors of blue and green and red across the walls. You're in luck when you see him leaned back against the cushions, remote in-hand, his other arm resting atop his head, which he lowers to his side when he sees you.

He should've kept a shirt on. What if seeing him even half-undressed made you uncomfortable?

He fears are quickly assuaged.

"Can...can I sleep with you? I'm..." Tears sting your eyes. "I'm scared."

His face falls, his heart breaking on your behalf. "Of course you can."

He pulls back the covers and you step closer, glancing to him and he gives you a kind smile, reassuring you that it's okay—he won't touch you—and you crawl in next to him.

You're the one who touches him then, curling against his side, desperate to be held by someone safe.

He wraps an arm around you, then his other. "Is this okay?" He whispers.

You nod. And then hot tears begin to fall.

You press your face into his chest, crying quietly and his hand comes up, fingertips rubbing the back of your head.

"You're safe now. It's okay. You can feel whatever you need to feel. Cry, scream. Whatever you need. I'm here."

You whimper, curling your body against his.

"Will...will you tell me what happened? Everything seemed fine during, until that guy lost it. Scott?"

You sniffle, raising your head, curling your fingers around the blanket settled overtop the both of you. "He...he saw me sitting in Travis' lap. He got...so angry. After, in the parking lot, Joe..." You grow quiet again for a moment, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat so you can continue.

You take a deep breath, calming yourself. "He suggested a threesome. I looked to Scott to tell him no. He...didn't. I begged him not to. That I didn't want to. He did it to punish me. Said I needed to remember my place. So they did it. Scott didn't use a condom."

You sob quietly. "I left and then Cyrus—one of the cops—found me. He bent me over the hood of his car. I just let him. I didn't want to fight anymore. Not that I ever do. I let it happen. He didn't use anything, either."

He fights down his rage. He doesn't want you to see him angry. Not for a moment. You'd leave, and then God only knows what would happen to you next.

"What were you about to do when I found you?"

You press your forehead against his shoulder, crying. "I wanted to end it."

He doesn't need you to elaborate as to what 'it' is supposed to mean.

You continue. "I wanted to make it stop. It hurts. I hurt. I don't know if I can...take anymore. I thought he cared. About me. I was so stupid. So stupid."

You cry harder then, remembering. You don't want to remember. Don't want to feel their hands on you—their...body parts inside of your own. You hate him now. Well and truly.

There would be no forgiveness for this. He had finally gone too far.

All because you sat on a man's lap that he dislikes. The punishment didn't fit the crime. Not that it should even be considered that. You had done nothing wrong. Right...?

Billy pulls you closer. "I'm so sorry, angel. You need to understand that it wasn't your fault. It never has been. Nothing you've done warranted any of this. They were the ones that knew better; were supposed to do better by you. You didn't deserve it."

He pulls back, cupping your cheek, looking at you. "Do you understand?"

You shrug, lip trembling. "I'm a worthless whore. I'm so disgusting. Unclean."

He shakes his head, pressing his forehead to your own. "You are anything but. You are so bright and kind and full of life and hope and warmth. You're a dreamer. Don't let go of that. Don't let them win. Because, if you do, their lives go on, while you've chosen to cut your own short for people that just do not matter.

"You're so young. And you have everything ahead of you. Maybe it's hard to see that now. It was for me, too. I get it. I was in a dark place for a time. A really long fucking time, and I couldn't see a way out. I never thought I'd have a home of my own, or a halfway-decent job."

He pulls back, brushing tears away from your cheeks. "Or that I'd find you. But I did. So, stay. If not for me, then for you. Just...lean on me. I can handle it. Can shoulder it. Whatever the fuck you need, give it to me and I'll carry it instead."

You burst into tears then, wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face in it.

And he just holds you, telling you that you're safe now. Over and over again.

The house is quiet, the living room dark, apart from a lamp in the hallway casting a soft orange glow. You'd asked Billy to turn a nightlight on. You were afraid of the dark now. At least for tonight.

He'd not mocked you for it. Hadn't rolled his eyes or complained. He'd simply asked which one you would like best and you'd chosen one with blue flowers painted on the glass shade.

You roll onto your side, your hand resting atop his warm bicep. "Are you awake?" You whisper.

"I am."

You're quiet for a moment, then you whisper. "You saved my life."

His eyes sting from unshed tears. "Just...promise me that if you ever think about that again, you'll come to me first. Or call. In the morning, I can give you my home and work phones. I don't care what time it is, or what day. If you need me, I will be there."

No one had ever been so reliable for you before. Or kind. No one.

"Thank you."

He rests a hand atop yours, curling his fingers around it; you can feel the warm metal of his ring.

"I can't stop thinking about it," your voice begins to raise. You don't want to cry again. You're so exhausted.

He turns on his side, resting a palm against your cheek and your eyes flutter closed.

"Tell me about the house. What you would do if you had unlimited funds; an army of workers."

You reach out, pressing your fingertips against the soft skin of his chest, smiling, your eyes opening. "Cut the grass, for one."

He chuckles.

"Maybe plant some more trees. Lemon and cherry and pear. And I would put flowers and bushes all around the house, which would have a big wrap-around porch. And planter boxes on the windows, once they've been replaced, of course. And maybe have the windmill repainted; the rusted parts replaced. Some bird feeders hanging along the porch, a bird bath in the front yard."

You hum, thinking. "The porch would have sitting areas throughout, and swings in the front and back, maybe one on the side. Lanterns for at night. And on the inside, I would have the wood floors polished and re-stained, the chimney cleaned out and a small pile of wood for cool evenings kept near it.

"I would tear down all the wallpaper and repaint all the walls white and blue and cream instead. New furniture. The only thing that would stay would be my nesting dolls."

He grins.

"Oh, and the outside shutters would be blue, too. The house would be painted white. So, that way, it would match inside and out. And the kitchen would have marble countertops and backsplash. And a rack for pots and pans would hang from the ceiling."

He doesn't see it, but you're gesturing with your hands as you paint him a picture of your dream home.

"And lots of little spice jars on a rack, and I would grow herbs in pots on the windowsill. And there would be sugar, and flour, and tea, and coffee..." You trail off.

"The dining room would have a nice new table, and chairs. Maybe even a tea-set. China. Fine China. And a hutch cabinet full of pretty dishes. And the stairs and banisters would have to be re-done. For the bathroom upstairs, I think I would keep the tub, so long as it can be restored. Everything else can be replaced with white porcelain. And a medicine cabinet for storage could be mounted above the floating sink."

You consider what you would do with the room all the furniture had been stored in, then smile. "The next room would be my own personal library. Every wall would be lined with ceiling-high bookshelves. And there would be rugs and plants and a rocking chair in front of the window. Maybe I'd get a cat."

He smiles at that, pulling you closer.

"The master bedroom would have a big, fluffy king-size bed with a canopy, and I'd have a nice dresser with a big mirror atop it. Matching bedside tables with Victorian lamps atop them. And there would be a balcony off of the room, with chairs on it for sitting in the evenings. Glass doors, and gossamer curtains hanging on the inside."

You grow quiet when you consider the final room.

"And the last one?" He asks.

You know what the first idea that pops into your mind is. Even if that'll never be you; if you'll never have that. Not that you should.

You're the last woman on Earth who should ever consider such a thing. But this moment is for dreaming. About the life you want, even if it's one you know you'll never have.

"A crib. And a mobile. Toys and stuffed animals and soft lights and soft things. And if it was a girl, no man would ever touch her except her father. So long as he was a good man. If not, I have a large yard and a shovel. And no one will ever find him. Ever."

He doesn't smile or laugh. Nor do you.

"That sounds like a beautiful dream," he says, fingers curling around your side.

You wrap your hands around his arm, slowly closing your eyes. "It is. Maybe...I'll find someone to share it with one day."

He closes his as well. "Maybe you already have," he replies softly.

You fall asleep with a smile upon your lips, and warmth in your heart.

A feeling of safety wrapped around you. A feeling...which has a name.

Billy.

[moonstruckme]

Hi! You are such a good writer!! Totally fine if you don’t want to be write this because it can be triggering, but I was recently roofied (nothing happened physically but I did have to go to the hospital, I’m ok now) and it would be nice to see either a steddie or poly!marauders fic on how they would react to it happening to their girl. More focusing on the aftermath and mental issues… again if this is too trigger please don’t feel bad about not writing it. I would also just love a basic comfort fic <3

Oh sweetheart, I'm so sorry that happened to you. I've had it happen to a couple of my friends while we've been out (thankfully nothing happened with them either and we were able to get them home safe, but it's so terrifying regardless), and it's insane that it happens so frequently. I hope you're feeling better my love and are seeking any support you need <33

cw: non-consensual drug use, mentions of drinking, no sexual assault but general talk of rape culture

Steddie x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

No part of you is comfortable right now, but you’re trying to tell yourself it could be worse.

The IV in your arm is itchy, your head is starting to hurt, you feel cold and exposed in the outfit you’d worn to the bar, and your throat is sore from forcing yourself to be sick repeatedly on the curb. 

You want to cry, but you’re not sure you’ve got the energy left to do it. 

It turns out you do, though, because as soon as the nurse pulls back the curtain to let Steve and Eddie into the little area you’ve been given, your cheeks wet themselves with tears. 

“Hey,” Eddie coos, nearly picking you up off the bed in his eagerness to have you in his arms. “Hey, baby, how ya doing?”

“Hey,” you try to say back, but the sound is garbled by a sob. You’re trembling again. You thought you’d gotten past that. 

Steve crouches by your bed, eye-to-eye with you as he smoothes some sticky pieces of hair away from your face. You’re not sure if they’re wet with sweat or vomit or something else. You try to stop it, but another sob escapes you, your chest like a cracked shell Eddie’s trying to hold together with his hands on your back. You appreciate it, but it’s a feeble attempt. You’re crying like a child now, shoulders shaking, face hot with tears as you cover it with your hand embarrassedly. 

“Take it easy, you’re alright,” Steve says, then hesitates, giving you a once-over. “You’re okay, aren’t you? I know you said on the phone nothing happened, but…”

You shake your head, sniffling but trying to pull yourself together. “It didn’t.”

Eddie lets you go, and Steve rolls his eyes as you scooch over to make room for him on the tiny bed. “What happened then, sweet thing?” he asks gently.

Any composure you’d worked up crumples, and a whimpering sound tears from the back of your throat in your efforts to keep from bursting into tears again. 

“Give her a minute,” Steve murmurs, rubbing your back with slow, long strokes. He takes your IV tube in his hand, carefully working it out from under where you’d accidentally sat on top of it. “It’s okay, honey, take your time.” 

The frightening part of it is, you’ve already forgotten most of it. Your friends had to be the ones to tell you that you’d been with them the whole time, that no one had left you alone and nothing had happened. That you’d scraped your knees on the sidewalk outside, not in some dark alleyway, and that they’d been the ones to drive you to the hospital, not some random guy once he’d finished with you. 

You shudder, and Eddie mistakes it for a shiver, taking off his jacket to drape it over your shoulders. “Thanks,” you say. The smile he gives you in return is far from happy, but it’s something. 

“I don’t remember everything,” you warn them, and some of the blood leaves Eddie’s face as Steve’s mouth flattens stoically, nodding for you to go on. You force yourself to take a deep breath. “Um, I know I’d had a couple drinks, but I was feeling fine, and then I had one more and everything started to seem off within like, twenty minutes? I couldn’t really walk, and I could barely talk, and that’s not what three drinks do to me, you know?”

You look to Steve for confirmation, and he squeezes your shoulder reassuringly. “Right. We’ve seen you after a few drinks, honey. That doesn’t add up.” 

You nod, feeling a bit more sure of yourself. “Yeah. Anyway, then Ananya said I told her I felt weird, and she took me outside to get some air and I made myself throw up outside the bar. And I guess I got everything out of my system, because when I got here they said—” You clear your throat, fighting against the blockage there. “They said it could have gotten a lot worse if I hadn’t.” 

Eddie rests his head on your shoulder with a sigh, hair tickling your neck. “Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry. Do you have any idea who might’ve done it?”

You shrug with the other shoulder, and Eddie intertwines his fingers with yours comfortingly. “I mean, a group of guys bought that third round for me and my friends, so it could’ve been them. But then it’s weird that I’m the only one who got roofied, right?” Eddie’s hand tightens on yours, and something hardens in Steve’s eyes. “Could’ve been the bartender, too, I guess. I was paying attention to my drink, and they’re the only ones who had their hands on it, but…” you shrug again. “No proof, and no way to know for sure.” 

Steve’s voice is low, but soft for your benefit, when he asks, “You sure you don’t want to try to do anything about it?”

That’s one thing you’ve had all night to mull over, the one thought you forced your unnaturally sluggish brain to work through. You shake your head. “I think I’m gonna call the bar tomorrow and tell them what happened just in case it was their bartender, but right now I just want to go home.” 

Eddie makes a sympathetic sound, turning his head to nuzzle at your neck affectionately. Steve reaches over to pat his leg, smiling at the both of you. “I asked the nurse on our way in, she said you’re free to go as soon as your IV is done,” he promises. “She said you’ll have a hangover from whatever they gave you, too, so I’m thinking we can pick up some gatorade and stuff on our way home and have a chill day on the couch, sound good?”

You give him a tired smile, and he cups your face in his palm, a slight crease forming between his brows as he assesses your red-rimmed eyes, the circles beneath them. “My head is already kind of hurting,” you admit, “so that sounds perfect.” 

He hums. “We’ve probably got a little while until they can unhook you,” he says, eyeing your IV bag. “Wanna try and sleep?”

You hesitate, recalling with abrupt clarity the scrape of pavement under your knees, the lights going by your window on the way to the hospital, the mantra that had played in your head over and over again: don’t fall asleep, don’t fall asleep. But Eddie’s head is a reassuring weight on your shoulder, and Steve begins stroking his thumb under your aching eyes as he waits for you to answer. You’re nowhere safer than with them beside you. “You’ll stay with me?” you ask quietly. 

Eddie scoffs, his breath tickling the underside of your chin. “Sweetheart, you scared the shit out of us tonight; we’re never letting you out of our sight again.”