getaapologist

[getaapologist]

Warm Cuddles

boyfriend!johnny storm x fem civilian!reader content warnings: none! all fluff! summary: soft moment with your “celebrity” boyfriend wc: 1.3k

masterlist.

The paparazzi camera lights flash like fireworks, too fast, too hot. Johnny’s used to it—has been for over a year now—but that doesn’t make it less annoying. He smiles anyway. A practiced, toothy grin that looks good in pictures and means absolutely nothing.

Another question is shouted from the crow, “Johnny, is it true you're seeing someone?” and his smile twitches. Not enough for the cameras to catch, but enough that Sue, watching from a few feet away, lets out a quiet, exhausted sigh.

He shifts his weight, adjusting the fit of his suit jacket like the extra second will help him lie smoother.

“I’ve heard the rumors,” he says, voice breezy, like he’s talking about a movie plot or the weather. “People say a lot of things.”

That gets a few laughs, a few more questions tossed over each other like waves. “Is she famous?” “Is it serious?” “Is she an alien?” “Can she handle the heat?”

Johnny chuckles, just enough. Leans into the microphone with a glint in his eye that makes half the audience melt.

“She’s…” He pauses, then shrugs. “She’s amazing. Smart. Cool. Pretty. No powers. Not famous. Sorry to disappoint.”

He doesn’t say your name. He never does.

Someone calls out, “Is that why you’ve been disappearing at night?”

He pretends not to hear. That part—well, they’re not wrong. Most nights, when the after-parties are winding down and the cameras are shutting off, Johnny flies low across the city skyline. He lands quiet, gentle, on the rusted fire escape outside your apartment window. You always leave it cracked for him. A candle burning low on the table. A half-finished book on your couch.

No headlines. No flashbulbs. Just you.

He shifts again under the spotlight, tugging at the cuffs of his jacket. “Next question,” he says, still grinning. ���Unless any of you want to talk about actual news.”

A few groans. One last desperate, “Is she the real reason you’ve been turning down interviews?”

Johnny Storm—handsome, heartthrob and hotshot—just smirks.

“She’s the reason I sleep better at night,” he says, and then walks off before they can follow up.

The moment the interview wraps, Johnny’s already shrugging off the jacket. It’s still early by New York standards, but the sky is darker now, slipping from indigo to black, and he can feel the tension of the night clawing at the collar of his shirt.

He hates the way the lights follow him. The way the noise clings to his skin.

He launches into the air the second he's out of sight, heat flaring at his back as flames lick down his arms, steady and familiar. The wind rushes past his face, cold and clean, like a reset button pressed against his ribs. Up, he tells himself, just up and out and away.

And toward you.

It’s not far—Brooklyn’s just a few minutes when he’s flying—but he takes the long way anyway, trailing above the river, letting his mind wander. His fingers flex, still twitchy from the questions. The whole scene.

Is it serious?

The press always wants a story. Some face to match their headlines. Some easy name they can chew up in the group chat and spit out in next week’s gossip thread. They want drama. Glamour. Someone like him.

Not someone like you.

You, with your plush lips and gorgeous eyes and tea-stained mugs in the sink. You, who tells him things like “don’t forget to eat” and “you left your socks here again.”

You, who never once asked for the spotlight, who hates the spotlight and everything and everyone to do with it, but leaves your window unlocked every night for Johnny, just in case.

He sees it now, glowing soft in the corner of the building. Your family's apartment. His heart stutters like it always does when he spots that flicker of warm yellow light from your kitchen lamp. The flame around him dims without thought. He lands barefoot on the metal grating of your fire escape, still warm to the touch from his descent.

You don’t flinch when he knocks, don’t look surprised when you turn and see him there. You just open the window like you always do and smile that stupid, sleepy smile like he’s something worth waiting up for.

“Rough night, hotshot?”

He steps in without answering, still a little breathless, still caught in the way your oversized sweatshirt slips off your shoulder. There’s an old movie playing on your TV. Popcorn on the bedside table. One of his t-shirts folded neatly on the end of your bed.

He thinks, not for the first time, God, I’m so in love with her it’s pathetic.

“They asked about you again,” he mutters.

“Did you tell them I said hi?” you tease.

“Told them you’re amazing. And smart. And cool. And very very pretty.”

You raise a brow and pause for a moment. “Really?”

He grins and steps closer, pressing his forehead to yours. The heat of him rolls through the room, subtle and golden, like sunshine at midnight.

“Told them they don’t get to know the best part of my life.”

You go quiet at that. But your fingers find his and you give a small, gentle squeeze.

And just like that, he breathes easy again.

The popcorn goes untouched. The movie plays on, forgotten in the background, muted now beneath the steady sound of his breathing and the hush of city traffic beyond your window.

He sinks into your bed like he’s melting into it—like he only holds his shape when you’re near. Limbs long and heavy, firebanked for the night. His hand finds yours without thinking, fingers curling easily between yours, rough skin against soft.

“Come here,” he murmurs, already tugging you closer.

You don’t need convincing.

Cuddling with Johnny is like curling up with the sun. He runs hot all the time, not burning, not scalding, but a kind of deep, bone-deep warmth that seeps into you like it was made for you alone. His skin is always warmer than yours, like he’s got a sun hidden behind his ribcage. Like the rest of the world might make him wear heat-resistant suits and flame-proof gloves, but here… here, he’s just a space heater in a hoodie.

You climb into his lap, and his arms fold around you like second nature—his palm spreading across your lower back, his chin resting on the crown of your head.

He exhales, and his whole body softens.

“You’re gonna make me fall asleep,” you whisper.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You’re a human furnace.”

“Actually, I'm a Human Torch.”

You smile against his neck and you both laugh.

He smells faintly like smoke and cologne, singed cotton and whatever soap he stole from your shower last week. One of his legs hooks lazily over yours. Your face fits perfectly against the curve of his neck, where his skin is warmest, like summer and safety all in one.

“You were tense earlier,” you murmur, voice barely audible over the quiet whir of your ceiling fan.

“Yeah,” he says. “I always am after stuff like that. Everyone asking questions. Looking for the version of me they like best.”

He doesn’t say it with bitterness. Just tired truth. But you feel the weight behind it anyway—the performance, the smiling, the careful answers. The way he never quite lets his shoulders drop until he’s here.

“You don’t have to be anything here,” you whisper, eyes drifting closed. “Just Johnny.”

His arms tighten slightly. You feel the press of his lips against your hair—gentle, quiet, real.

“Just Johnny,” he repeats.

The room fades into stillness. The light from the laptop flickers, blue and dim across the room. His heart beats steady beneath your ear, and his body radiates heat like it’s trying to lull you to sleep.

And maybe it works.

Because here, in the heart of a city that never stops moving, you’re wrapped in the arms of a boy that can catch on fire, and somehow, you’ve never felt more at peace.

[getaapologist]

|| make me dream of you ||

Pairing: Johnny Storm/Reader

Summary: Johnny can handle a lot of things. But the feelings he has for you? That's a whole other matter.

Word count: 1.8k

Tags and warnings: Fluff, Johnny catches feelings, assistant reader, Johnny's POV, no use of Y/N.

(I promised myself I wouldn't fall in love with this man. But then I saw the film, and well...here I am, in love and a little mad about it. Anyway. Here's a little more Johnny fluff. It's a bit of a short one, but I hope it's okay!)

Johnny Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

Johnny's not entirely sure when it happened.

One day, you were his assistant, and the next, you were something else.

Something more.

Things change. He knows that better than most people. He's learned to accept it. Embrace it, even. As exhausting as his life is at times, he wouldn't trade it for the world.

But this...

This is driving him nuts.

He's not a great sleeper at the best of times. He's always struggled with tuning his thoughts out, and after the cosmic storm, it's only gotten worse. He's seen things most people could only dream of. Incredible, terrifying things.

And now his nights are spent alone in his bed, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about you. How your eyes light up when you've finally solved an issue with one of the schematics. How you always laugh at his jokes, even the really terrible ones.

That soft smile you give him as you slide a cup of coffee his way, when he's falling asleep in the middle of another all-nighter. No one makes a coffee as potent as you do. It's perfect.

And somehow, all of this is so much scarier than anything he's ever seen up there, among the stars.

At his worst, when it's past 3am and he's still tossing and turning, he thinks about getting you fired. Making up some excuse to get rid of you, or making work so unbearable that you have no choice but to hand in your notice.

But that's selfish, and cowardly, and he feels like an asshole for even entertaining the notion.

But that leaves him with only one other option, and the more he thinks about it, the more he'd rather just disappear into space.

He needs to talk to you. To get all of this off his chest, and hope to God that it doesn't ruin everything.

He feels like he's losing his mind, and the worst part is, you have no idea what you're doing to him.

When he arrives at work the next morning, it's to find you, already set up for the day ahead and in the middle of taking notes.

The irony that he has the ability to fly, and yet he's always late, is not lost on him.

"Morning," you call, as the door clicks shut behind him.

Even that, the casual way you greet him, like you do every morning, leaves him frustrated. You're not even doing anything, you're just being yourself.

"Morning," he forces himself to say, hoping he doesn't sound as bad as he feels.

"Don't worry, I haven't done too much yet," you tell him, your attention still focused on the blueprints laid out across the desk in front of you. "I'm just looking over a few things from yesterday."

Johnny's still standing by the door. Hasn't moved at all. He's not sure if he can remember how.

"Could you bring over the schematics from last week?" you ask, still completely oblivious to the meltdown happening behind you. "They're on the second shelf, in the blue folder."

He could just go home. Say he's sick and run out the door. Anything would be easier than this. Instead, he makes himself walk across the room to do what you asked. He finds the blue folder, neatly filed in amongst the others, and that frustrates him too. Before you came along, this place was a mess. Everything was everywhere. Johnny's thoughts made manifest. And now, everything's colour-co-ordinated and has its own folder, and it all makes sense and he doesn't have to spend hours looking for things anymore.

He turns around, the drawings beginning to wrinkle in his too-tight grip. You're still completely engrossed in your work, pencil in hand as you scribble a note in the blueprint's margin.

"Oh, that should be a four..." you mutter to yourself, your free hand absently searching for an eraser to correct it.

It lies just out of your reach, and you have to stretch yourself across the table to grab it.

In his defence, Johnny tries not to look. Really, he does. But his eyes seem to have a mind of their own, and his gaze wanders down, to where you're practically bent over the table. God, if he could just-

"Oh my God!" he hears you shout in a panicked voice.

It's then that he notices the smoke, rising from the drawings in his hand.

"Oh, shit-"

Without thinking, he tosses them to the ground, stamping the thankfully small flame out before it has a chance to spread. He doesn't move once it's out, just stares at the mess he's made.

"Johnny?"

He sees your shoes next to the ashy pile on the floor.

"Hey, you okay?" you ask softly.

He looks up then, to find you staring at him, your head tilted slightly to one side with a worried expression.

Johnny clenches and unclenches his hand slowly - the one that did the damage.

That's never happened to him before.

At least, not since he figured out how to keep his powers under control.

"I- I don't know what happened," is all he can manage to say.

You smile at him, soft and reassuring.

"It's okay, accidents happen," you reply gently. "Don't worry about them, I made copies."

He feels your hand slip into his, and he frowns. He's still too dazed to bring himself to pull away.

"You shouldn't- Aren't you worried I'm gonna explode again?" he asks, as you guide him across the room to his chair.

You shake your head as you sit down next to him.

"I'm not afraid of you, Johnny," you say, and he can hear the sincerity in your voice.

But God is he afraid of you. Of how you make him feel.

"You wanna talk?" you ask. "I've been told I'm a good listener."

Johnny leans forward a little, elbows resting on his knees as he stares down at his hands. As if he's scared something will happen again.

"I don't know if..."

He swallows, trying to steady his nerves, before he presses on.

"I don't know if you'll wanna hear it," he murmurs.

You reach for him again, and he can't bring himself to pull away from you. Your hands feel so soft, warm in a way that he's not used to. Comforting.

"I promise you I do," you tell him. "We're friends, right?"

Are you friends? Sure, you met when you applied for this job, but it's not really just a work relationship anymore, is it? He spends more time with you than most colleagues would, and you've even been over for dinner a few times. Sue always makes a point of asking how you are, and when Ben's been baking, he'll make a little extra, just for you.

But the real problem is that Johnny doesn't see you as a friend.

It's so much more. And if he's not careful, he could end up with nothing.

But then he makes the mistake of looking up, and his gaze meets yours. Your eyes are so sincere, in a way that makes him want to spill it all across the floor.

He needs to tell you.

"I don't think we are," he replies. "Not anymore."

Your brow knits together in a frown.

"What?" you ask, confusion in your voice. "Did something happen? I-"

Johnny shakes his head, stopping you before you become upset.

"No, no, it's not like that," he says quickly. "It's just-"

He lets out a long, slow breath, and then, in true Johnny fashion, it all comes tumbling out before he can stop it.

"I like you. I...really like you. To the point where I can't stop thinking about you. Every night, I lie awake for hours, and you're all that's on my mind."

He stops himself with a wince.

"I mean, not like that. I wouldn't- It's not how it sounds. Look, I-"

He sighs in frustration.

"I didn't want to say anything, because I didn't want to lose you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. And I guess...I guess I got greedy. Because this, what we have right now...It's not enough for me anymore."

Johnny runs his tongue along his teeth, trying to collect himself. His mouth feels so dry, like he's been talking for hours.

"I understand if you wanna quit. I won't hold it against you," he says, and he can hear how defeated he sounds. "I'd probably do the same, if I were you."

He finally, mercifully, shuts up. His head's pounding, and his heart's no better.

He's never realised how quiet this room is. The silence feels as though it stretches on for an eternity, when the ticking clock on the wall tells him it's only been a few seconds.

"Can I say something?" you ask.

Johnny nods, not trusting himself to speak. His heart feels like it's lodged in his throat.

"I don't want to quit this job. I love it here. Really, I do. But...we have a problem now, and I don't know how we're supposed to get around it."

Here it comes. He holds his breath.

"It's just...Well, I don't know how ethical dating my boss is," you say with a smile.

Johnny's eyes widen. Did you just-

"What?" is all he can say.

A laugh escapes you, and he thinks it might be his favourite sound.

"Think about it. It's a HR nightmare, and we both know it," you tell him, but your voice is light, and you're still smiling.

"I mean, technically Reed is your boss, not me," Johnny replies, trying his best to recover.

You tilt your head from one side to the other, as if mulling it over. Not once have your hands left his.

"Then, I suppose that makes it okay," you say at last.

Johnny just looks at you, mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the right words.

Nothing comes to him. So he does the next best thing. He leans in, gently kissing you on the lips. Your hands squeeze his, and he feels you kiss him back. It's slow, careful, and he knows you're as nervous as he is.

But it's perfect. Because it's you.

It takes him a while to pull himself away, and when he does, it's to see you with the biggest smile on your face.

He's never seen anyone look as beautiful as you do right now.

You turn your head towards the desk.

"Should we maybe...?" you ask, trailing off.

Johnny shakes his head.

"Nah. It can wait another few minutes," he murmurs, as he kisses you again.

If Johnny had to choose from all the stupid risks he's ever taken in his life - and there have been a lot, he'll admit - he thinks this one is his favourite. Because none of the others have ever made him as happy as he is right now.

Taglist: @iitsmandii @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @samslvrgirl @bib200 @magikdarkholme @spider-starry @jeangeniex @hazydespair @rainybloo28 @alexxavicry @mystic-alpaca @e-c-a-r-l-a-t-e

(You can join the taglist here! If you wish to be removed, please let me know!)

[getaapologist]

|| auxilium ||

Pairing: Geta/Reader, background Geta/Reader/Caracalla

Summary: How can Geta possibly resist reading your mind when your thoughts are so enticing?

Word count: 2.5k

Tags and warnings: Vampire AU, smut (kind of 'blink and you'll miss it', but still fairly obvious!), mentions of blood and injury, Geta has psychic abilities, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(I've been itching to get back to my little vampire AU! This time, I wanted to give Geta and Caracalla their own separate stories. You don't have to read the first two fics, but it might help for a little more context! You can find them here and here.)

Geta Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

If Geta were to make an argument in his own defence, the manner in which things unfolded was not entirely his fault.

No, if he were to lay blame upon anyone, it would be you.

After all, how can he possibly be blamed for his actions, when you are the one having such vulgar thoughts?

The first time it happens, it is early in the morning. Geta has a meeting with the Senate, and so he has already risen and is in the process of dressing for the day. He is no longer as fond of the morning light as he once was - if he is not careful, too much exposure to Apollo in all his glory will leave him stricken with unbearable sickness.

Which is why he has left Caracalla as he is, fast asleep and sprawled across the bed with his limbs splayed in every direction. Geta has quite enough to contend with as it is, without his brother complaining of illness the entirety of the morning.

You were roused from your own slumber as Geta had quietly slipped from the bed, and now you lie next to Caracalla, your head lazily propped up by your hand as you watch Geta go about his routine.

He is still in his sleeping robe, and thinking that he is the only one awake, has not bothered to tie it properly, leaving much of his chest exposed.

He feels it first. A warm, roiling sensation in the pit of his stomach. It is not unpleasant, but it comes to him unbidden, and he is quick to realise that this feeling is not his.

Then he sees it. An image in his mind’s eye, of you, pulling his robe from him. Your soft hands trailing along his shoulders, down the length of his broad arms, across the expanse of his chest.

He turns to you then, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. You are feigning sleep, your hand partially obscuring your face.

He clicks his tongue, and sees you jolt at the sudden sound. His smile only widens.

“As beautiful as you would be on the stage, mea lux, you are a terrible actress,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear without disturbing Caracalla.

It is another moment before you move, slowly peeking between your fingers to reluctantly meet his gaze.

“Forgive me,” you call softly, “You are very distracting as you are.”

Geta feels his face flush. How strange it is, that such kind words are what leave him so flustered. He shakes his head fondly.

“You would blame me for your obscene thoughts?” he asks.

He teases; he cannot help it, when you react as beautifully as you do. As expected, your eyes widen, and you hide your face once more.

Geta crosses the room to you, gently prying your hands away from your face. He places a kiss to the back of one, then the other, before allowing himself to give into the temptation of kissing you on the lips.

It is a brief stay, and he forces himself to pull away from you before he is tempted further. He lingers for just a moment; at last turning back to his forgotten task.

“Do try to behave yourself,” he says softly, gathering his belongings as he turns to the door. “I will return before long.”

He decides it best to finish dressing in another room - for both your sakes.

It is then that Caracalla rouses, grumbling as he sleepily wraps his arms around your waist and drags you closer to him.

Geta rolls his eyes, taking that as his cue to leave.

Jealousy is not something that he often experiences with his brother. He is very aware that he has been granted a great many more privileges, although he does find himself longing for a little of Caracalla’s free spirit at times.

You, however…

He would be lying if he said that he does not wish to have you for himself. But who is he to question the Fates?

As of late, he has been doing his utmost to block your thoughts from his mind as best he can. Before, it did not bother him in the slightest. His strange ability is a gift granted to him by the Gods, whatever right would he have to deny himself the use of it?

He is unable to read his brother’s thoughts; for this, he is grateful. It would be a wasted effort, in any case, as Caracalla has never been able to keep even the smallest of his thoughts to himself. Geta sometimes feels as though he knows Caracalla's mind better than he knows his own.

With you, however, it is a struggle. How is he to stop himself, when he wishes to know every part of you?

But he is learning to allow you privacy. It is a rare thing for an Emperor to place trust in anyone, and yet he finds himself learning to trust you. You have shown him no reason to be wary, and more often than not, what you say and what you think are in alignment. And he cannot deny the effect you have had on Caracalla. His moods have become far more predictable of late, and Geta is thankful for this.

You are the only one who has ever gotten so close to either of them, and lived to tell the tale. Not that you ever would; you had vehemently sworn yourself to secrecy. Not that a soul would believe you, in any case.

Geta and Caracalla have vowed that they will not make you their sole source of sustenance, as it will only lead to ruin. This, at least, they have been able to agree on.

The matter of turning you, however, has caused a great many arguments between them, and left Geta with as many headaches. At the very least, they have agreed not to speak a word of it to you for now, leaving you none the wiser.

Geta derives little pleasure from seeking out other sources to sustain himself nowadays, but needs must.

He will become a danger otherwise, and he cannot allow that.

He and his brother feed together. Geta finds that it is easier that way. He knows where he is, and that he is not with you. Even in life, Caracalla struggled with keeping his urges under control, and he has only grown more difficult in this between-worlds state they now find themselves in.

As he proves all too readily that evening. Caracalla wipes his mouth haphazardly against his robe, as another body is drained to the very brink of death. Geta, by contrast, has yet to feed, his nose wrinkled in annoyance at his brother's behaviour.

Caracalla laughs at him, bloodstained teeth glinting in the candlelight.

"Save your judgment, brother," he says, lithe fingers plucking at yet another proffered wrist and bringing it to his mouth. "You are as much of a beast as I."

Geta scoffs in irritation. A beast? Hardly. He has decorum. There is no hope in winning this particular battle, however, as Caracalla simply does not care.

He never has. How Geta envies him.

He drops his gaze to the woman sitting at his feet, who has been doing her utmost to draw his attention to her since he arrived. He almost pities her. Perhaps, under different circumstances, he may have wanted to give her the attention she so desperately desires. As it stands, she is a means to an end, and no more.

He leans back where he sits, opening himself up for her to climb into his lap. She is so eager to please, poor little thing.

It is then that he feels it again. That warmth in the pit of his stomach. At first, he assumes it is emanating from the woman in front of him.

But it feels...familiar.

It is one he has experienced before.

He tries to keep himself focused on the task at hand, but he cannot. The feeling only grows in intensity, until it threatens to overwhelm him entirely.

It is all too easy for him to seek out its source.

This is not a breach of your privacy, he is quick to reason with himself, as you are driving him to distraction.

This, he will insist, you have brought upon yourself.

You lay in bed, alone in your shared chambers. He would have expected you to be asleep at such a late hour, but on occasion, you surprise him.

As you have now. You are not asleep at all; quite the opposite. The bedcovers have been pushed to the side, the fabric of your sleep robes haphazardly dragged up to your hips. One hand lies by your head, lax and unmoving, while the other…

This is entirely unlike you, mea lux.

The sharp gasp that greets him in response is as clear as if it were breathed against his ear.

He smiles to himself.

Is this how you pass the time when you are alone? Perhaps I was wrong to allow you so much privacy. I have obviously been depriving myself of such…interesting entertainment.

He is met with embarrassed silence, but those feelings still very much persist.

By all means, do not stop on my account. I could certainly use the pleasant distraction.

Once again, he is met with silence. He thinks that perhaps he has pushed you too far, and then-

He bites his lower lip, hard, to stifle the sound that threatens to escape him. Slowly, tentatively, your hand has continued, as though you were not interrupted.

I wonder, do you indulge yourself in this manner every time you are left alone? Do we not take good enough care of you?

At last, you speak. Your thoughts are fragmented, broken. Geta is thoroughly enjoying every one of them.

“N-No, that is not it at all…”

Another rush of warmth travels the length of Geta, and he cannot help but shudder at its intensity.

Then what is it?

“I cannot sleep…I had hoped that perhaps…”

There is such an innocence in how you speak to him, in spite of what you have been caught doing.

Perhaps you might tire yourself out? You do not seem to be trying very hard. Although, I suppose I may have distracted you. Allow me to offer you my assistance.

His hunger is forgotten, for the time being. He does so enjoy toying with you. It would drive him to ruin, if he were a weaker man.

Particularly as you are now. So unguarded, so compromised. It thrills him in a way that little else does.

His eyes close, letting distraction fall away, as he focuses entirely on you. How you sound, how you feel, emanating in waves through him. How you might taste...

He swallows thickly.

If only you could feel what I do in this very moment, mea lux. I am at a loss for words to describe it. How I wish to be the one pulling those sweet sounds from your throat, but as I am, I fear that I would lose myself entirely to more...baser urges.

A tiny sound, akin to a whimper, is all he receives in reply, but it speaks volumes. How it fills him with such pride, to reduce you to this.

I do not know if I would be able to control myself in your presence. Does that frighten you? Or perhaps...

Geta pauses. You have not once stopped, and with smug satisfaction, he realises that those feelings are only growing stronger, more fervid in your need.

Perhaps you find it enticing. You think, because I have held my tongue, that I do not see how you have attempted to goad me into losing my temper on occasion. You should be grateful that it has not worked.

He falters. It is difficult to think, so affected by your desire as he is. His hunger cannot be ignored any longer. He must feed.

He must draw this little game to a close.

He opens his eyes, allowing his attention to be drawn to the woman in his lap. It is now that he notices how she trembles, and he brings a hand to her face, as if to soothe her. If his eyes were not as sharp as they are, he might pretend that it is you.

He draws her closer, brushing her hair from her bare shoulder. She tilts her head back, allowing him access to her neck. He releases a deep, shuddering breath, and the tension within his body feels as though it might consume him.

His fangs slowly lengthen, his mouth salivating as he feels you draw ever closer to the relief you so fervidly chase.

He hears a stammer of his name, a mere whisper of a sound, and another rush of warmth washes over him.

Wait.

The command is snarled, as at last, the calm façade is abandoned. He cannot deny himself any longer. This bloodlust will surely drive him to lunacy.

And yet...

You will not move again until I say so. Is that clear?

You do not reply, but he knows, at least, that you have obeyed. Your hand lies still.

Do not make me repeat myself. Or I will not touch you again, not until I decide that you are worthy of it. And do not think of crying to Caracalla, for he will not listen to you either. I will make sure of it.

He is met with the most pitiful sound.

"I-I have not moved, I promise," you insist shakily.

And you will not, not until I have given you permission.

You manage a hum in agreement, and he cannot help but smile. The power that he wields over you is intoxicating. It takes everything in him at times not to misuse it.

Good girl. Now then...

He leans forward, fingers digging into taut skin as his mouth opens.

You were close, were you not?

You do not have to answer him, he can tell. It is overwhelming, this feeling; as though he can feel every sensation, every nerve ending. It is like nothing he has ever experienced.

Do not keep me waiting, mea lux. Fall apart for me.

You are right on the brink when he strikes, sinking his teeth into the neck held tight by his trembling hands. She is not you, not even close, but having that connection to you in this very moment, it is…

He is without words.

He feels you slip into the warm afterglow that follows, as he greedily takes his fill. Truly, the only thing that would make it all the sweeter would be if it were you in his arms.

It takes everything in his power to draw himself away, to stop before it is too late. His chest heaves as he collapses against the cushions at his back, his tongue running languidly across the length of his upper lip.

It is some time before he is able to move again. His movements are sluggish, almost drunken in their unsteadiness.

Even so, he finds himself eager to return to you. While his hunger may have been sated, he has still been left wanting.

You have left him wanting.

And the night is still young, after all. 

Taglist: @lover-rep-fanfic @x-vadon @dubiousmetamorphosis @hikohyuuga @iitsmandii @medievalharlot @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @robinbuckleywife @bib200 @samslvrgirl @cheesesandwichsanto @magikdarkholme @spider-starry @jeangeniex @hazydespair @alexxavicry @mystic-alpaca

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[getaapologist]

Choc’late Ice Keem

eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 2.3k+

summary: Corroded Coffin or Die Server Photo Prompt Challenge | You and Eddie spend some quality time with Alice at a Fourth of July festival

warnings: It’s the 90’s the bitches around them are very patriotic, A toddler is eating ice cream— it’s very messy so skip this if that bothers you, a pregnancy bombshell

notes: I wrote both of our photo prompts for this week (07/25) so here’s 1/2 of this week’s contribution from me for our challenge! Eddie and Alice are there for fireworks and snacks. And the misspelled title is very much intentional. Thank you to @peachyproserpina for editing this for me!

It’s July 4th, 1996, and Los Angeles feels like it’s absolutely doing its best to cook you alive. Even living this close to the beach the air hangs hotter and heavier than you remember back in Hawkins. The inside of the rover feels like it’s approximately the temperature of the sun’s surface by the time Eddie throws himself into the driver’s seat and sticks the keys in the ignition. You’re sitting shotgun with your hair already sticking to the back of your neck. You’ve got a damp paper towel pressed there to help you keep from actually melting. In the back, Alice sits in her car seat with her legs kicking, wearing a little star-spangled sundress and clutching the bat Eddie had gotten from that claw machine years ago, to her chest.

Eddie leans his arm across the back of your seat and twists to glance behind him before pulling out of the driveway. “Alright, ladies,” he says happily, flicking the blinker on. “Prepare yourselves. You’re about to witness the most patriotic feat known to man— a Munson parallel parking at a crowded festival on the Fourth of July.”

You groan softly and run your hand through your hair to tame the flyaways. “Can we just get there first before you start celebrating your victory?”

“Bats,” he tells you, not even looking at you as he steers one-handed, letting the other hand fall into your lap, tucking his fingers contently between your thighs, “half the battle is confidence.” You cannot wrap your head around the fact he’s wearing sleeves right now. 

From the back seat, Alice chirps up, “Con-fi-dence!” and Eddie nearly swerves from laughing so hard.

“That’s my girl,” he calls back to her, eyes flicking up to beam into the rearview. “See? She gets it. Her old man’s a genius.”

“You’re something,” you mumble, but you’re smiling anyway as he shoots you a quick, proud grin, bringing your hand to his lips.

The streets near the festival are packed full— kids are running ahead of frazzled parents, teenagers walk with sparklers already lit, there’s flags waving from porch railings. Eddie miraculously finds a parking spot two blocks away and manages to wedge the rover into it on the first try. He punches the air out of the open window and whoops so loud that a very confused couple walking past actually clap for him.

You roll your eyes but can’t help laughing as he leaps out and opens the back to free Alice from her car seat. She reaches for him immediately, and he lifts her high over his head before settling her on his hip.

“Alright, princess,” he grins, pointing toward the crowd of booths and rides and lights up ahead, “you get to lead the way. Daddy’s ready to blow some money on funnel cake and questionable fried meats.”

Alice, who has absolutely no idea what any of what he just said means, giggles and buries her face in his shoulder.

The festival is everything you expected it to be and even a little bit more— there were red, white, and blue, streamers strung between light poles, Happy Fourth of July banners flapping in the faint breeze, music playing from a loudspeaker that barely works at the edge of the grounds. The air smells like the hot dogs stands just a few feet away, sunscreen from the children running past, and powdered sugar from whatever fried treat anyone could get their hands on. Kids are darting in and out of lines, screaming as they chase each other with little paper flags.

Eddie keeps Alice on his hip while you walk beside him, and he narrates everything in a ridiculous sports announcer voice, just for her. “On the left, you’ll see… cotton candy as big as your whole body. And on the right… a ferris wheel that your mother will definitely make us ride even though I’m not emotionally prepared to be that high off the ground yet.”

You bump his shoulder, but a grin never leaves your face. “Stop it. You’re scaring her.”

“She’s not scared,” Eddie argues and rubs Alice’s back. “I’m scared. There’s a difference.”

Alice pipes up then, pointing at something across the field and shouting, “Ice keem!”

And Eddie gasps like she just solved everything wrong with your little excursion. “Oh my god. Yes. Ice cream. Genius, Tater. You’re too smart for your own good.” So he just beelines for the little stand at the edge of the park, where the smell of fresh waffle cones is enough to make your mouth water before you’ve even reached the line. It’s long— full of sticky kids and bone-weary parents— but Eddie stands there happily bouncing Alice on his hip and chatting to her the whole time. “Okay,” he says to her, crouching a little so their faces are level. “Big question. Are you getting chocolate or vanilla?”

She looks at him very seriously for a two-year-old, and then says, “Choc’late,” with a nod of her head.

“That’s my girl,” Eddie grins wide, then looks over at you. “What about you, Bats? Choc’late or vanilla? Or… the ever-controversial strawberry?”

You snort in response, “Chocolate. Obviously.”

He winks at you. “Smart. Knew I married you for a reason.”

When it’s finally your turn at the window, he orders three waffle cones, one chocolate for you, one chocolate for himself, and a tiny little chocolate one for Alice with rainbow sprinkles. You find a little patch of grass in the shade of a tree and sit down cross-legged with your back resting against the trunk, Eddie settles in the grass in front of you with Alice in his lap. She immediately grabs at her little cone and takes a big bite right off the top, smearing chocolate and rainbow sprinkles all over her chin in the process.

Eddie just laughs and grabs a napkin from the stack, but makes no actual effort to clean her up just yet. “Beautiful,” he declares, licking his own cone. “Absolutely beautiful. I have never been prouder of anyone in my life.”

You raise an eyebrow at him as you twist your own cone to keep your ice cream from melting down the side. “You say that every time she eats anything.”

“And every time, it’s true,” he insists. Then he tilts his head down to nuzzle her cheek, making her squeal with laughter. “You’re my little mess monster, huh?”

“Mess!” Alice chirps happily, holding up her sticky fingers for Eddie to see.

Eddie just grins at you, chocolate smudged at the corner of his mouth, and then he looks down at Alice again. “She’s perfect,” he mumbles when Alice isn’t paying any attention. “Look at her.”

You already are and your heart aches. Eddie has been the best father any partner could have asked for and now that it’s happening again— unbeknownst to him— you couldn’t wait to do this with him all over. He loves Alice more than he loves breathing. It’s so evident and you’re practically vibrating, holding in the news.  

By the time Alice finishes her tiny cone, there’s more ice cream on her cheeks, dress, and Eddie’s jeans than actually in her stomach, but neither of them seem to really care from where you’re sitting. Eddie, of course, makes a show of licking the last of the ice cream from his cone before eating the last bits of it in one bite. Then he sighs dramatically, leaning back on his hands in the grass. “You know,” he says to no one in particular, but it grabs your attention, “I feel like I could just die happy right now. Right here. Chocolate ice cream in my veins, two beautiful girls by my side. What else does a man need?”

You roll your eyes at him, but you’re smiling anyway. Alice pats his cheek with a sticky hand and then flops sideways over his lap, completely content.

“You need a clean shirt,” you chuckle softly, passing him one of the napkins you’d wisely hoarded earlier, knowing how your toddler would handle an ice cream cone.

He wipes at himself with exactly zero effectiveness and just laughs. “Bats, this is what fatherhood looks like. You don’t even own a clean shirt after you turn thirty. It’s a fact of life.”

You laugh and shake your head, and he grins at you like he won something— he did, your heart over and over again.

After a little while, you wander back through the festival together. Eddie’s carrying Alice in one arm and holding your hand with the other. There’s a band playing now on a little stage not too far from you. He lights up when he hears a cover of one of his songs. They don’t quite get the chords right but it still makes people dance. You let Eddie steer you towards the music, and before you can protest, he’s spun Alice around and started dancing right there in the grass.

She giggles wildly as he bounces her up and down, twirling her in little circles, her tiny rainbow sneakers kicking in the air. He sings along in an exaggerated voice, just like he would onstage, until she’s squealing with laughter. You cross your arms as you watch them, your heart climbing into your throat despite the ridiculousness of it. You are so in love. He looks over at you mid-spin and winks before he leans in to mock-whisper to Alice, “See that, princess? Mommy’s pretending she’s not impressed, but she can’t resist me.”

Alice claps her hands, nodding at him, like she agrees wholeheartedly.

By the time the band winds down, the sun is starting to sink lower behind the tree line, and the air’s finally starting to cool off. A soft pink-and-gold haze settles over everything around you, and more people begin drifting toward the big hill at the end of the park where everyone’s staking out spots for the fireworks. Eddie slings the folded blanket he’d fished out from under the seats of the rover over his shoulder and finds a place near the middle of the slope, where you can see the sky clearly but aren’t too crowded in by everyone else. He spreads it out and you sit down first, smoothing the blanket. He drops down beside you with Alice still curled up close against his chest, her thumb is in her mouth now and her eyes are already starting to look heavy.

“She’s not even gonna make it to the fireworks,” you whisper to Eddie, reaching out to tuck a strand of Alice’s curls back as your eyes soften. 

Eddie looks horrified that you’d even say that. “Blasphemy,” he whispers back. “She’s a Munson, baby. This child was born to stay up irresponsibly late and cheer at explosions.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing too loud, and he shifts so Alice is comfortably nestled in his lap, one arm wrapped securely around her as the first few booms sound off in the distance. When the first burst of color finally lights up the sky, Alice jerks her head up and gasps audibly at it, her little hand clutching Eddie’s shirt.

“Whoa,” he murmurs in her ear, brushing her curls back from her face. He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Look at that, tater tot. You see that? That’s all for you.”

Her wide eyes stay fixed on the colors in the sky, another pop of gold and blue sparkling overhead.

“That’s for you too, Bats,” he adds with a sideways grin, glancing at you as his arm sneaks around your waist to pull you closer to him. 

You smile faintly and lean against his shoulder, watching him more than the fireworks. In the glow of each burst, he looks a little softer, his hair catching streaks of gold and red, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles on Alice’s back. It feels like so much— all of it— that you don’t even bother fighting it anymore. So you shift closer to him, leaning in just enough to press a kiss on his jaw and mumble against his ear, quiet enough that only he can hear you as another burst of red lights up the sky. “I’m pregnant,”

For a second, he freezes. Nothing else registering in that shocked brain of his. Then he slowly turns his head to look at you with wide brown eyes, like he’s not exactly sure he heard you right. “What?” he’s startled and he lets out a disbelieving laugh.

You meet his gaze, your lips pulling into a shy little smile, and you nod. “Yes,” you whisper.

For the briefest moment, you swear his whole face goes slack and unreadable— then he cracks into this huge grin in almost an instant. “No way,” he breathes out.

You bite your lip, still smiling, and he shakes his head like he doesn’t even know what to do with himself. “Oh my god,” he mutters, pressing a kiss into your hair before pulling back to look at you again. You can tell how giddy and excited he is in just that one look. “You’re tryin’ to kill me, huh? You’re actually trying to kill me.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, and he leans his forehead against yours for a second, his free hand finding yours where it rests in the grass. Above you, the fireworks keep going— loud and bright and beautiful— and Alice eventually lets out a little yawn before laying her head back on his chest. But Eddie just sits there, holding her close and holding your hand even tighter, like he can’t believe how good the world feels tonight. Every so often he glances down at you and grins again, like the thought keeps hitting him fresh every single time. You and Alice and now another little Munson on the way.

And when the final, thunderous burst of gold lights up the sky and fades, he leans down, kisses your temple softly, and whispers, “We’re gonna need a bigger blanket.”

tags ;; @jj-155 @joyfullyswimmingface @emxxblog @autumneva @samslvrgirl @ironmusictrash @hazydespair @littlemissholy @prettycalla @vinecstasy @thorins-queen-of-erebor @keeryhours @beau-hawkins @preciouslosers @amanitacowboy @crybabyddl @jeangeniex @thejordiverse @kripkie101-blog @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember @the-unforgivenn @deadwizzardlover @getaapologist

[getaapologist]

It's a Spark

A/N: Well, my drought is kind of broken. This contains no spoilers for the movie, though I have seen it. I love Johnny Storm. That is all. This is inspired by a prompt from our cute little discord community (thank you @glassbxttless ). Thank you to @prettycalla for reading this and graciously letting me borrow her plot suggestion and also talking me off the ledge! I hope you guys enjoy it.

Pairing: Johnny Storm x female!reader (A dress is mentioned but nothing else descriptive)

Warnings: none. This is cavity-inducing fluff. But as usual, blog is 18+ in general, so.

This wasn’t going to plan. Did anything? Ever?

Spaceflight. Wonderful, a dream of his. Travelling among the stars. Beautiful. Until it wasn’t. Unexplained Cosmic radiation, that’s what they kept saying. A real turning point in Johnny’s life. It should’ve killed him. All of them. But it didn’t.

But this? Watching you turn around, waffle cone piled high with at least three different flavored scoops of ice cream? This felt like higher stakes than all of that other stuff. By a longshot.

You sparkled. It was just a regular day, one spent out of the Baxter building for once. It was unusual to see you out of the lab. He didn’t know which he preferred yet, but your soft smile and that pretty yellow dress was winning him over.

“What is that?” Johnny laughed, gesturing to your tower of scoops. 

“Oh, this?” you smiled up at him, hefting your cone. “Just the best possible combination of flavors.”

Perfect.

Johnny leaned back on the park bench, arm splayed out over the top of it, watching you as you sat down beside him. 

“Tell me all about it, doll,” he smiled.

This. This was what he needed. 

“Okay, so the ratio is important,” you explained, turning to him to show him the cone.

He wanted to pay attention to your careful analysis of ice cream flavors, but he liked watching you more.

“Separate? They’re okay. But together? Amazing.”

There was chocolate, obviously, you explained, the base of it all. The cake flavor, barely tolerable on its own, managed to taste a good bit like graham cracker when paired with the other flavors. There was a marshmallow flavored scoop as well, and the whole thing had a little dollop of marshmallow fluff on top.

“The only thing I haven’t figured out is how to get that smoky, toasted flavor. It’s the one thing keeping it back from tasting like a true smore.”

“Well you know, you do happen to be sitting next to the human torch,” Johnny raised an eyebrow, a smug smile on his face. “I think I can help you with your little problem.”

“You don’t have to waste your energy on this,” you waved him off.

“Wouldn’t be a waste,” he insisted, eyes locked on you. 

Not a waste. Not for you.

You hesitated, but eventually held out your cone to him. 

He removed his arm from the back of the bench and accepted the cone, holding it out in front of him. 

“Toasted marshmallow, coming right up,” he smiled, shooting you a confident smirk before lifting his free hand and producing the orange flames. 

The flames danced along the outside of his hand. He focused on the marshmallow fluff at the top and shot out a small amount of fire towards it, hoping to merely char it.

And that’s what would’ve happened if you hadn’t leaned over a little, mesmerized, your hand falling to his thigh.

The ice cream might as well have vaporized. Remnants dripped down his hand, falling to his jeans, his shoes. It was his own fault. He didn’t dare blame you. All you did was touch him innocently. 

His embarrassment raged, apologies tumbling from his lips as he turned to look at you. The temperature in his immediate vicinity shifted up a few degrees. He was not his usual cool, collected, smooth self. He was at a loss.

Your shock gave way to laughter, the sound almost musical to his ear. It was contagious. A small sigh left him before the corners of his lips turned up and he laughed along with you.

“You’re not mad?” Johnny asked, seeking reassurance.

“Not at all,” you answered, reaching for his cheeks, holding his face in your hands. “Sorry I distracted you.” More chuckling from you.

“Oh, you distracted me, did you?” His smile didn’t lessen. If he didn’t currently have ice cream all over his hand he might’ve pulled you into his lap. He wanted to.

You raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, okay,” he admitted, looking away, his cheeks going slightly pink. “You want another one?” He held the mostly empty cone up.

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was soft, tender, but lingering. “I’m okay. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

He felt almost disappointed when you released his face, his cheek still tingling. 

“I can get rid of that,” you offered, reaching for the cone.

“I got it.” Johnny moved it out of reach, tipping it into his mouth. The melted cream really did taste pretty much like a smore. He took a bite out of the now-empty cone. “Well? Lead the way, doll.”

Taglist: @mystic-alpaca

[getaapologist]

Got my H.E.R.B.I.E. And I’m about to go sit in a quiet theater for a half hour before I get to finally see F4.

I will not post reactions or spoilers and if I write more for Johnny I would likely keep it spoiler free/out of continuity with the movie events and if that’s somehow unavoidable I will preface it and tag appropriately. Whew. Sorry, just trying to be clear! I don’t want to ruin this for anyone.

Also, not that I have a big enough audience for this to be a thing, but if you ever request anything Johnny related, please avoid spoilers in your request where possible or I might have to post my response separately to help keep others from being spoiled.

Love you all.

See you on the other side 💙

[getaapologist]

That’s the Dream

eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 1k

summary: Corroded Coffin Fest Day 23: Runnin’ Down a Dream | Eddie and the boys have 3 weeks left before they start recording in LA and he really wants to take care of something before he leaves.

warnings: None really!

notes: Submission for @corrodedcoffinfest! This is a little snippet that fits into my Eddie & Bats AU, so be kind to Bats please. I love her deeply. Big thank you to @getaapologist for reading this over and to @peachyproserpina for editing!

Eddie’s bed is small.

It squeaks if either of you even think about shifting positions. There’s an ashtray on the nightstand with exactly one cigarette resting inside, and a half-empty glass of water next to a can of cashews.

And yet— it’s the best place in the world.

You’re lying half on Eddie’s chest. His fingers splayed across your back— drawing lazy shapes against your skin. The little fan in the window hums, doing its best to cut through the warm July night. From the living room, you can just barely hear Wayne snoring softly in his recliner. 

Eddie sighs. His thumb rubbing circles against your shoulder blade. “Mm. You awake?”

“Barely,” you mumble and press your lips against his collarbone.

He laughs, “Good. Wanna tell you something.”

You shift just enough to glance up at him. His eyes are half-lidded, soft in the glow from the hallway, and there’s this look on his face that makes your heart thump. He kisses your temple first, then your hairline, then your forehead— right in the middle like he’s pressing a seal into wax. “I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s a dangerous game.”

“Shut up,” he smiles against your skin. “I’m bein’ serious.”

You wait, running your fingers over his ribs. He’s warm under your hands. A little sweaty from the summer heat and the clingy way you’re wrapped around each other. 

“Three weeks,” he shrugs a little. “That’s all we’ve got left ‘til LA.”

You nod. He’s said it about a dozen times over the last week alone. Corroded Coffin’s first real recording contract. Studio time. A manager who seems to know exactly what he’s doing. Everything they’ve ever wanted since high school, finally unfolding for real. Eddie’s so happy about it. He’s been annoying, and loud, and so fucking in love with every dumb little part of the dream. 

But now there’s a different kind of weight in his voice. “Feels like the start of everything, y’know?” he mumbles, holding you tight. “Like I finally get to be… I dunno. Who I’m supposed to be.”

You smile against his chest. “The legendary Munson. Lead guitar, pretty hair, whole cult following.”

“Exactly.” He chuckles and then his voice gets a little quieter. “But… that’s not the thing I’m sure about.”

You tilt your head up again to look at him. “What is, then?”

He looks at you like you’re stupid. Like it’s so obvious. Like the answer’s tattooed right across his forehead and you’ve been looking at it the last three years.

“You,” he says, simply. “It’s always been you, Bats.” Your heart skips a beat. “You’re the thing I’m sure about. The thing that makes me feel like I’m not faking all of this. Like I’m not just some dirtbag in ripped jeans who somehow tricked the universe into giving him a shot. You make everything real.” He reaches for your hand and laces your fingers together. He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to the back so gently. Then he says, “Let’s get married.”

Your head snaps towards his. “What?”

“Let’s go down to the courthouse. This week. Just you and me and a twenty-dollar license and maybe a little swearing on the souls of every Dio record I own that I’ll love you ‘til I croak.”

You stare at him, love blooming deep in your chest. He’s not even trying to be charming. He’s just Eddie. Serious and sleepy and full of love that barely fits inside his chest.

“You wanna marry me before you leave?”

“I don’t wanna leave you behind at all,” he whispers and tucks back your hair. “But if I have to go— if I have to be away from you even for a little while— I want to do it knowing we’re tied together. Officially. Forever. Like— like legally yours. No take-backs.”

Your throat feels too tight for words.

“I just know,” he sighs, like he’s trying to explain something simple. “This is it. The band’s gonna blow up, babe. I can feel it. But even if it all goes to shit— if the van breaks down halfway and we end up doing bar gigs for drunks in Fresno for the next five years— I’ll still have you. That’s the dream. Not the rest of it. You.” He laughs suddenly and gives his head a little shake. “I sound like such a loser.”

You lean in and kiss him before he can say another word. He tastes like summer night air and love. Pure, ridiculous, heart-stupid love. When you pull back, he’s looking at you like you hung the damn stars in the sky just for him. “So?” his hand cradles your face. “You wanna do it?”

You touch your forehead to his. “Yeah, Eddie. I wanna do it.”

He laughs softly. “Fuck yeah!”

You laugh too. He kisses your cheek, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth. “We can get rings from the pawn shop tomorrow,” he mumbles against your skin. “Or tie little strings around our fingers, I don’t fuckin’ care. Just wanna be yours.”

You nestle closer to him. “Wayne’s gonna cry.”

“He’s gonna sob. Gonna lose his mind. Gonna pretend he’s mad I didn’t invite him to the wedding, but really he’s just gonna tell everyone at work you’re my ball-and-chain.”

You snort. “God, he’s gonna tell the mailman.”

Eddie lets out a giggle, full-body and absolutely delighted. “Good. Everyone should know you married a loser in a denim vest.”

“You better wear the vest to the courthouse.”

“Oh, I’m gonna wear it and put on your eyeliner. You’re not getting out of this with any dignity intact.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you smile, your eyes already fluttering shut again. There’s no grand gesture to his proposal, no dramatic rooftop speech. Just the two of you in his too-small bed, Wayne snoring in the next room, the fan creaking on the windowsill. Just love— sweet and sleepy and everything you've ever dreamed of.

Three weeks before LA.

tags ;; @crybabyddl @jeangeniex @thejordiverse @vinecstasy @kripkie101-blog @prettycalla @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember @the-unforgivenn

[getaapologist]

Popcorn

grant (freak) x fem!reader

word count: 1k

summary: Corroded Coffin Fest Day 14: Poetic Justice | You and Grant hear a comment being made and what better way is there to deal with it than to let the universe decide?

warnings: A mean comment, a movie date essentially being ruined (maybe?)

notes: Submission for @corrodedcoffinfest! Grant and his milkshake cutie are back at it again. A little movie date for y’all to enjoy. Big thanks to @peachyproserpina for editing for me.

It’s Friday night, and the Hawkins theater parking lot is packed. The neon lights buzz overhead, the scent of buttered popcorn hits you the second Grant opens the door, and your heart does this stupid little flutter thing when he shifts closer beside you, his hand just barely grazing your lower back like he’s still getting used to touching you again. You’ve been back three weeks. Three weeks of a three month summer. And you’ve been enjoying every second of spending it with Grant once again.

He’s got a black t-shirt on tonight, one of the very few he owns without holes in it, and his hair is extra soft-looking today— like he tried just a little harder on it tonight. And he smells like some sort of fancy cologne. You kinda want to tease him about it, but he looks really good, and you’re more focused on the fact that he agreed to see your movie with you this time. Not some horror flick with exploding heads like he’d picked time and time again. Not an action film full of blood and bad one-liners that make you roll your eyes and wish you could just kiss him instead. Yours. Full of sappy romance lines and a love story that makes most girls wish they were in it. 

“You sure you’re ready for this level of emotional devastation?” you grins as you fall in line next to him at the ticket counter.

Grant laughs a bit at that, rocking on the heels of those heavy-ass boots. “I watched Pretty in Pink once with my sister. If I can handle Molly Ringwald, I think I can handle whatever coming-of-age cryfest this is.”

“You’re gonna sob.”

He leans in and kisses your head, his arm sliding around your waist as the two of you step forward. “If I cry, you’re legally obligated to hold my hand the entire time. That’s what dating me requires.”

“Fine. But if you start sniffling, I’m telling the whole lobby.”

“Deal.”

You step aside while he buys the tickets— he insists, naturally, even though you offered to pay for them, it was your pick after all— and as he’s pulling out his wallet, a voice behind you cuts through the murmur of the line.

“Damn, what’s she doing with him?”

It’s not a loud voice, but it’s not exactly a quiet one either. A couple of guys behind you are laughing, trying to act so normal and casual about it, like they weren’t obviously talking about Grant. You glance over your shoulder, one of them’s tall, with a stupid backwards cap and that smug, doughy look of a guy who thinks being in a group— of what seems to be, ballplayers— makes him fucking untouchable. You feel it immediately, your posture stiffens, your fists ball up, your mouth opens to say something, but Grant’s already turning around to address it. He’s not aggressive, nor dramatic. Just… slow and calm. He tilts his head, looks the guy over like he’s trying to remember where he’s seen him before.

The guy catches Grant’s stare and immediately looks away, suddenly fascinated by the concession menu overhead. Too much of a coward to say things like that right to Grant’s face. 

“Yeah,” Grant says under his breath as he turns back to the cashier, “that’s what I thought.”

You’re still fuming a little when he hands you your ticket and slides his arm around your waist again like it’s second nature to him. “You heard that?” you ask softly.

“I did.”

“You’re not gonna say anything?”

He shrugs as he leads you over to the ticket boy. “I don’t need to. The universe always handles assholes better than I can.”

You roll your eyes, “What kind of horoscope bullshit is that?”

Grant grins and shrugs, “Just watch.”

You’re halfway down the main hallway when it happens.

The guy— the same one who made the comment— is walking fast to catch up with his group of friends, a giant soda in one hand, an over-sized popcorn in the other. He was trying to laugh about something again, but he’s not watching where he’s going and his shoe catches on the edge of the carpet and before either of you can blink, he goes down hard.

You hear the slap of sneakers on tile, the whoosh of air, and then the glorious, satisfying splat of that entire large drink exploding across the carpeted floor. The popcorn goes flying— up, out, and raining down like judgment from the fucking snack gods. His friends stop, they’re staring, open-mouthed as he scrambles to sit up, clothes soaked, pride absolutely annihilated.

And the best part? Everyone sees. Everyone. The kid ripping tickets, the group of girls across the lobby that they were definitely flirting with, the teenage couple in matching hoodies— every single person gets a front-row seat to this idiot making a fool of himself..

You bite your lip to hold in your laugh, but Grant doesn’t even bother. He leans over, speaking just loud enough as you pass, “Man, hate when karma works on a delay like that.”

You snort.

The guy shoots him a look, red-faced and furious, but says nothing. Just shuffles off, sticky and humiliated, trailing soda and shame in his wake. Once you’re safely inside your theater, you collapse into your seat and turn to Grant.

“Did you plan that?”

He stretches out beside you, one arm slung lazily over the back of your seat. “Nope,” he says, all innocence and shrugs. “But I might’ve thought about it real hard. Manifesting and shit.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Hey.” He reaches for your hand. “You’re the one who brought the guy that’s all for cosmic justice with no intervention needed.”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers thread through his other hand anyway, settling on his thigh, and by the time the lights dim and the opening credits roll, he’s still holding onto you— like he never plans to let go.

tags ;; @the-unforgivenn @djomorelikedelulu @peachyproserpina

[getaapologist]

A Woolly Situation

eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 1.4k+

summary: Corroded Coffin or Die Server Photo Prompt Challenge | Eddie’s home from tour and you decide to spend the day at the park with your daughter— whom finds an extra woolly little surprise.

warnings: Eddie’s got a daughter (she’s 2, goin on 3!), Reader is heavily pregnant, there’s a woolly bear— so skip if you don��t like bugs!

notes: I apologize for double fics today but my friends and I have been doing a writing challenge in our Discord server for the last few weeks and I’ve been majorly slacking— so I’m playing catch up now! I read a fic years ago where Roan was used as a little girl’s name and it’s stuck with me ever since. Big thank you to @peachyproserpina for editing this!

The early September sun is spilling streams of golden light through the tree tops, turning the whole park into a painting right in front of you. The grass is still green, but scattered with the first traces of falling red and yellow leaves. The air smells dry and like distant woodsmoke rising through the air with the many bonfires the campers must be having a hop, skip, and a jump away. You were holding tight to Eddie’s hand as you walked— or, more accurately, as you waddle, because you’re very, very pregnant with yours and Eddie’s second daughter. A baby you’ve decided to name, Roan— but he was a few steps ahead of you now and Alice is sitting high up on his shoulders, her little hands clutching fistfuls of untamed brown curls, shrieking with laughter every time he pretends to stumble dramatically. “Whoaaa, we’re gonna fall, Bats, save me!” he cries out as she giggles so hard her legs kick at his chest and she nearly topples off. You know he’s missed her just as much as she’s missed him.

“Don’t you dare drop her, Ed,” you call up to them, though you’re smiling as you shake your head.

“Pfft,” Eddie scoffs at the mere thought, shifting her legs a bit so she’s more secure. “We’re fine. Aren’t we, Princess?”

“Yeahhh!” Alice shouts from the perch that just happens to be her father’s shoulders. Her cheeks are as rosy as Eddie’s and her tiny pink boots dangle against his chest. You shake your head again, letting them have their fun up ahead while you keep your pace a few steps behind. One of your hands is resting protectively against your stomach. Roan kicks a few times— either enjoying the excitement above or annoyed she isn’t able to be in on it just yet— you give the fabric there a gentle rub with your thumb and mumble a little “easy, baby” to her.

The park seems to be bustling today. Kids are running around with kites and footballs a few feet away, dogs are tugging at leashes as they pass you on the sidewalks, parents trailing after toddlers with coffee cups held close to their chests. So the three of you find a quieter path just off to the side of the main one, a little trail edged with tall grass and little wildflowers, where the noise dies down to the crunch of yours and Eddie’s boots on the gravel.

“Alright,” Eddie declares with a huff, stopping dramatically and lowering Alice to the ground with both hands, bending at the waist in a bow. “My legs are officially dead. We walk on our own now, okay, Tater Tot?”

Alice beams up at him and then claps her hands before she’s running ahead a few paces. She’s got her arms out like she’s flying. “I’m a dragon!” she announces, turning her head to make sure Eddie’s watching, giggling when she sees that he is.

“Oh, scary,” Eddie laughs, his grin growing wider as he follows her quickly down the path, leaving you a few steps behind on purpose so you can take it easy. “Better not breathe fire on Daddy.”

You just resign yourself to watching them— your tall, lanky, rockstar of a husband, crouching down to flap his arms like wings with her, making silly growling noises— when Alice screeches to a halt and drops to her knees on the path, gravel digging into her skin.

“What’ve you got, baby?” you call, catching up to them slowly but surely, hand still pressed against your belly.

“Bug!” she squeals, pointing to the ground in front of where she’s kneeling.

Eddie crouches down beside her, his hair falling in his face as he squints. “Whoa-ho Tater Tot, that’s not just any bug! That’s a woolly bear!”

Alice looks up at him like he holds the answers to everything life could ever throw at her, her brown eyes wide. “Bear?”

You laugh softly and ease yourself down to sit on the pavement beside them, careful of your belly. “Not a real bear, honey. Just a fuzzy caterpillar. See? Look how soft it looks.”

Eddie gently coaxes it up onto his finger, holding it out for her to see it just a bit better. The little caterpillar inches along his knuckle, black at both ends and that signature rusty orange in the middle. “See the fuzz? That’s why they call ’em woolly bears,” he explains, turning his hand just a bit so she can look closer. “Supposed to tell you how bad winter’s gonna be, too. Grandpa Wayne used to say if the orange band’s wide, it won’t be too cold. If it’s skinny, better get ready to freeze your butt off.”

Alice giggles at butt, and you swat at his arm lightly. “Eddie.”

“What? She’s gotta learn sometime, baby,” he teases, flashing you a smile full of white teeth before he turns back to Alice. “Do you wanna hold it, princess?”

At first she looks a bit hesitant to try, her little fingers hovering just over Eddie’s. But then she nods shyly, and Eddie guides the caterpillar down onto her palm. Her face lights up immediately, like she’s just been entrusted with the most magical treasure they could’ve found.

“Its feet are tickley,” she whispers.

You melt watching them together. Eddie crouched there on the path, his big hand steady under hers so she didn't drop the little guy on the pavement. His eyes are soft and sparkling with pride at her bravery. You can practically feel your heart swelling two sizes in your chest.

After a minute or two, she carefully sets it back down in the grass. “Bye-bye, bear,” she giggles, giving it a little wave.

“Nice work, sweetheart,” Eddie says, ruffling her own little mop of brown curls. Then he leans back on his hands toward you, pressing a kiss to your cheek before he whispers, “You okay down here? Need help getting up?”

You roll your eyes as he stands and holds his hand out, grinning yourself as you take it. “I’m fine. Just a little slower than I used to be. You know how it goes.”

He helps you to your feet, steadying you with a hand on your lower back while Alice skips ahead just by a few steps. She’s still chirping on about the woolly bear as she peaks under leaves at the side of the path. When you’re steadily upright again, Eddie leans in and presses another gentle kiss to your temple. He mumbles, “God, you’re so beautiful,” right above your ear and just low enough that only you can hear.

It takes a moment to get Alice’s attention back, but the three of you keep walking. You find a bench after a while to rest on, which you’re more than thankful for. Alice climbs up into Eddie’s lap to play with the rings on his fingers while you lean against his shoulder, your hands laced over your belly. The afternoon goes on like that— quiet, without the hustle and bustle of tour life. It’s warm. It’s simple. Eddie buys Alice a little paper cup of cider from a stand, and you sneak a sip of it too. At one point she insists on collecting treasures— acorns, a red leaf, a smooth pebble— and Eddie gingerly holds out his pockets for her to fill, inspecting each item she shoves in.

By the time the sun starts dipping behind the trees, painting the sky pink and orange, Alice is yawning against his chest. You’re walking back to the car, her little hands still clutching his shirt. “Ready to go home, my little dragon?” he mumbles, brushing her curls back from her face as he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

She nods sleepily in response, and you smile at them both as Eddie adjusts his grip and holds a now free hand out to you. 

“This has been the best day ever,” Eddie says quietly, as you stop in front of the car— Alice is dozing on his shoulder now, your own free hand resting on the swell of your belly. “You, me, our girls, and a fuckin’ woolly bear.”

You bump your hip against his and laugh softly, just nodding at him. “Doesn’t really get better than this.”

“Damn right it doesn’t,” he agrees with you, pressing one more kiss to your hair before leaning in to buckle Alice into her car seat.

It truly doesn’t get better than this. 

tags ;; @jj-155 @joyfullyswimmingface @emxxblog @autumneva @samslvrgirl @ironmusictrash @hazydespair @littlemissholy @prettycalla @vinecstasy @thorins-queen-of-erebor @keeryhours @beau-hawkins @preciouslosers @amanitacowboy @crybabyddl @jeangeniex @thejordiverse @kripkie101-blog @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember @the-unforgivenn

[getaapologist]

Our Own Little Secret Pocket of the World

eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 1.8k+

summary: Corroded Coffin or Die Server Photo Prompt Challenge | Eddie takes you somewhere strange for a little picnic date.

warnings: Eddie takes Bats on a date in an abandoned diner, they find a doll in the lost and found, Bats makes an admission (she collects forgotten dolls)

notes: I’ve unfortunately had a lot going on recently and didn’t have the time to write these when our prompts dropped, so here’s another catchup story from our server writing challenge! It’s a lot of fun getting to do these with my friends, so I’m definitely enjoying it! I read over this so many times my brain hurts, but if I missed anything, please don’t refrain from telling me!

It was your third— no, maybe your fourth— date with the pretty almost rockstar from the Hideout you’ve started to become quite fond of. And just as always, he would not tell you where you were going at all.

“You trust me, don’tcha, Bats?” Eddie grins when he picks you up that afternoon. He’s standing next to his van leaning across the hood like he was posing for some sleazy cigarette ad, except instead of holding a cigarette or literally anything cool, he was just holding a brown paper grocery bag.

You narrow your eyes as he steps around the van to open the door for you, and you climb into the passenger seat. “Should I?”

“Absolutely not,” he laughs cheerfully, shutting your door for you after tossing the grocery bag into the back. “But you’re already in the van, sweetheart, it’s too late now.”

The sun is still high in the sky when he steers you out past Hawkins proper. Your feet stick slightly to the rubber floor mats below as you shift. There was still a faint scent of the weed he must’ve smoked earlier lingering and the smell of old motor oil that clings to every piece of fabric inside the van. Eddie was humming along to the song playing from the tape deck between giving little sideways glances at you. And every time you catch him looking over, he’d wink or make some over-the-top kissy face at you. Eventually the highway thins to more cracked and pothole filled backroads than you’ve ever seen. Eddie winds past two soybean fields and a few broken billboards advertising car lots that no longer exist. The air coming through the windows gets cooler and somehow sweeter. The smell of corn and beans and outside swirls around the two of you. And then he pulls into a gravel lot that was nearly swallowed whole by the weeds.

There it was. His retreat.

It was an old diner— for sure, straight out of some horror movie fantasy— sitting squat in the middle of nothing but fields, letting the sun reflect off the chrome plating near the door. Its neon signs were long since dead, and one of the glass panels on the door was held together with tape, but the old Moonlight Diner sign still clung stubbornly to the roof in faded pink marquee letters.

You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees as you take in the sight just beyond the windshield. “Eddie… this is…”

“Cool as hell?” he offers, turning the key to cut the engine and then he gives the steering wheel a little drumroll. “Or serial-killer-y? Be honest. I can take it.”

“Both,” you chuckle softly.

He beams at that, climbing out and swinging around to the back to grab the paper bag. “Perfect. Exactly what I was going for, Bats. C’mon.”

The front door opens easily, though the hinges scream their protest. Inside, most of the natural light doesn’t make it in, but the light switches are well past working. It was dim and smelled faintly of dust and the greenery that was crawling up the walls. The checkered tile floor was cracked in spots, but the booths were still intact— those shiny green vinyl seats almost perfect next to pink tables. Someone, at some point, must have had come in and smashed the jukebox screen, but it still stood proudly in the corner like a silent witness to the atrocities the years had played on this place. Eddie laid the bag down on the counter and started unpacking it with a little flourish. “Voila, a picnic. Munson style.”

There were two thick sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a pair of canned sodas, a bag of pretzels, and one pack of Hostess cupcakes.

“Gourmet, huh?” he grins over at you.

You clear debris from a table top and settle into one side of a booth, and he slides in opposite you. He unwraps his sandwich and immediately manages to get mustard on his thumb. Between bites of pretzel, you ask him, “How’d you even find this place?”

He shrugs, his mouth full. “Roaming around with Wayne years ago, looking for some car parts for the van in the junkyard out there. Thought I’d save it for a special occasion. Didn’t really think I’d ever, y’know… have a special occasion, but here you are, Bats, proving me wrong and shit.”

You roll your eyes but smile, peeling open your own sandwich.

The food was surprisingly good for sandwiches and hostess. The light tried to flood in in dusty stripes through the windows, and Eddie tried to keep making you laugh between his own bites— telling stories about the van breaking down in the snow, or about how he and Gareth once tried to build a ramp and jump a shopping cart over the sofa in his garage.

At some point you both finish eating, but neither of you make any move to leave. Even though the sun was starting to set. The diner felt quiet and private, like you’d stumbled into your own little secret pocket of the world and didn’t want to go back. Eddie taps his fingers against the table and lets his gaze settle onto you. “You wanna go look around? See if there’s any ghosts?”

You grins at him. “What if there are ghosts?”

He smirks then, tossing back his hair. “Then I guess you’re contractually obligated to cling to me for safety, huh?”

So you get up and wander with him. The kitchen still had a few old pans scattered around the counters, and the office door hung crooked on its hinges. Eddie peeks behind the counter and holds up a melted stack of vinyl records. He raises an eyebrow as he shows you. You duck behind the counter too, opening little drawers and kicking at dust bunnies on the floor, until you notice a small door near the back— the kind of door that probably led to the storage room.

Inside it was pretty dark, but your eyes adjusted fast enough. The shelves were lined with cracked white coffee mugs and boxes of napkins. And on one low shelf labeled lost and found, tucked behind a child’s jacket, sat a doll.

She was maybe a foot tall, with a porcelain face that had spiderwebbed into tiny cracks— probably from the time she’d spent not being looked after. One of her glass eyes had fallen inside her head, so she looked perpetually lopsided. Her dress was a faded mint green, and her bright red yarn hair was matted into one stiff braid. 

You crouch by the shelf, picking her up as gently as you can manage. She looked worn, well loved at one point, she was a child’s best friend.

Eddie, still standing in the doorway, squints at you. “You… okay there, Bats?”

You turn her over in your hands, inspecting the tag on the back of her dress. The name Aurelia is stitched into the back, you deduct that it might’ve been her girl’s name. You use your thumb to brush a little dust off her cheek. “She’s coming home with me,” you mumble, more to yourself but Eddie definitely hears.

Eddie blinks, raising his own brows. “Uh. She is?”

You glance up at him, startled by the question and then nod slowly. “…Yeah? Why wouldn’t she?”

He watches you for a second, then breaks into that familiar, crooked grin that you were growing to love. “God, you’re adorable,” he says fondly, stepping into the room and leaning against one of the shelves. A few mugs clink together as he does. “You didn’t even hesitate. Just— ‘ah yes, here’s this nightmare-eyed little corpse baby, she’s mine now.’”

“She’s not a nightmare,” you defend, cradling her gently to your chest. “She’s just… been forgotten.”

“Oh, no, no, no, of course not,” he says softly. “She’s very… uh. Dignified. She doesn’t look haunted and wouldn’t curse anyone at all, I’m sure of it.”

You stand, carefully brushing some more dust from her skirt as you do. “I have a whole collection… The lost and forgotten ones, I give ‘em a home,” you admit quietly— already resigning to him jumping ship after that. And the confession admittedly makes his eyebrows jump.

“A whole collection, huh?”

You meet his gaze, waiting for a reaction— you’d heard people snicker before when you mentioned your dolls, or worse, squirm and act like you were some kind of creep for wanting better for them.

But Eddie’s expression was nothing but curious and— even worse— impressed. “Bats,” he tuts, a grin on his face, “you’ve been holding out on me.”

“I… didn’t want to, you know… freak you out,” you confess with a little shrug.

“Freak me out? Babe.” He reaches over, flicking the edge of the doll’s dress playfully. “You do realize you’re on a date at a diner that closed twenty years ago with a guy who once made a Ouija board out of a pizza box at band practice just to make Gare piss himself?”

That startles a laugh out of you.

Eddie grins wider. “Seriously. You could’ve told me you collect haunted ventriloquist dummies who whisper secrets in your ear at night and I’d be like, hell yeah, Bats, let’s build ’em a little stage.”

You tuck the doll under your arm and shake your head at him, but you can’t bring yourself to even try to stop smiling.

He bumps his shoulder against yours lightly. “Can I see ‘em sometime? Your collection?”

You bite your lip, you’ve never shown anyone outside of your family. Only brought it up in conversation which immediately tends to go sour. So you pretend to consider it, before finally nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

His whole face lights up and he leans in close enough that you catch the faint smell of his cologne under the dust and old vinyl. “Good,” he mumbles. His eyes are soft but still glittering with something he thinks might be love. “’Cause I gotta meet all my new spooky sisters-in-law before I marry you, right?”

Once you’re back in the van, you settle the doll between you on the seat. Eddie glances down at her a few times like he just couldn’t believe this was his life now. He had the perfect girl. When he drops you off at your door later, he waits until you are halfway inside before calling after you through the rolled down window.

“Hey, Bats!”

You turn to face him, holding the doll close.

He grins crookedly, holding up his hand in mock-solemnity. “I promise to protect you and all your creepy little children from harm, okay? Even if they try to possess me or whatever. Scout’s honor.”

You roll your eyes but laugh anyway— and when you slip into your room that evening and set the new doll on your shelf to settle in before you give her the entire new life makeover, you couldn’t stop smiling at the thought of Eddie, sitting in that creepy little diner with you, totally unbothered by how strange you were.

tags ;; @jj-155 @joyfullyswimmingface @emxxblog @autumneva @samslvrgirl @ironmusictrash @hazydespair @littlemissholy @prettycalla @vinecstasy @thorins-queen-of-erebor @keeryhours @beau-hawkins @preciouslosers @amanitacowboy @crybabyddl @jeangeniex @thejordiverse @kripkie101-blog @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember @the-unforgivenn

[getaapologist]

What, Oh-So-Wise Dropout, Do You Suggest?

gareth emerson x fem!reader (just a hint)

word count: 1k

summary: Corroded Coffin Fest Day 17: Day Drinking | Gareth celebrates the end of his semester with Eddie— whom talks him into making quite the physical change in his appearance.

warnings: drinking, gareth gets his lip pierced

notes: Submission for @corrodedcoffinfest! This is a part of the college Gareth AU. This is mostly showcasing Eddie and Gareth’s friendship, but there’s some of you in there, I swear! Big thanks to @peachyproserpina for editing!

Gareth doesn’t even hear the dismissal.

His final exam ended with silence— not relief— just quiet. He sits there for a second longer, blinking at the answer sheet. His pencil hovering mid-bubble like he might go back and check something, but his fingers won’t move. And then he just… got up. Packed his things and walked out of the lecture hall into the oddly warm December day. 

He made it halfway across the quad before he heard a van honk twice and pull up next to the curb. It was held together by stickers, rust, and whatever unholy spirit Eddie Munson prayed to. The passenger window doesn't roll down, so Eddie leans over and cracks open the door. “You done?”

“Just walked out of my last one,” Gareth smiles nervously, “Don’t even remember what I wrote. Think I blacked out.”

“Good,” Eddie chuckles softly, shoving open the door the rest of the way. “You free for the rest of your life?”

“I guess.”

“Then get in, asshole.”

Eddie’s place wasn’t anything special— he lives with his girlfriend who undoubtedly was the one who picked the curtain color— but it was warm, there was beer, and Gareth had nothing better to do. After all, it was barely two in the afternoon. Eddie handed him a can and flops down on the floor, his back to the couch, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. “To surviving the system,” he grins, raising his drink.

Gareth clinks his can against it and sits beside him.

After a while, the small talk turns into the usual spiral. Gareth talking about how good it felt to just be done, how weird it was gonna be to sleep past 5:30 a.m. now that marching season was over. Even how the quad looked different without the band moving through it like a swarm of bees. And then, of course, he started talking about you. “She was at the game last weekend,” he sighs, picking at the label on his beer. You cheered at the games. You were always at the games. “Had the red bow again.”

Eddie tilts his head back to look at him. “The one that makes you lose your grip on reality?”

“She waved at me.” Gareth pauses, the admission finally making him realize how deep he was. “Like. At me, Eddie. Not the line. Just… me.”

“Damn,” Eddie says softly. “You gonna propose or just write her name in your notebook for the next three months?”

“I should’ve said something.”

“You should’ve said, ‘hey, thanks for hijacking every inch of space in my brain, please meet me behind the band room so I can die in peace.’”

Gareth snorts, eyes falling to the can in his hand. “Shut up.”

Eddie turns to face him. “No, but seriously. What’re you gonna do about it?”

Gareth shrugs, then takes a long drink. “I don’t know… Probably nothing.”

“Wrong answer.”

“Okay, fine. What, oh-so-wise-dropout, do you suggest?”

Eddie grins slowly. “You should get your lip pierced.”

Gareth stares at him. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I— what the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“You like her. You’re spiraling. You finished finals and you’ve got a face that practically begs for something shiny in it. This is the time, Gareth. The hour of transformation.”

“I don’t need to transform.”

“Yes, you do. You need to become the guy who shows up at the mixer next week with a little edge. You need to walk in and have her be like, ‘wait… he’s pretty.”

“That’s psychotic.”

“That’s college, baby.”

Gareth keeps staring at him and then lets out a sigh. “You’re being serious?”

“I’m being so serious that I will literally drive you there right now. Let’s go. Right now. I’ll pay.”

“You will not.”

Eddie is on his feet in record time and he grabs his keys. “I’m already wearing my boots. It’s fate.”

The shop they end up at is on the other side of town, tucked between a laundromat and a video rental place. It’s nothing fancy. There’s a sign out front that says PIERCINGS in blocky red letters. Inside, they didn’t ask too many questions. “Lip?” the guy behind the counter raises an eyebrow. “Left or right?”

Gareth looks at Eddie, this was his idea after all. “Which side?”

“Left. Obviously.”

The guy nods. “Cool. Fill this out. You’ve got ID?”

Gareth pulls out his student card. The guy doesn’t look at it for more than half a second before he waves him back. It wasn’t that bad. He didn’t cry or scream or anything. It hurt, yeah— but not more than a good cymbal slap to the face during warmups. It was over before he could even talk himself out of doing it.

He stares at his reflection afterward for a long time.

Eddie comes up behind him, his hands in his pockets. “Well?”

Gareth tilts his head. It doesn’t look bad. Actually, it… kind of worked on him. It made his mouth look fuller, somehow. Bolder. He glances at Eddie, “Think she’ll notice?” 

Eddie laughs, shaking his head. “Buddy, she’ll notice.”

By the time the mixer came around the following week, Gareth had the whole thing rehearsed. His nonchalant lean, little half-smile, flannel over a fitted tee. He tried not to overthink it too much.

You spot him before he even gets across the room. “Hey,” you smile. “You changed something.”

He reaches up, cheeks tinged pink, and taps the ring with the edge of his thumb. “Yeah. Got bored, I guess.”

You smile, nodding. “It suits you.”

Gareth feels it all at once— the blush deepening, the nerves crackling deep inside of him, the flutter of something too big in his chest. Later, Eddie’s going to nudge him and whisper something stupid like, You owe me a goddamn beer for this.

And Gareth would just grin, rubbing his lip with the back of his knuckle, like he could still feel your smile burning into his skin.

tags ;; @the-unforgivenn @punkrockmlchael @robinbuckleywife @djomorelikedelulu @peachyproserpina

[getaapologist]

Eyes Up, Captain Pervert

eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 1.2k+

summary: Corroded Coffin or Die Server Photo Prompt Challenge | Eddie must defend his wife’s “world-class rack”

warnings: Reader’s skin tans (she’s worried about tan lines), Eddie smacks Gareth… a lot, there’s boobies out

notes: I wrote both of our photo prompt challenges from this week (07/18)! So here’s 1/2. I love writing Eddie and Bats so much, I hope y’all love them too! Big thanks to @peachyproserpina for editing this!

The thing about staying in a hotel on a private beach at seven in the morning is… it’s blissfully empty. It’s just you, a few suspicious-looking seagulls, a lonely lifeguard chair with peeling white paint, and one half-asleep hotel attendant who clearly couldn’t care less about two rock band hooligans and their babysitter invading his sand. Which is exactly how you end up stretched out on a lounge chair not too far from the water. You’re in that black bikini that Eddie loved so much, sunglasses that definitely belonged to him too, and you were holding a cup of bitter hotel coffee that tasted like it’d been burnt in the pot. You’re watching your husband and his best friend act like the absolute idiots they are down by the water.

They really had started off promising this morning. “We’re just going to dip our feet in,” Eddie claimed when you all snuck down here together at dawn.

Right.

Now, twenty minutes later, he and Gareth were waist-deep in the surf, hollering like feral children at one another in their swim trunks— Eddie had on a black pair with some kind of flames crawling up the side and Gareth had on a ridiculous turquoise and purple geometric pattern that screamed that he’d bought them from the clearance bin at JCPenney. Both of them had left their shirts up in the sand next to you, and Eddie’s mostly pale chest already looked like it was considering burning.

“Hey, Bats!” Eddie yells, cupping his hands around his mouth like he was shouting over a crowd at Madison Square Garden, not a nearly empty beach. “Check me out! I’m King Neptune! God of the sea!” He flexes his arms dramatically, then trips on something unseen in the water and absolutely face-plants straight into the small wave lapping around his body.

You don’t even flinch, just raise your coffee and call back down to him, “Real regal, babe!”

“Your husband is a danger to himself and others,” Gareth shakes his head, already laughing. He wades through the water around him, splashing Eddie’s hair every time he tries to stand.

“Quit assaulting me with Poseidon’s piss, Gareth!” Eddie sputtered. “These trunks are expensive!”

“They’re from fucking Hot Topic,” you shout back at him, laughing the entire time.

“EXPENSIVE HOT TOPIC,” Eddie corrects you, shooting a look over his shoulder without even missing a beat.

You snort and shake your head, finally standing to kick off your cover-up and settle your towel on the chair under you. If they were going to frolic around out there in the ocean like idiots, you might as well try and get some real sun. And if you were honest? You were tired of tan lines. So while Eddie and Gareth argue about who was most likely to drown with their dignity still intact, you reach behind you, untie your bikini top, and let the straps slide down so the sun could hit you evenly. You settle back into your chair, tossing the top onto the pile of their shirts beside you, and adjust your sunglasses. Nobody was here anyway. Just you, your dumbass rockstar, and his equally dumbass drummer.

Peace.

Until you hear a choked voice. “Oh my god,” Gareth mumbles suddenly, voice carrying up the beach just enough for you to hear.

You crack an eye open just in time to see him frozen on the sand, halfway out of the water. He’s staring right at you like he’d just glimpsed at the Ark of the Covenant. You don’t move. Just let out a deep breath and raise your brows above your sunglasses.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

SMACK!

Eddie’s hand connects cleanly (and loudly) with the back of Gareth’s skull. “OW—”

“Eyes up, Captain Pervert,” Eddie barks, scowling at him, his curls sticking up at odd angles and droplets of water flying everywhere. “Those are MY wife’s tits. Not yours. Not for public consumption. Not for gawking like some kind of pasty little virgin at his first spring break. MINE.”

Gareth sputters and rubs the back of his head where Eddie’s hand had come in contact with him, clearly trying not to laugh. “I wasn’t— I mean, you— she— they’re right there, Ed!”

SMACK!

“You wanna try that sentence again, Romeo?” Eddie huffs, his hands finding his hips now in the same way Gareth’s mother does when she’s extra annoyed with him.

Gareth throws his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright! Jesus, Eddie, calm down. I’m sorry!”

“You better be fuckin’ sorry,” Eddie groans. “Bats here does not flash her world-class rack just so you can stand there drooling like you’ve never seen boobs before. She doesn’t want tan lines. Have some respect for yourself. And for me. And for her!”

“World-class rack?” you deadpan, finally pushing your sunglasses down to look at him.

Eddie, already making his way up to crouch beside your chair, turns those big brown eyes up at you and grins. “Babe, they’re like… the Sistine Chapel of boobs. Gareth’s just uncultured swine.”

Gareth, still rubbing the now sore spot on his head, mutters something about how you should warn people if you’re gonna just— And before he can finish the sentence, Eddie is reaching for the bottle of sunscreen to chuck his direction.

THUMP!

“Ow!”

“Don’t you dare finish that thought unless you want to drown face-down in the Pacific,” Eddie shoots back, his attention turning back to you in an instant. 

Gareth just groans himself, trudging back into the water to sulk, mumbling something about finding a shark to eat him.

Eddie though, who is thoroughly pleased with himself, plops down cross-legged in the sand next to your chair, and then he rests his chin on your bare stomach. He looks up at you as he lets his damp curls brush against your skin. “You’re welcome,” he dips his chin just slightly and presses a kiss right above your navel. “I protected your honor. Smacked that man like the drummer-shaped nuisance he is.”

“You also made a scene,” you note.

“Yeah, but it was a hot scene,” he shoots back at you with a lopsided grin. “Babe, you’re like a topless angel who washed up here just for me. How am I supposed to NOT defend these?” He laughs, gesturing to your very topless figure right in front of his face. 

From out in the waves, Gareth’s voice carries back, faint as ever, “You’re both terrible people!”

Eddie turns his hand and cups his hands around his mouth again before shouting, “AND YOU’RE FIRED!”

You just laugh, letting your fingers rake through his damp hair as he drapes himself across your body and your lounge chair like a very proud, very salty (and dripping wet) golden retriever. And for the next half hour, he stays glued to your side— or rather on top of you, occasionally yelling insults at Gareth and throwing handfuls of sand in his general direction— while you bask in the early morning sun, blissfully topless and unbothered.

At one point, Eddie’s hand settles directly over one of your breasts, his thumb brushing against the swell as he leans up close to your ear and whispers, “Best stop on this whole tour. By far.”

You hum in agreement, tugging gently at one of his curls as he presses a kiss against your jaw.

“Even if Gareth probably needs therapy now?” you tease.

Eddie grins like the little menace he is. “Oh, babe. He’s always needed therapy. He should be thanking you instead.”

tags ;; @jj-155 @joyfullyswimmingface @emxxblog @autumneva @samslvrgirl @ironmusictrash @hazydespair @littlemissholy @prettycalla @vinecstasy @thorins-queen-of-erebor @keeryhours @beau-hawkins @preciouslosers @amanitacowboy @crybabyddl @jeangeniex @thejordiverse @kripkie101-blog @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember @the-unforgivenn

[getaapologist]

This is How We Die… Probably

eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 1k

summary: Corroded Coffin Fest Day 18: Get Out | Eddie and Bats get stuck in a Haunted House

warnings: haunted house shenanigans, mentions of blood, wet, and scary stuff

notes: Submission for @corrodedcoffinfest! This is a part of my Eddie and Bats au! I love them so dearly, please be kind to me when you talk about them. Big thank you to @peachyproserpina for reading and editing these guys for me!

The heavy, fake-rusted gate you have to go through— meant to slam shut with a loud bang after each group had passed—  apparently had decided to go full method actor and actually lock behind the stragglers ahead of you. Or jam. Or fuse with the spirit realm, judging by how little give it had when Eddie tries yanking it open again. He’s been fiddling with the latch for the last three minutes while you just stand there behind him, your arms crossed over your body, trying not to lose your sanity at the ambient moans floating through hidden speakers. “Okay,” he sighs, giving the gate one last shove with his hip, “So it’s slightly harder to open than I anticipated.”

“It’s jammed,” you groan and cover your face with your hands. “You jammed it.”

“This is what we get. You angered the Haunted House spirits,” he insists, turning around to face you dramatically— he throws his hands up. “That weird nun puppet? She cursed us the second we made eye contact with her. And you definitely didn’t help when you laughed in her face.”

“It looked like she blinked at me with two different eyelids, Ed. I panicked.”

Eddie sighs and then lights his Zippo with a quick flick of his thumb, holding it above his head like a torch. The soft orange glow spills over his face and fills the space around you. It illuminates a tangle of rubber intestines hanging from the ceiling and what might be a clown standing quietly in the corner of the other room. “I’m not saying I regret coming in here,” he hums, squinting into the shadows as he looks around the room, “but I am starting to question how much I value my survival.”

You nudge him with an elbow. “You said this would be a fun date.”

“I said we’d be fine. You said it’d be fun.”

You groan, taking a careful step back until your shoulder bumps into a wall— or what you hope is a wall. Something leathery brushes your arm and you have to stifle a yelp. “Okay, real talk Eds… if something cold touches me again, I’m drop-kicking it through that back room.”

He grins, the flame flickering across his features, “That’s the spirit, Bats. Fight the forces of darkness.”

“You are the forces of darkness.”

“And I’m proud of it,” he smiles, tossing you a golden tinged wink. “Want me to carve a sigil into the floor and summon something with big teeth… maybe horns?”

“I want you to call the techs again.”

“I already hit the button, baby,” he sighs softly. “They said twenty minutes. Which in haunted house time is either three minutes or an eternity, depending on the level of child interference.”

You sigh and take a few careful steps forward until you’re leaning against his chest. You let your head thunk against his shoulder and sigh. The lighter’s still flickering away in his hand, casting dancing shadows across the grimy set around you. It’s a combination of dismembered limbs, torn curtains, and something that might be moving on its own but you’re definitely choosing to ignore.

“Wanna make out while we wait?” he asks, his voice low. “Y’know. Just in case this is how we die.”

You lift your head, squinting your eyes as you look at him. “You’re using a fake Satanic ritual room to get to second base?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You raise an eyebrow and then huff. “I need you to never elaborate on that.”

“Too late,” he chuckles, waggling his eyebrows down at you. “That memory’s in progress and it’s already yours.”

You laugh despite yourself, pressing your face into his chest again. He’s warm and solid, and even with the eerie noises and dripping water and very questionable air quality in the room, being wrapped up in your husband’s arms somehow makes the world feel a little less terrifying.

He goes quiet after a moment, clicking the zippo shut and sliding it into his pocket. Then his hand smooths gently up and down your back. “You okay?” he asks, his voice even softer than before, the humor stripped away. 

“Yeah,” you say into his shirt, letting your eyes slip closed. You didn’t want to keep looking. “Just… it’s dark… and I’m not the biggest fan of being trapped in here. Even if the walls are made of plywood.”

Eddie kisses the top of your head, letting his lips linger as his hand presses you closer to him. “I got you, Bats. Worst-case scenario, I pick up the clown’s axe and go full Final Girl. I’ll get us out.”

“You’d look hot doing it.”

“Right? Covered in fake blood, hair all wild… yeah, I see it. I’m hot, huh?”

You snort at that, and the tension breaks a little more. You settle into his grasp, listening to the distant groan of some mechanical zombie grinding through its loop. The whole place is eerie, sure, but it’s also ridiculous. Nothing you should truly be afraid of and somehow that makes it a little better. Eventually, the sounds of footsteps echo from somewhere far off, followed by the unmistakable squeal of metal scraping against metal. A flashlight beam points at you, cutting through the fog surrounding your bodies, and a disembodied voice calls out, “We got it open! Sorry ‘bout the wait!”

You and Eddie exchange a look.

“Race you out,” he smiles.

You shove him into the wall, hard, and you bolt ahead, laughing the whole way.

He catches up to you about a minute later, slightly out of breath and reaching for you at the exit. Eddie looks down at you and tucks back a bit of your hair and grins, all teeth. “Next year,” he says, “how about we just skip the haunted house maze and break into the wax museum?”

You just let out a laugh as he leans down to kiss you and then you let him drag you toward the snack stand.

tags ;; @autumneva @samslvrgirl @ironmusictrash @hazydespair @littlemissholy @prettycalla @vinecstasy @thorins-queen-of-erebor @keeryhours @beau-hawkins @preciouslosers @amanitacowboy @emxxblog @crybabyddl @jeangeniex @thejordiverse @kripkie101-blog @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember @the-unforgivenn

[getaapologist]

Road Trip Detour

jeff (stranger things) x fem!reader

word count: 1k

summary: Corroded Coffin Fest Day 21: Clerks | You make a stop at a little gas station store not too far off the highway and meet the pretty (and nervous) boy behind the counter.

warnings: nothing really!

notes: Submission for @corrodedcoffinfest! Big thanks to @peachyproserpina for editing this!

You only stop in for gum and a cold brew— a five-minute road trip detour, tops— but apparently, fate has a thing for humming fluorescents and sticky and stained linoleum. The gas station is one of those off-the-highway spots that always smells vaguely like motor oil and overcooked hot dogs as soon as you open the door. There’s a glowing OPEN sign in the window that flickers like it’s very much considering giving up and burning out. The bell above the door gives a sad little jingle as you push it open, and the blast of cold air that hits you, carries with it the gentle whirr of vending machines and a faint crackle of some metal band you’ve never heard of coming from a dusty old radio behind the counter.

There’s only one person inside— a guy hunched over the front counter. He’s scribbling something into a battered spiral notebook. You can only hear the sounds of low music and the scratch of his pen as you walk a bit further into the store. Then he notices you. He quickly snaps the notebook shut like it’s top secret and straightens up so suddenly he knocks over a pack of matches.

You head for the cooler in the back like nothing happened. You grab a bottle of cold brew and one of the few remaining packs of gum— the kind that loses its flavor in thirty seconds but still somehow reminds you of Hawkins in the dead of summer. When you get back to the counter, he’s trying to casually shove the notebook under the till, as if that’ll erase the fact that he definitely panicked just because you walked in. You place your things on the counter with a smile. He glances at them, then at you, then back at them again, like there might be a third surprise item if he looks hard enough.

“That’ll be, uh… hang on…” he mumbles, punching the keys on the old register. It dings like it hasn’t been serviced since the Nixon era. “Three seventy-five.”

You dig in your bag and then hand over a five. He takes it— carefully, like your fingers might burn him the second they brush one another— and then he drops a coin while trying to hand back the change. It bounces once and disappears under the counter. “Sorry,” he says quickly, ducking down to try to grab it. “I swear I’m usually not this… whatever this is.”

You lean an elbow on the counter, smiling as you peek over to watch him search for the runaway. “You sure about that?”

He resurfaces, clutching the rogue coin and looking about ten degrees warmer than he was a minute ago. “No. Not at all.”

There’s a pause stretching between you. It’s not awkward, but it’s quiet, like he doesn’t know what to say and won’t try because he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. You take a second to really look at him— not just the obvious stuff like the beat-up band hoodie and the name tag that says JEFF in faded black Sharpie. But you take in the nervous tap of his fingers on the edge of the counter and the way he bites the inside of his cheek when you try to meet his eyes. He’s clearly not used to being looked at like this. Or maybe he is and just never knows what to do with it. “You always write in that notebook?” you ask curiously, tipping your chin toward where it’s been hastily shoved out of sight.

His eyes go wide for a second. He truly thought he’d gotten that out of your sight before you’d noticed. “Oh. Yeah. It’s just lyrics. Or… ideas… to show my friends, you know? Band stuff.”

“You’re in a band?”

“Yeah.” He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Corroded Coffin. We play gigs sometimes at the Hideout. You’ve probably never heard of us.”

You grin and shrug. “Maybe I have.”

He looks a little startled by that. And maybe a little pleased. But mostly still nervous. You reach into your bag to pull out a pen. Then you scribble your number on the edge of a faded paper receipt from the counter. You slide it across to him like it’s no big deal. It’s just your number. You’re comfortable doing it, like this is just something you do— Especially when there’s a pretty boy who’s trying everything in his power not to melt into a big puddle right in front of you on the receiving end. But from the look on his face, it’s definitely not something he’s used to.

“If you ever wanted to maybe get a coffee sometime,” you say soft and casual. “Or just talk about your band or show me some of your notebook ideas or whatever.”

He stares down at the receipt paper like you had just handed him a map to buried treasure. He looks up at you, his expression a little dazed but he’s smiling, nonetheless. “Yeah,” he says, still a bit stunned. “I mean— yeah. Okay. Coffee. I’ll call you.”

You push off the counter and head for the front, the cold brew bottle in your hand. The bell jingles again overhead as you pull the door open, and before you step out, you glance back over your shoulder to smile at him. “See you around, Jeff.”

He’s still standing there when the door closes behind you— his mouth slightly agape, your number clutched in one hand, and probably wondering if that really just happened. The guys would never believe it if he hadn’t gotten your number. And he’s not sure if he can continue working tonight, with the way his head is spinning. He catches your eye through the window as you climb into your car. He smiles, turning back to that notebook as he pulls it from its hiding spot, and he turns up that old radio.

tags ;; @the-unforgivenn @djomorelikedelulu @peachyproserpina

[getaapologist]

A Pretty Butterfly Clip

marching band!gareth emerson x cheerleader!fem!reader

word count: 1k

summary: Corroded Coffin Fest Day 22: Friday Night Lights | You’re doomed. Another game passes, and you’re still in love with the prettiest blue eyes in Notre Dame’s drum line.

warnings: none really! fluff, a bit of nervous jitters are talked about!

notes: Submission for @corrodedcoffinfest! These little tiny fics have been really hard to keep the word count for. But it’s been a fun challenge. Here’s a little tidbit from your POV in the college!gareth au! Big thanks to @iitsmandii and @robinbuckleywife for reading this over for me! And to @peachyproserpina for editing and telling me what to cut out! I appreciate you guys so much!

You don’t think Gareth Emerson really knows your name at all.

Which might be a little ridiculous, considering you’ve cheered at nearly every game he’s played in for the past two years. You’ve stood ten feet away from him in the tunnel before every kickoff. He tossed you his water bottle when you dropped yours freshman year. Once, you sat two rows behind him in Music History, though he never turned to look back. And okay, maybe you’ve kind of been quietly, miserably in love with him since your first game day two fucking years ago— when he had grinned across the field at one of his bandmates. He twirled a drumstick between his fingers like it was some kind of party trick, his dark blonde ringlets shaking beneath that ridiculous marching band hat. 

But it’s fine. You’re shy. You always had been and he’s… well… he’s Gareth. He’s funny, and loud, and apparently always teasing someone in the drumline. And unfortunately for you, you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time watching him from the sidelines, wondering what it would be like if he ever just spared a look your way.

And today, he fucking did. It happens right after cheer practice. Your team is heading off the field while the band is still packing up. You’re half-tuned out reaching up to fix your ponytail, sweat sticking to the back of your neck. Your butterfly clip— a lavender purple plastic one you’ve had since high school— slips from your fingers and clatters to the rubber of the track beneath you.

You bend to grab it at the same time as someone else has the same idea. Your fingers brush against theirs just as they wrap their hand around it. “Oh, sorry, I—” eyes flicking upward— and there he is. 

Gareth. 

 Standing there holding your butterfly clip like it’s precious. Then he looks up, that hat tucked under his opposite arm as he holds the clip out. His sandy curls flopping over one eye, and something weird happens in your stomach as soon as you catch a glimpse of the metallic glint of his nose ring. 

“Hey,” he says softly, like you talk all the time. Like your name is definitely not the thing he’s been mumbling into his pillow for two years. “This is yours, yeah?”

You nod, his words pulling you from your thoughts. You can hardly breathe.

He turns the clip over in his hand, his eyes falling down to it, and for some reason, his voice drops an octave. “It’s pretty.”

You blink, trying to wrap your head around the words like he’s speaking a foreign language. You’re almost sure he can see your heart beating out of your chest. 

“Uh— thanks,” you smile nervously. It comes out quieter than you mean it to. “It’s… old.”

“I like it,” Gareth chuckles, letting his fingers curl around it. He’s still not handing it back. “Makes you look like one of those little forest fairies. Y’know… if they did backflips and spirit chants.”

You can feel the heat blooming from your chest outward, and you’re sure that it’s evident all the way up to the tips of your ears. He’s teasing you— but it’s not really in a mean way. It’s in a Gareth way.

He lets out a breath and finally holds out the clip to you, and you take it with careful fingers. Avoiding the brush of your fingertips against his palm.

“Thank you,” you mumble softly. You’re not sure what to do now. Do you flee? Melt right into the track? Fall dramatically into the turf and pretend to faint?

But Gareth nods and then shifts his drum bag higher on his shoulder and says, “I’ve, uhm… I’ve seen you cheer before. At the games.”

You try not to look like you might combust as your lip catches between your teeth. “Yeah?”

He shrugs like the words didn’t really mean anything to him, but now he’s the one blushing, just a faint dusting of red over that freckled nose. “You’re kinda hard to miss out there. You’ve got this… thing. Like you’re nervous every time. But still out there anyway. It’s pretty cool. You’re braver than you think you are, I bet.”

You look down at your shoes, a smile tugging at your lips. “I do get really nervous,” you admit softly, like it was a secret that had been clawing at your chest since your first tryout. “But I like it. It’s nice… being a part of something.”

Gareth nods, watching you like he wants to memorize every little microexpression you make. “I know what you mean.” There’s a pause. Then he lets out a breath, trying to not lose his courage as he says, “Hey— so… would you wanna maybe grab a sandwich sometime? Like, not in a weird way. Just… I dunno. I’d like to hang out. Like with you.”

Your heart is doing its own best impression of one of his fucking drum solos.

You finally look up, glancing at him through your lashes. “Like a date?”

Gareth laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is a date.” Then he shakes his head. “Sorry, I don’t do this much. I’m not exactly smooth.”

You smile softly, eyes drifting to your hand. “I like that about you.”

He looks genuinely startled at that. “You like something about me?”

Your giggle in response, “I think I like a lot of things about you, actually.”

He stares at you like you quietly for just a moment, trying to figure out what to say, before he shakes his head again. “Shit,” he laughs, grinning wide now. “That’s… yeah. Okay. That’s the best thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

You hold up your butterfly clip, suddenly feeling a bit braver than usual. “Good thing you picked this up, huh?” There’s a grin on your face as you gather your hair back into a pony, clipping it in place with the butterfly.

“Best rescue of my student career.”

tags ;; @robinbuckleywife @djomorelikedelulu @peachyproserpina @punkrockmlchael @the-unforgivenn

[getaapologist]

STOP—THIS IS A KINDNESS CHECKPOINT! rb this post + say something you love about prev to keep the positive energy flowing 💫

[getaapologist]

Billy

michael (hoard) x fem!reader

word count: 1.4k+

summary: Michael finds out about the death of his brother.

warnings: As of posting— time jump in the AU (3 years into their relationship), death to a character that means a lot to Michael, grief, suicide mention, heavy topics— skip this one if y’all need to

notes: I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my michaelverse recently and my writing in general. So y’all get the sad Billy story while I contemplate if I disappear from here for a bit lmao. I’ve read this over a few times but feel free to let me know if there’s any mistakes.

The clock’s just hit four when you hear the front door of the flat click shut— a few meager hours earlier than you expected it to. You’re still in the kitchen, standing on the cold tile in your dressing gown. You’d made do sorting laundry on the table because the washing machine’s been temperamental between mixing your darks and lights again. Then you hear the scrape of keys in the latch, then the jangle of metal as he hangs them on the hook, and the faint huff of his breath.

“Michael?” you call out, stepping away from the table to peek around the corner of the doorway.

He’s standing just inside the hall, still in his work jacket. He’s got one hand in his pocket and the other holding onto the strap of the lunchbox you’d sent with him that morning. He looks… off, for lack of a better term. Not angry, not even tired. Just— wrong and quiet. Blank in a way you’re not used to him being. He lifts his eyes to meet yours slowly, and you think you can see how the edges of him feel blurry somehow, like he’s not all the way here.

“Alright?” you ask him softly, already knowing the answer is an astounding no.

He blinks what you think are a few tears away. Then he swallows harshly and finally lets the lunchbox in his hand drop to the floor beside him. His voice is low when he speaks, barely over a whisper, “Got a call from Jenny at work today.” Then there’s a long pause, Jenny was his brother’s wife and Michael never heard from her personally, unless things were bad. He shrugs his jacket off his shoulders, fingers stiff as ever as he hangs it up on the coat rack next to the door. “It’s Billy. He… y’know. He’s—”

Michael’s mouth works around the words he’s trying to figure out how to say, but nothing comes out at first. You move just a few steps closer to him, not to push just to wait. Then, quietly, he drags a hand down his face and he sighs, “Did himself in. This mornin’. They found ‘im at home.”

You stop halfway between the kitchen and where he stood in the hall, your heart sinking. “Oh, Michael.”

His eyes flick up to yours again, just briefly, then he’s looking away. He just moves toward the sofa and away from the conversation like he’s afraid you’ll say something he can’t handle, which in this moment could very well be anything. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t even really sit down properly. He just stands there for a second, then lowers himself down onto the edge of the cushions, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor in front of him.

You walk over and kneel down beside him. His hands are hanging loose between his legs, so you take one gently in both of yours. “D’you want me to ring Jen?” you offer.

“No. She’s got enough goin’ on.” His tone’s sad and his words are short, but he isn’t being cruel— just mechanical. Like he’s reading from the script he’d managed to create inside of his head while trying to make sense of it all. 

“Alright. Want a cuppa?”

He shakes his head at first, then, after a moment sighs— pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Maybe.”

So you just go into the kitchen, busying yourself with the kettle. Though your eyes keep straying through the doorway back to where he sat in the living room. You can see his profile from here— he’s motionless, his shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on a spot on the carpet. Over the last three years, there’s been plenty of times you’ve seen him sad before. Frustrated. Even scared. But never this… still.

When you bring the tea back in, he takes the mug from you without even looking up. You sit down beside him, close enough that your knee touches his and you rub your hand along his lower back.

“I don’t really…” He stops and then shakes his head. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

“There isn’t really a supposed to, Mickey.” you tell him softly, “You just… do what you can. Sit. Have your tea. We can… call people later. Or tomorrow. You don’t have to have it all sorted out tonight.”

He lets out a quiet laugh— humourless at that— and then he mumbles, “Like I’ve been a lot of good to anyone so far.”

You run your hand up and let your fingers slide through the curls on the back of his head. He doesn’t flinch away from you, if anything, he leans into it— needing your touch. “You’re allowed to just… feel it, Michael. Or not feel it yet. That’s alright too. I’m here for whatever you need.”

After a while he puts the tea down against the coffee table, still untouched, and sinks back into the sofa. You pull him sideways into your arms, and to your surprise he goes without any protest at all— his cheek presses against your shoulder, one hand sliding along your stomach and clutching absently at your jumper as he shifts his hips more comfortably.

You sit together like that for a long time.

Later, when you’ve coaxed him into eating a little something for dinner and got him lying under a blanket on the sofa with the telly on (even though he hasn’t actually watched a second of it), you go back into the bathroom to shower. Stepping out into your bedroom to pull on your pajamas is when you hear it. 

A faint, muffled sound coming from the hallway.

You open the door just enough to quietly slip out, padding down the hall to catch where he was standing near the kitchen doorway. You stop just around the corner. Michael is there by the landline, one hand braced against the doorframe above it, the receiver pressed tight between his ear and his shoulder. His eyes look glassy but his cheeks are dry.

You can just make out his voice— soft, lower than usual, you hear the beep on the other end of the line. “Bill…?” There’s a long pause as he takes a deep breath. He swallows, his jaw clenches as he lets his eyes close for a moment. “…Y’alright?” he continues on anyway, like some stubborn part of him refuses to believe what he already knows. “It’s me. Jus’— just ring me back, yeah?” He leans against the doorframe and stays like that for another few seconds before he finally hangs the receiver back on the hook.

You don’t say anything. You just walk over and slide your arms around his waist from behind. You press your cheek between his shoulder blades. He lets out a shaky breath then and covers your hands with one of his own. When he finally gets the strength to turn around to face you, he doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you with raw, quiet confusion settling into his eyes, like he doesn’t know what he needs or even what to ask for— but he knows it has to come from you.

So you guide him back into your bedroom, pull the blankets back, and sit with him in the dark. You start by taking off his boots, untying each one and placing it to the side, and then gently unbuckling his belt and peeling away his jeans, then you unbutton that overshirt and let him lie down in his tank top— pulling the blankets over him. When you finally crawl into bed with him, his arm winds tight around your middle, his nose nuzzles against your hair as your hand plants on his chest, he whispers, “…Please, don’t let go yet.”

You stay awake long after his breathing evens out, watching the lights from the street spill across the ceiling, you move your hand to rest over where his is clutching your jumper. Because even if he doesn’t know how to grieve yet, you’ll hold the weight of it for both of you.

For as long as he needs.

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