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bower-quinn · 1 month ago

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Grease and Glances

You're Steve Harrington’s little sister—and secretly crushing on Eddie Munson for weeks. But a broken bike brings you closer. Closer than you ever imagined. From strangers to friends to lovers. fluffy, description of sex, 18+, smut Watch out! There are severeal chapters.

Chapter One

You’re really trying. For weeks now.

You’re always “coincidentally” in the hallway whenever Eddie’s at his locker. You say good morning way too often and wish him a nice evening after school. But it’s no use. At first, Eddie looks at you like a tree suddenly started talking. After about a week, he stops noticing you altogether. You just stand there like a complete idiot, watching him every day. Like a goddamn idiot in love. Because that’s exactly what you are.

You’re in love with Eddie Munson. Funny, considering Eddie doesn’t even seem to know you exist. Your reputation—more precisely, the reputation of your big brother, Steve Harrington—casts a long shadow, one that swallows up your own personality. Sometimes you’re not even sure if people like you or just Steve. Or, in Eddie’s case, dislike him. You don’t even know if your classmates know your name.

He knows your name. At least your last name.

“Harrington, point two-oh,” he once said when you handed him a drink from the vending machine in the hallway. After that? A nod, a grin—and nothing else.

But you don’t give up. How could you? Your heart beats in a strange rhythm whenever you just see Eddie from afar.

It’s quiet on the school parking lot that evening. The sun’s just gone down, the sky glowing orange and purple like a faded mixtape cover. You’ve been helping put up the new banner in the gym. Not that you’re a cheerleader or on the team—you just wanted to help. That’s something people notice and appreciate about you, even if you’re not all that aware of it yourself. You’re a good person.

Anyway, there’s already a hint of autumn in the air as you step onto the parking lot and head to your car.

Your fancy sports car—a gift from your parents for passing your driving test. Much to your brother’s dismay. Not because Steve’s jealous. He just liked driving you around and spending time with you. And sure, there’s a bit of big-brother worry mixed in.

And then you see him.

Eddie. Alone. In the parking lot.

He’s kneeling next to his way-too-small, way-too-rickety bike. His leather jacket’s off, his shirt rides up slightly in the back, and his fingers are black with grease. He’s cursing under his breath, tugging at the chain—and almost loses his balance doing it.

You hesitate for a second. Then you walk toward him.

“Everything okay?”

Your voice trembles, and you hope he doesn’t notice. Eddie looks up. You’re standing right in front of him, hands in the pockets of your denim jacket, your heart somewhere in your throat.

He eyes you for a moment, then grins.

“What’s up, Princess Harrington? Slumming it with the peasants?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Even princesses get off work eventually. And the peasants? Seem to be fighting with their noble steeds,” you tilt your head slightly, “and losing?”

He lets out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, I’m winning. Just... very slowly. And with oil in my eye.”

Then he blinks up at you.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Like, I don’t know, somewhere your nail polish doesn’t chip?”

You blink. Then, without a word, kneel beside him. On the asphalt. Your damn heart is doing somersaults. You’ve never been this close to him before. His scent—cigarettes, strong cologne, and sweat—surrounds you. Don’t shake, you tell yourself.

“Wow,” he murmurs. “Didn’t see that coming.” He glances at your knees, brushing the edge of an oil stain. Your jeans probably cost more than his entire wardrobe.

You ignore him, grab the fork of the bike, tilt it slightly, examine the wheel. Then you point at a frayed slit.

“The tube’s shot. Ripped right here. See that? And the chain’s dry as Grandma’s Thanksgiving turkey. It’s gonna fly off any second.”

Eddie stares at you. First at the bike. Then at your hands.

“You... know this stuff?”

You nod. “Steve taught me. Back when he didn’t even know how to spell clutch. We used to take bikes apart together. And I paid more attention than he did.”

His mouth opens—then closes again. Well, look at that. You’ve managed to render Eddie Munson speechless.

You let go of the bike, stand up slowly. Then you lean forward a little and gently take his left hand. His eyes widen slightly.

Flakes of chipped black nail polish shimmer on his fingers.

“If you can’t get that polish off: acetone and a bit of sugar. Keeps your hands from getting too rough.”

You let go of his hand. Honestly, it’s hard. You’d rather keep holding it, but he’d probably laugh at you. And being laughed at by Eddie Munson would hurt more than being called “princess” in that condescending tone.

Neither of you says anything for a moment.

Then he breaks the silence. “Wow.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I’m just... really impressed.”

You smirk. The butterflies in your stomach go into overdrive and slam into your insides. You’re desperate to stretch this moment out, and your mind scrambles for an idea. One glance at his bike—and you’ve got it.

“Well, your bike’s basically ready for the trash.”

“Hey!” he interrupts, “Don’t talk about him like that. He’s sensitive!”

“Fine,” you laugh, “since he’s... indisposed—wanna ride with me?”

Weirdly, Eddie looks uncertain.

“In your... uh, sports car? My trailer’s definitely not on your route.”

You shrug.

“Doesn’t bother me. The offer stands.”

“I’ll take it,” he says, giving you a shy smile. “Thanks.”

You smile back, and together you carry his bike to your car. Eddie eyes it with a strange kind of admiration, and for a split second, jealousy flares inside you. If only he’d look at you like that. With the trunk open, Eddie shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“Um… this thing is filthy. Like, really. It’s gonna ruin your fancy car.”

You shrug. “First of all, just the trunk. Not the car. Second, dirt can be cleaned. What else would you do? Push it along beside us? Carry it over your head?”

He doesn’t answer. Then he grins—the first genuine, un-ironic grin you’ve ever seen from him. Together, you lift the bike into the trunk. Then you shut it and head to the driver’s seat.

Eddie gets in slowly, jacket in hand, a little stiff.

“I’ve never been in a car this expensive before.”

You don’t know what to say to that. It hits you hard—you’ve never really thought about it. It was a gift. Fancy, over-the-top, but useful. Now, with Eddie Munson in the passenger seat, it feels... uncomfortable. You try to shake the guilt by switching on the radio. “Every Breath You Take” plays softly.

You start the car. It glides off the lot. Hawkins’ streets are empty. Eddie glances at you.

“Are you sure you’re Steve Harrington’s sister?”

The question catches you off guard, and you laugh.

“Hospital records say yes. Plus, we’ve got identical birthmarks. So yeah, pretty sure. Why?”

“Your brother would never have helped me. Or given me a ride.” There’s a hint of disdain in his voice, and it stings. No one—not even Eddie—gets to talk about your brother like that.

“Steve has good and bad sides. Like everyone. There are people who call others ‘princess’ and treat them like crap,” you throw him a look, “or don’t even say hello.”

Eddie runs a hand through his curls.

“That was... pretty rude, huh?”

“Kinda.”

“Okay, I’m sorry I acted like a jerk earlier. And for not saying hi. From now on, I’ll greet you every morning and evening!”

“Good,” you say with a laugh. “That’s the bare minimum.”

“I talk faster than I think sometimes!”

You flick on your blinker, turning down a smaller street—it won’t be long now until you reach the trailer park.

“All guys do. I know that from Steve.”

Your laughter blends together, easy, natural.

You slow down. The light in his trailer is dim. He gets out, grabs the bike from the trunk, then looks at you again.

“Thanks... for the rescue.”

You lean a little toward the passenger side.

“You’re welcome. And Eddie,” you say quietly, “one more thing. Stop talking crap about my brother. He’s amazing. I love him. And it hurts me when you do.”

Eddie holds your gaze for a long moment, and you don’t even know where you found the courage to say that.

“Okay,” he replies, just as softly. “I promise.”

“Thanks,” you smile at him. Once again, you gather your courage, take a breath, and say, “Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Eddie frowns slightly.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” you nod toward the bike, “that’s not magically fixing itself overnight. So, I’m picking you up.”

“That—uh,” Eddie stammers, “you don’t have to do that. Really.”

“I know,” you say, grinning wide. “That’s why I will.”

On the way home, your heart is pounding. And once you’re sure you’re out of earshot, you let out a loud, joyous cheer.

Chapter Two ->

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader

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angelesca · 6 months ago

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w.c. 3.4k💀so much words for this crap / sunday x truckdriver!gnreader (dafuqq is this dynamic), small stories, 99% of the penacony cast are impressed by you(they should be), robin is a cutie pie, sunday is a closeted robin fan, you and sunday squabble daily, sunday your wonweek is showing💗, wrote this in the tumblr drafts vro🔥part crack [𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐬]: 1 ┃ 2 ┃...

a/n: farted this out bc i got inspired by this otome isekai manhwa i was reading [truck knight taekbae] + aesthetics inspired by [who made me a princess]

darkness monopolised your vision ever since you got here; day time never graced you. the insulated walls do their job well—only the vibrations, the frayed edges of sound, can be heard.

chains grip your wrists, the metal twisting into your skin, wringing it like cloth. ouch. what now? maybe if you fart consecutively, and hard enough, you can blow your way out?

"brother... why…?" vibrations again.

"don’t… monitor… danger."

the iron door creaks. light shines a single ray though the gap, and like the sun, the radiance blinds you. you squint your eyes, tracing the outline of two silhouettes.

the taller one approaches, each stride covering an equal, set amount of distance without a lost beat. "i have one question," their tone dashes against the whetstone, pointing a sharpened blade at you. "who are you?"

their eyes did not welcome any light, no reflection of you in them, as if you were only a whisper of the air. you feel the cracks in your throat. "me? i’m just a truck driver."

you are having tea with sunday.

after the less-than-ideal introductions, the picture cleared: you, a truck driver, are isekai’d into penacony via truck inception(?).

"i apologise for my manners," sunday sips his cup. "when you... suspisciously appeared in my bathroom, unresponding, there was no room to be courteous."

"sorry about that," you play with the rim of your cup awkwardly. "i'm not sure what happened either." the honest truth.

sunday shakes his head. he's majestic. "so, you said that you were…" he taps his chin.

"a truck driver."

"a criminal?"

"... truck driver."

“an assassin?”

"..." you almost turned into one.

little did you know, your lone walk was accompanied by a slithering shadow. except... it was no shadow. it was a dazzling spotlight that had fans and reporters following her repslendent glow, as expected of penacony's halovian songstress: robin.

"you mentioned you were a truck driver," finally, someone knows what a truck driver is. "will you allow me to see it?"

yes, your truck teleported into the dreamscape too. how could you live without them? they sit by a pavement on penacony's streets, hoarding the stares of confused citizens.

you watch an infinite cosmos flare in robin's incandescent eyes. your truck is just that impressive. "wow...! it's so beautiful!"

"what a curious machine," a blue and blonde-haired pair are analysing. "a vehicle that inefficiently operates on wheels? rather old-fashioned."

"what in the ever-lovin' fudge? my great-great-great-great-great gramps had one of those!"

"a sight of blissful beauty blooms before my eyes. amazing!"

“where am i?”

“acheron, it hasnt even been a minute yet and you’re confused.”

people's eager stomping tremble the earth and sky. it's just that impressive. in the distance, an extra pair of wary eyes observe you.

"i admit, i am still suspiscious of you," sunday crosses one leg over the other. "robin sang nothing but praises. however, i'm afraid i'll need you under my surveillance to prove your trustworthiness."

urk. possessive much? "why are there knives, swords, and rocket launchers on the table?" sunday cocks an eyebrow at you, expecting you to make a move. "... i'm really not an assassin, sunday." but you do know his entire life story, so you're actually his stalker.

suddenly. the room blurs. an annoying static repeats, plucking the sensory wires from your circuit. is he... is he using his thingamajig powers?

"you may not be one... for now." he looks out a large window. you follow his gaze. wait a minute. what are they doing to-

“MY TRUUUUCK!!!” your passion transcends boundaries, past the lower-case and forcing the caps lock. lunging, you rush outside the mansion. "HEy!"

"aaaaa!! run!"

"eeek!"

"nyaa~!" who the hell was that?

"what the..." you are stunned. how dare they vandalise your truck! "was this your order?" you turn to sunday, infuriated.

"what will you do now?" a corner of his lips lifts, provoking.

you clench your fist. no one messes with you, the best truck driver, and only truck driver, in penacony.

hypothetically, if you got hit by a truck and ended up here, could you, a truck driver, hit a penaconian and isekai them over to your world?

"hey, robin?"

"hm?" her smile is innocent, gazing at you with a prospering kindness deserving of its own halo.

you smack your head. a dozen times over. then a few more.

"hey, aventurine?"

"hi hi~"

you shake your head. wouldn't his luck interfere? if anything, you'd be the one to get run over again.

"hey, acheron?"

"who are you?"

doesn't even know who you are despite telling her a minute ago. if she ended up in your world, she'd be asking the same question anyway: "where am i?"

you pick your nose. she'd slice you in half. period.

"hey, rappa."

"dazzling ninja rappa at your service!"

"as am i, the dimension-trespassing truck driving ninja!"

unfortunately, ninja roleplay with rappa is too fun. every friday, you play dnd together and you can't miss it this week.

there's only one person left.

"hey sun-"

"don't."

you stare blankly. "i didn't say anything?"

sunday glares back. "if you are going to speak to me, do it in front of me, and not while starting the engine of your truck."

"tch... damn."

"could i use your truck as a stage prop for my next concert?"

"oh, what if it suddenly rains?"

"what if i accidentally trip?"

you notice a gap in robin's behaviour. "how come you're so nervous today?"

robin looks at you, mouth on the verge of speaking. she looks down at her shoes. "hmm..." she tilts her head, lips mumbling. she hesitates, unready to spill her heart.

there's one thing you do best. you suggest, "why don't we go for a ride in my truck?"

robin's hunched back quickly reshapens itself. it's been some time since you've had a passenger, but with the way robin swiftly adjusts herself in the seats, excited, you don't worry about the mess in the truck. you start the vehicle, ready to stroll penacony's streets.

you hand her a piece of unexpired candy from a compartment, and she accepts the gesture. it doesn't take long before robin settles herself afterwards. she sighs. "... it's my brother, he'll be attending a show for the first time. i'm a bit nervous."

"why would he not be supportive?" you question.

robin shakes her head. "it may be because my brother is a perfectionist. i can't help but believe that he'll be expecting a flawless performance."

halovian songstress robin, a nation-wide icon, for her, expectations continually rise without rest. but for now, she sits next to you as robin herself, without the embellishments and performing. a breath of fresh air.

words of reassurance may be able to tend her heart. "make as many mistakes as you want," you comfort, "you are robin yourself before you are a singer, a civilian, and a sister."

the candy in her palm is scrunched. her heart, opens. robin herself, smiles. not because she is expected to, not because she is told to, but because she wants to. "thank you."

on the eighth day, grant... sunday getting down on one knee for you. wasn't this a bit fast?

your mouth opens. "are you proposing right now?"

"what are you on about?" sunday looks up at you, eyebrows scrunched. in his hands, a riiiiiiiiiiing- no, he's just cleaning his shoes with a cloth. better luck next time.

robin suggested to use your truck like a cabbie. that way, you can still keep your pride as a truck driver, and provide ears for wary hearts:

a student struggling with academics.

someone who doesn't know which direction to take.

the ramblings of a doctor whose words are spoken with precision, slicing his words into the victim's flesh. but behind the gloves are trembling hands that only wishes to sew tight the rotting wounds of a poor gambler, if only he would let him.

a galaxy ranger who witnessed the brevity of lives in the isolated expanse of the universe, walked along the shore of nihility. she departs with you her true name so that when she returns, your heart can accompany her solitude once more.

a young girl who cannot tell if the blood on her hands are someone else's, or her own. every allude to life reminded her of a deathly fate. however, as your passenger, she is reminded that she can forge a life of her own, undecided by destiny. penance and redemption, then, in the end, she hopes to regain her humanity.

you've listened to them all. unlocked each of their hearts, always gave back the key if they ever wanted to return again. turns out, the people of penacony are not much different from those in your world.

robin would pass out if she saw this.

from what you remember, there were 88 doors in the oak family's residence (you're a dedicated fan). you've explored each one, door 86, 87, 88... 89?

a secluded door that can only be seen with eagle eyes. the mystery kindles sparks in your chest, flaming curious fires. you slowly open the door. 86, 87, 88, 89... robins? (one for every door?) they all stare at you within their enclosures, as either posters, figurines, or books cover. in the middle sat a familiar head of grey hair, lowered, back turned towards you.

"sunday?"

the head moves up. gradually, it creaks. never in your life, did you expect to see a robin-crazed hidden room, nor a red-faced sunday. oh robin, the brother you were so worried about, is actually your no.1 fan. sunday's halovian wings flap furiously, doing nothing to cool his face down. his expression seems annoyed to have been caught in the act. "... what?"

"is this your robin shrine?" this is it. this will be your revenge, and the beginning tastes sweet. "so, you're the real criminal out of the two of us."

one can imagine the fumes blowing out of his ears. his eyes glisten, on the verge of tears. oops, he's really embarrassed.

you turn your face away, allowing sunday as much privacy as possible within his very private room. or rather, you are avoiding his eyes to suppress laughter. "you're coming to robin's concert, right?"

"you coming?" you gesture towards your majestic truck. it's a beautiful night for a truck ride.

sunday, your victim, is reluctant, of course. he probably still believes that you are an assassin who will run him over. "i won't die, will i?"

you huff. "i'm just a truck driver. what's the worse i could do? kidnap you?" sunday stares at you, frightened. it does not take much for him to believe in your potential for evil. "it's a joke... i'm not a criminal. or an assassin."

"just for a few minutes," he resigns. score. you open the door for sunday, who eventually sits down. you start the engine.

"welcome." sunday is in your truck. what an achievement. heh. you place your foot on the pedal.

it is silent apart from the engine's buzzing. you hand sunday an unexpired bag of chips from the compartment. he receives it, inspecting the packaging. his eyes trail to the window, studying how the sunset paints penacony with autumn's palette, but beyond it, he is watching the dots of people. you watch the melancholic sunday.

"what's on your mind?" you ask.

"nothing significant."

"well, the whole point of my trucking service is to listen to passengers." you turn the wheel. honestly, you don't know where you're going, and neither does sunday. the moon guides you tonight, two lost souls. "say anything."

sunday fiddles with the bag of chips. "...maintaining the oak family status, work, the people," he finally speaks, "it balances on my shoulders."

you hum, signalling him to continue.

"wouldn't a utopia free from suffering solve everything?"

quite a hard-hitting question for a truck driver, sunday. you nod. "of course. the only problem is that it is not real - everyone is forced into the current reality. it is harsh and cruel..." you blink. "but we are not powerless to it."

"how do you suggest we solve it?"

it is quiet for a moment before your mind wanders to every passenger you've had. they all had one thing in common. "i guess, a lot of people want a shoulder to lean on, an ear to open for them, and a voice to validate their feelings. we can do that."

all those passengers seemed to shine brighter at the end of the ride, ready to chase a dream. you may not be saving the world - you are no hero, just a truck driver - but you help tend the invisible wounds of people: the blood that drips from sharp words, the bruises that sting from deprecation, the headaches.

isn't it fine to take it slow? navigate the dark, little-by-little, and by the end, there will be an even brighter light.

"... i see." sunday watches your hands manoeuvre the truck's mechanics. the flick in your eyes that turn to him, to which he shies away from. then, he rests his eyes. as the truck drives, a silence hangs, one of quiet understanding. bit-by-bit, you gaze into sunday's heart.

it's been some time since you got run over.

adjusting to penacony was difficult at first. you had to adapt to life at the family's mansion, and the daily customs. however, the burden was eased slightly, all partly thanks to a special helper.

every morning, a cup of coffee or freshly-squeezed juice presents itself in the kitchen. every afternoon, your favourite bookshop always happens to have the book you wanted, already reserved for you. every night, your bedroom door slowly opens, quietly. your blanket, moves up to cover your torso. the mess in your room, rearranged and picked up. the back of a hand, feathers over your cheek. and nothing more happens. your little helper is easily satisfied at the sight of a peaceful you.

"does robin know about this room?" you are flipping through an ancient truck magazine.

sunday is wiping the display cabinets. his wings are flapping again, turning to you. "you didn't mention it to her, did you?"

"no, but she's going on tour soon after," you play with the corner of a page. "why don't you send her your encouragement?”

"what do you suggest?" he asks.

you look at the ceiling. it's full of robin's pictures. "a heartfelt letter? personally, i would buy her a truck but i don't think she needs that."

a small laugh escapes sunday's lips. you did not expect that. "that would be nice." he moves over to a desk, and from a drawer he pulls out a page adorned with blue flowers, and a pen.

you walk over to his desk. "you're into stationary?"

"i don't see why not," sunday says, "my work requires mostly writing, after all."

he begins from the top: 'dear sister,'. from there, sunday is a bit clumsy and awkward, asks her how the weather is and if she had breakfast. "... i've never done this before," is what he said. but gradually, the pen picks up, and the words flow. now, there was too much left unspoken when sunday reaches the final line, and had to cross out the sentence he was writing. a total of four pages, both sides filled, with more words waiting to be said - those would be left for when the siblings reunite.

"maybe we can have the people of penacony sign it too." you smile, imagining robin's elation when she reads it.

sunday nods. he scratches his signature and hands the paper to you. "here."

you take the pen, hesitant. "what's this for?"

sunday raises an eyebrow. "you're a citizen of penacony, are you not?"

... oh. were you? your throat dries. when did you become a part of penacony? weren't you... just a truck driver?

sunday watches you contemplate. a silence drawls. suddenly, he wraps his hand around yours, holding the pen still. "why are you hesitating?" nib meets page. ribbon by ribbon, the ink dances. "you belong here, don't you?"

your chest grows warm. you weren't expecting that either. full of surprises, aren't we? the same person that chained your hands and observed you, coldly answered to you, is offering his warmth. his hand is resolute, unwilling to let go. it reassure your doubts. you smile.

the pen lifts:

'from, your loving brother and, your dear friend.'

surprisingly, sunday has gotten comfortable with your presence in his forbidden robin cove. as you have with his in your magnificent truck.

yet, as much as you've driven closer, the gap is bottomless. sunday doesn't appreciate you looking at him, yet, he's allowed to drill holes in you when you're not aware?

you've asked robin, but she answered cryptically with a smile. "he used to watch over me as well, overprotective as always, but i'm sure that's his way of expressing himself when words fail him."

you reccount the passing moments.

a person more of action, lesser of words. for his people, he worked endlessly without their validation. for robin, he hid in the shadows of his much brighter devotion and support. for you, he let you slowly seep into his life, and you absorbed him into yours. a truck driver and an overqualified partner-in-crime.

quiet devotion is a tender song. without the beating of his loud commands, penacony would be left unprotected. without the instrumental scratching of his pen, there would be no light on the streets. without the percussive clicking of his shoes, the citizens would not be able to dance and celebrate.

this was sunday's song; no one else heard it, but it hums beneath the surface, invisible. those who press their ears against it can sense its vibrations. a silence that speaks louder than words or lyrics. and now, you can't mistake it, your heart beats to the silent song.

it is the night of robin's last stage in penacony. you and sunday stand on a balcony, watching over her. the final song sways along the night-caressed breeze, setting free the wings of hopeful listeners and dreamchasers.

though for a certain someone, he was using more of his eyes than ears. when you meet his golden pair, they turn away as usual.

"what's with you?" you lean against the railing.

his hands hide behind his back. "nothing significant."

"hey, i thought we were past that already. i told you i'm a truck driver who listen to their passengers."

silence hangs. a few more spoken words, "and? have you told your story?"

"me?"

his eyes find yours, but they don't turn away anymore. behind his role as penacony's figure and as a brother, it is sunday who is talking to you. in his gaze, it doesn't judge, impartial, waiting to listen, asking if it is okay for you to lend him your key.

he's come a long way into this journey. now, he awaits at your doorstep. the words catch in your throat. "i'm... just a truck driver..." you close your eyes. "a truck driver who got lost here."

sunday shakes his head. "i’m not asking about one miniscule part of your life. behind that is you who experienced a reality that built the person in front of me," his voice is shaky. an unsteady hand opens and closes, hopes to reach out for yours, but is uncertain. "i'm... asking for permission to learn all of you."

"..." robin's song is about to come to an end.

you look at the mirror. a mirror that always reflected only you, now fits one more person in the frame. that is your answer.

the you who is listening, reading, watching, all your past versions converge into this quiet meeting. usually, the mirror rejected, criticised, and distorted. but today, it finally listens. the mirror holds your reflection to be true. before you got to penacony, before you stood in the middle of a road, before you became a truck driver, you were...

"speak to me. i'm here to listen as you have for others." and keep that key to his heart, for it remains open unconditionally, always a place for you in there.

two losts souls, under the moon, found a home in each other.

a person closes the novel they were reading. they pick up their phone and start typing:

“-4.2/5 rating, absolute horror. where was robin at the end? i was waiting for her! and what’s with all the mirrors and life lessons? preeeeetty criiiinge. i'm reading a fantasy novel, not a lecture. why is mc even a truck driver anyways? also, not enough hand holding, and definitely not enough kissing. zero points!” this random nobody criticises, slamming fingers on the screen. they pause. “i wonder when the next volume will be released…”

a/n: great use of my holiday tbh, get everything out b4 i'm busy again💖i hate drawing hoyo charas they're so detailed, applause to all the hoyo artists u guys r goated fr i thought itd be cute to turn this into a series. i have some deleted ideas since i only wanted this to be a short piece (i got carried away smh). but tbh this fic ended off nicely, i dont think it needs continuing. idk. i like pistachio ice cream thanks for reading!!😲

#hold me back b4 i do a sunday arranged marriage isekai #with a train conductor reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #sunday x reader #angie's crayon drawings!

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hamilton-here · 30 days ago

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Hey! Maybe something based on this picture?

Thank you!!

𝑅𝑒𝒹 𝒜𝓇𝓇𝒾𝓋𝒶𝓁

Authors Note: Hey everyone! First of all, this man is looking mighty fine once again. I tried to make a story out of this image, so I apologise if it’s bad. I’m so annoyed Lewis is starting P7 for the race…Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis invites the reader to Monaco, and as they ride through the night on his motorbike, something real sparks between them.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The sound hit first a low, guttural, vibrating through the asphalt and straight into your chest.

It wasn’t just noise - it was a promise.

Power, speed, presence.

The kind of sound that made people stop mid-sentence and turn their heads.

That’s what you did too, instinctively lifting your eyes from the crinkled paddock pass in your hands as the roar echoed through the tight streets of Monaco.

And then you saw it.

No, him.

A motorcycle carved from fire and shadow.

Candy-apple red bodywork that shimmered like liquid metal in the sun, hugging every sharp angle like it had been sculpted out of movement itself.

And on it leaning slightly forward, one foot planted, hands still clutching the grips was Lewis Hamilton.

You forgot how to breathe.

He was entirely encased in Ferrari red: a snug team jersey with that unmistakable Cavallino Rampante over his chest, black cargo pants that clung to lean muscle, and a sleek matte-black helmet that turned him into something cinematic.

Unreal.

Like a scene lifted out of a dream you didn’t know you’d had until just now.

He didn’t move right away.

Just sat there, letting the engine hum out its last few purrs.

The crowd had quieted too.

Even the chatter behind the paddock barriers faded into background fuzz as Lewis reached up, slow and deliberate, and unbuckled the helmet.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

There was a pause long enough to hold your breath over and then he pulled it off.

First, the edges of his braids appeared, then his jawline, his lips.

His eyes.

That subtle tilt of his head like he already knew exactly where you were standing.

Like the rest of the world, the entire grid and weekend and spectacle, were secondary.

“Is it weird that I think he might be cooler on two wheels than four?” a stranger murmured beside you.

“I don’t know if he’s real,” you said, barely aware you’d spoken aloud.

He stepped off the bike like it wasn’t 200kg of raw machine, like it bowed to him.

One fluid motion - leg over the seat, a gentle pat to the tank, his fingers tightening around the helmet now hanging from his side.

A silver chain glinted against his throat.

His skin caught golden in the sunlight.

Even the way he adjusted his gloves looked like choreography.

And then his eyes found yours.

No hesitation.

No sweep of the crowd or calculated look for the cameras.

Just you.

Like you were the only one worth noticing.

The moment stretched, thick and breathless.

His gaze locked with yours with the kind of certainty that makes your heart skip and your brain forget how to form thoughts.

Your sunglasses felt ridiculous pointless even because he saw right through them.

Right through you.

He smiled.

You nearly stepped backward.

It hit you like that.

A smile that made the air warmer, made the ground feel less solid under your shoes.

Like he’d lit a fuse in the middle of the paddock, and you were the only one close enough to feel the fire.

He walked toward you, boots firm on the pavement, crowd still murmuring behind you but blurred now.

All you saw was him.

“You made it,” he said, stopping just in front of you, voice low and smooth like he hadn’t just stunned half of Monaco with his entrance.

“I – uh, yeah,” you managed, cursing how starstruck you sounded.

Your eyes flicked to the bike his gleaming red beast still parked at an angle like it belonged in a museum.

“Nice ride.”

Lewis grinned and unstrapped his gloves with one hand; his helmet still casually hooked in the other.

“Thought I’d make an entrance.”

“Mission accomplished,” you said, blinking hard, trying to keep your cool.

Your pulse was going crazy.

You stood in the middle of the paddock with Ferrari engineers buzzing around in the distance, camera flashes going off in quiet bursts, fans behind the fence trying to get the best angle and yet, it felt like the rest of the world had shifted to background noise.

It was just him.

And you.

“I was worried you’d be stuck in traffic,” you said.

Dumb.

But it was all you could think of.

Lewis chuckled, one of those soft, husky laughs that made your stomach twist.

“I cut through it.

Didn’t want to be late.

Not when I knew you’d be here.”

And there it was again that feeling that he wasn’t just showing up for the race.

That somehow, impossibly, this was about you too.

You glanced down at your outfit basic linen top, jeans, nothing fancy.

Still somehow felt like you’d overdressed and underdressed all at once in his presence.

“That part still confuses me,” you admitted quietly, looking back up at him.

“How I ended up here.”

“You spilled espresso on my trousers at a climate summit,” he said, tilting his head.

“Then gave the most passionate argument for criminal justice reform I’ve ever heard from someone trying to mop up a spill with paper napkins.”

You laughed, remembering the moment.

Mortifying then.

Weirdly defining now.

“And now you’re in Monaco,” he said, stepping just a little closer.

“You know, when I texted you the invite, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged, eyes dark and thoughtful.

“You seem like the kind of girl who knows how to say no.”

“Only to things that don’t scare me,” you said, surprising both of you.

That smile again it was slow, crooked, devastating.

“Is this normal?” you asked, glancing at the cameras still trained on him.

“You riding into practice like some kind of biker god?”

“Depends,” Lewis said, adjusting the strap of his white cross-body bag as he leaned in a fraction.

“Did it impress you?”

You smirked.

“I think the crowd is already drafting love letters.”

“Good,” he murmured, eyes warm and playful.

“But I only care about yours.”

And just like that, Lewis Hamilton made the chaos of Monaco feel quiet.

“Come on,” Lewis says with a crooked smile, nodding toward the row of garages. “Let me show you around before I have to suit up.”

You follow him before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can stop and really process what the hell is happening. One second, you’re standing there in borrowed sunglasses and borrowed confidence, clutching a flimsy paddock pass like it means something, and the next you’re trailing behind Lewis Hamilton. In Monaco. At Ferrari.

He smells like heat and leather and something expensive you can’t name, and the scent lingers in the air between you like an invisible thread.

You walk through the paddock, past clusters of crew members in red polos and headsets, past the hum of engines and the snap of cameras in the distance. Lewis moves like he belongs here and of course he does. Every inch of this place wraps around him like it’s an extension of him: the roaring engines, the quiet tension in the air, the glint of sunlight bouncing off carbon fibre and chrome.

He walks a little ahead of you, glancing back every so often to make sure you’re still there, like he’s afraid you might vanish.

The sun catches in his braids as he leads you down a narrow path between the garages. A few crew members glance at you as you pass some with polite nods, others with not-so-subtle curiosity, their gazes darting between Lewis and you like they’re trying to piece something together.

Who is she? their eyes seem to ask.

You’re not sure yourself.

You pause at the entrance of the hospitality suite, where a soft breeze carries the scent of strong coffee and warm pastries. Lewis lets his fingers graze the railing, turning back to you with a playful glint in his eyes.

“You hungry?” he asks. “They’ve got good espresso. Just don’t spill it this time.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Not planning on attacking your pants again.”

“Shame,” he says, smirking. “Gave me an excuse to talk to you.”

That grin should’ve been illegal. Warm and bright and just a little dangerous. You duck your head with a smile, trying to play it cool while your pulse thuds in your throat like a drum.

You don’t go inside. Instead, he keeps walking, guiding you past neatly stacked sets of slicks, past screens showing telemetry data you don’t understand, past the soft chaos of engineers shouting numbers and numbers and numbers. And then, just when the noise starts to wrap around you, he turns a corner into a shaded space behind the team trucks.

It’s quiet here. Secluded. The kind of place you can breathe again.

Lewis leans against the metal railing like he’s done it a hundred times before, arms folded, cap tilted back, his eyes fixed on you like you’re some kind of equation he wants to solve.

“So,” he says. “Berlin. Law school. Why come all the way to Monaco?”

You raise an eyebrow, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Because someone invited me with zero context and a Ferrari emoji.”

He chuckles, nodding like that sounds exactly like him. “Seemed like enough.”

“It was,” you admit.

There’s a pause. Not awkward just thick with something you can’t name yet. Lewis studies you, gaze moving from your eyes to your hands, to the way you press your lips together when you’re not sure what to say. His presence is so calm. Confident. But not arrogant. Not performative.

Just real.

“Nervous?” he asks after a moment.

You hesitate. “Yes. But not because of you. More about being...here. In this world. It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, glancing around. “It is. You get used to it.”

He looks back at you, eyes serious now. “But for what it’s worth I don’t invite just anyone into it.”

His words land somewhere low in your chest, right where your nerves and disbelief have been coiling. You don’t know what to say to that. You feel seen. Chosen. And that’s its own kind of vertigo.

“You know,” he adds, lowering his voice, like he wants this part to stay between just the two of you, “I didn’t stop thinking about you. After that summit. You kind of threw me off.”

You blink. “Me?”

He nods. “You were real. And passionate. You didn’t care who I was, not really. You just wanted me to listen. That doesn’t happen a lot.”

You look away, overwhelmed by the heat of his honesty. Your eyes catch on the reflection in the side of a gleaming red transport truck. There he is framed against the Ferrari logo like some kind of myth brought to life. For a moment you can’t move. The way the sunlight kisses his skin, the tension in his shoulders, the steadiness in his stare it all hits you at once.

He’s beautiful. Not just in the obvious way, though there’s plenty of that. But in the way he stands in his truth. In the way he sees people.

You turn back and find his gaze already on you.

“You look good in red,” he says, voice dipping into something quieter.

Your outfit isn’t anything special white linen pants, a rust-coloured top, simple gold jewellery. But somehow, under his gaze, you feel like you belong here.

“You’re biased,” you say softly.

“Maybe.” He tilts his head. “But you’d look good in anything.”

That pulls the breath right out of you. Your skin flushes, your stomach twists with nerves and something else entirely. You glance down, hiding the smile that tugs at your mouth.

He steps closer. Just a few inches. But it feels like the air between you has changed. Charged. Your heart skitters in your chest like it has no idea what comes next.

“Lewis, you’ve got ten minutes,” Angela’s voice calls from down the walkway steady, professional, but not unkind.

He looks over his shoulder and nods, then turns back to you.

“Wait here?” he asks.

You nod.

He slips into the garage, and you stay rooted where you are, leaning against the railing he just touched. The warmth from where his body had been still lingers. Your fingers brush it without thinking.

When he returns, he’s changed. Race suit half on, the top rolled down and tied at his waist, black fireproof undershirt hugging every defined muscle. His gloves tucked under one arm, helmet in the other, cap pulled low over his brow.

He looks like motion. Like power. Like something carved from speed and ambition.

But when he steps up to you, all of that melts away. He’s just Lewis again.

“Stay in the paddock,” he says. “I’ll find you after practice. Don’t disappear.”

You smile, heart kicking. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He pauses. Then, as if pulled by instinct, he reaches out and gently brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers linger for a heartbeat too long. Just enough to make your breath catch.

Then he turns and walks away, back into the heartbeat of the team. Back into the roar of engines and the glare of cameras and the world that will never stop spinning around him.

But for one perfect moment, you see something quieter.

And somehow, you know so does he.

The roar of engines had faded long ago, replaced now by the quiet rhythm of tools clinking and the low hum of voices behind closed garage doors.

The paddock, once pulsing with adrenaline and urgency, had thinned out, crew members drifting toward late dinners or moments stolen in the cooling shade. The sun sank low behind Monaco’s terraced buildings, painting the harbour in golden hues, softening the track’s sharp edges.

You stayed where he asked. Leaning against the railing. Waiting.

Trying not to look like you were waiting.

The faint scent of burnt rubber still hung in the air, riding on a sea breeze that tangled through your hair and cooled the warmth in your neck. Your fingers wrapped loosely around your phone, scrolling through nothing, until it vibrated a message from your best friend: “ARE YOU STILL BREATHING????” in all caps, six question marks. You stared at it, then slipped the screen off. There were no words for this yet. No way to explain what you felt.

And then you saw him.

Lewis stepped out of the Ferrari garage with slow, heavy steps the kind that come after giving everything on the track. His race suit hugged him like a second skin, red and black, unzipped just enough at the collar to show the sweat-darkened fireproof layer beneath.

He peeled off his gloves, brows knitted in thought, jaw tight with the familiar post-session focus. Engineers flanked him, their voices low and technical, but his attention was elsewhere, already shifting the moment his eyes found yours.

And when they did, when that gaze locked with yours, it was like something inside you clicked. A quiet pull, magnetic and undeniable.

He walked over with steady, deliberate steps. The golden sun hit his face, highlighting the sheen of sweat on his temples and the faint glimmer of his nose ring. Without the helmet, he seemed more real raw, unguarded like you were seeing the man beneath the layers of visor and spotlight.

“Didn’t disappear,” you said softly, straightening.

Lewis’s smile was slow, genuine like he’d been holding his breath until this moment. “Good,” he said. “Didn’t want to send a search party.”

You tipped your head, trying to keep it light despite the flutter in your chest. “How was it?”

“Hot. Fast. Hairpins tighter than I expected.” He paused, wiping the back of his neck with a towel, then threw you a crooked grin. “I thought about you at Turn 8.”

Your brows lifted. “Why?”

He shrugged, stepping closer - close enough that you had to lift your chin to meet his eyes. “Because I clipped the apex too early. Made me think of you earlier how you looked at me like I was doing something reckless.”

“You are,” you murmured.

His grin widened boyish and disarming. “Guess I like that you see it.”

A silence settled between you. In that quiet, you noticed everything the lingering scent of rubber on his skin, the soft breeze carrying the salt from the sea, the slow burn of his eyes as they traced your face like it mattered. Because it did.

“You okay out here?” His voice softened.

“Yeah.” You nodded. “It’s peaceful when everything quiets down.”

He glanced past you at the harbour where yachts flickered like scattered stars caught in the deepening dusk. “Won’t last long,” he said with a wry smile. “Media, meetings the chaos always finds us again.”

There was something fragile under his words the exhaustion of always being “on.” Always expected to perform, always under watchful eyes.

You stood in silence, the moment shifting.

“You wanna get out of here?” he asked.

Not like a pickup line. Not rushed. Just real. Like he needed a breath outside the storm. Somewhere cameras couldn’t reach. Somewhere time didn’t matter.

You blinked. “Where would we go?”

“Somewhere with less rubber and more air-conditioning.” He smiled, rubbing his jaw. “I’ve got a little time. Could show you the harbour. Or…” His eyes softened. “We could just walk. Doesn’t matter.”

What he didn’t say, but you felt was that he wanted to know you. Not the girl with the paddock pass, not the law student who spilled espresso. You.

You nodded. “Okay. Let’s walk.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding tension in his chest, then nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting.

He didn’t take your hand, but his arm brushed yours as you fell into step together. That was enough.

You passed the garages and the lingering shadows of the pit lane, stepping toward the promenade where the harbour opened wide like a dream. The water shimmered in deep blues and golds, the sun settling behind distant mountains. Yachts sat like giants at rest, ropes creaking gently against masts, mingling with laughter drifting from upper decks.

Eyes tracked you - mechanics, team staff, photographers with long lenses but neither of you noticed.

You walked slowly, warmth wrapping around you like a soft blanket. Lewis pointed out spots where the cars braked hardest, where overtakes lived, turns that looked simple but weren’t. You listened because you wanted to, because the way his voice shifted when he spoke about racing was something rare almost sharp and tender all at once.

When you reached a shaded alcove overlooking the water, he stopped. The world felt quieter here, safe. Waves lapping softly below, the breeze teasing loose strands of his race suit.

He turned to you, expression unreadable for a beat. Then he said, “This isn’t normal for me.”

You met his eyes. “What isn’t?”

“Bringing someone into all this. Letting them see past the surface.” His jaw clenched slightly. “But with you, it didn’t feel like a choice. It just felt right.”

Your chest squeezed. You hadn’t expected to matter this much. Not yet. Not like this.

“You don’t have to explain,” you whispered.

He laughed softly, disbelief clear in his voice. “Yeah, I kind of do. I don’t want you thinking this is just some fling. Some Monaco weekend thing.” He swallowed. “It’s not.”

You stepped closer. Your shadows merged.

“I don’t,” you said. “I didn’t think that.”

He looked at you like he wanted to burn this moment into memory, just in case it slipped away.

And then slowly, almost barely he leaned in.

Not fully. Not yet. But his forehead pressed gently to yours. Quiet. Like a promise breathed between heartbeats.

His breath warmed your lips. One hand rose not to hold, just to hover near your jaw like even the smallest touch was sacred here.

In that golden hush, Monaco sparkling behind you and the sea sighing below, you knew with perfect clarity -

This wasn’t a crush.

It wasn’t about fame or speed or the surreal thrill of walking the paddock beside Lewis Hamilton.

This was something else.

Something rare. Slow burning. Deep.

This was him.

And somehow, impossibly, he was looking at you like you were the first thing in a long time that made him feel real.

The sun had long dipped below the horizon by the time the paddock emptied.

The hush of post-practice gave way to soft nightlife murmurs Monaco glowing gold in the dark, as if dipped in candlelight.

The echoes of engines and footfalls had faded, replaced now by the subtle clinking of champagne flutes in the distance and the low, rhythmic pulse of yacht music echoing from the harbour.

You linger near the Ferrari hospitality suite, arms folded loosely over your chest, watching as the city transforms under the night sky. Waiting for him.

That was when you hear it the low, familiar purr of an engine.

You turn instinctively, and there he is. Lewis.

He pulls up on his motorbike, sleek and matte black, its curves catching the street lamps like shadows dancing on obsidian.

He wears dark jeans that hug the curve of his legs, a fitted leather jacket that looks like it has seen fast roads and long nights, and his braids are tucked neatly beneath a black helmet.

The kind of cool that doesn’t try just is.

When he flips the visor up, his grin is unmistakable, mischievous, boyish and yet quietly sure.

“Come on,” he says, that grin curving wider.

“Ride with me.”

You blink at him.

“Ride where?”

“Anywhere.”

He revs the engine slightly, the sound a quiet dare, a heartbeat louder than yours.

“It’s the best way to see this place. I’ll go slow. Promise.”

You laugh, caught somewhere between intrigue and disbelief.

“I don’t even have a helmet.”

“Then we’re getting you one.”

Fifteen minutes later, you step into a dimly lit motorcycle gear shop tucked between a wine bar and a jewellery boutique, as if it were hiding in plain sight.

The place has marble floors and glass displays, like even its helmets are couture.

The air inside smells like leather, chrome, and soft cologne probably his.

Lewis moves like he’s been here before, like Monaco is stitched into his muscle memory.

He leads you straight to the back wall where helmets are displayed like works of art.

Without hesitation, he reaches for one black and gold, matte with subtle accents, sleek and sharp.

A perfect match to his own.

“Try this,” he says, holding it out.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Are you seriously buying me a helmet right now?”

“Only if you’re serious about getting on the bike with me.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice.

“Are you?”

The teasing melts into something quieter, steadier.

His eyes deep, earnest, and just a little nervous meet yours like they’re asking more than just one question.

You look at him, at the way the city light kisses the edge of his jaw, at the way the adrenaline buzzes just beneath his stillness.

And somehow, the answer comes as easily as breathing.

“Yeah. I am.”

He pays in crisp euros, cash from his wallet like it means nothing but the glance he shoots you on the way out, twice over his shoulder, says otherwise.

Like he needs to make sure you’re still with him.

Like he still can’t quite believe it.

Outside, the sea breeze sweeps in cool and salted, brushing over your skin like silk.

The streets shimmer from recent rainfall, the reflections of headlights dancing in puddles.

He sets the helmet gently on your head and adjusts the strap beneath your chin, his fingers warm and careful against your jaw.

A small touch, but it feels like it means something.

“You ever ridden before?” he asks.

“Only on the back of my cousin’s Vespa.”

Lewis grins, already settling back onto the bike.

“This is a little faster.”

You swing on behind him, the leather seat still warm.

Your heart pounds as you reach forward, unsure until he reaches back and takes your hand, guiding it around his waist.

“Hold on,” he says, voice low and steady.

So, you do.

And then you’re flying.

The streets blur around you, gold and white and midnight blue streaking past in water-colour ribbons.

The city unfolds beneath you like a secret, curves and corners illuminated only by-passing lights and moonlit stone.

Your arms tighten instinctively around him as the speed picks up.

You can feel the subtle laugh rumbling through his chest, the way he leans into the next turn with practiced ease.

You weave through the tunnels under Monte Carlo, your echoing path lit in flickers of orange and white.

Your helmet muffles the world, but not the feeling the rush of wind against your arms, the subtle shift of his weight with every curve, the sheer freedom of it all.

It’s thrilling.

It’s terrifying.

It’s addictive.

Eventually, he slows, steering the bike up a narrow incline that opens into a quiet overlook high above the harbour.

The city below looks like someone spilled diamonds across black velvet.

The sea shimmers, ink-dark and alive with reflections of the stars.

He cuts the engine.

The silence that follows is almost reverent.

You climb off the bike and pull the helmet off, hair tumbling loose around your shoulders.

Your pulse still races, wild and electric, but Lewis’s gaze steadies you.

He hasn’t looked away once.

“Worth the helmet?” he asks, voice rough with wind and something softer.

You nod, breathless.

“Definitely.”

You stand for a moment, not touching, just watching the city breathe beneath you.

He takes his helmet off, setting it gently on the seat, and brushes a hand over his braids.

Sweat glistens along his temple, catching the moonlight, his lips parted slightly as if caught mid-thought.

“You make me feel calm,” he says suddenly, eyes still on the view.

You turn to him, startled.

“What?”

His gaze flicks to yours.

“I’m not used to that,” he admits.

“Even when I’m winning, I’m wired. Restless. Like there’s always something else I have to chase. But with you…”

He shakes his head slowly, voice thinning to a whisper.

“You slow things down.”

You don’t know what to say.

So, you don’t try.

Instead, you reach for his hand.

His fingers close around yours, warm and certain.

And there, with the hum of the engine still alive in your bones and Monaco sparkling behind you like a dream, you realise you don’t want this night to end.

Not because of the glamour or the city, but because of him.

Because of the man who looks at you like you’re the first moment of peace he’s had in years.

Lewis turns to you fully now, thumb brushing over your knuckles, his voice low.

“One more stop?” he asks.

“Or should we stay here a little longer?”

You smile, heart catching in your throat.

“Let’s stay.”

He nods, then sits down on the low stone wall overlooking the sea once again.

The breeze pulls at his jacket, tousles his braids, and still, he opens his arms like you belong there.

And you go. No hesitation.

You curl into his side, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath his skin.

His arm wraps around you, fingers tracing idle lines along your shoulder.

The world moves fast.

But tonight, wrapped in leather and starlight, you don’t have to.

You sit like that for a long time.

Not saying much just breathing the same air, feeling the same rhythm.

The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled, that feels rich and full just as it is.

The wind moves gently across the overlook, brushing past you like a whispered blessing, tugging strands of your hair across your face and fluttering the collar of Lewis’s jacket.

Monaco still pulses below you in warm, golden pockets of life music rising from yachts, distant laughter echoing through the harbour but none of it reaches you, not really.

Up here, you’re in your own little world.

Outside of time.

Or maybe just finally inside a moment worth staying in.

At some point, you notice his thumb moving slowly against your arm.

Not with pressure.

Not with expectation.

Just a steady, quiet rhythm, like it calms him.

Or maybe like he doesn’t want to lose the connection.

The thought comes out of nowhere unfiltered, real.

“Do you ever get scared?”

His body shifts slightly beside you, not pulling away but adjusting, like the question makes something stir in him.

His breath is warm above your temple, slower now, heavier.

“Of what?”

“Of all of it,” you say.

“The speed. The pressure. The life you’ve built. What it costs you.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

For a moment you think maybe you’ve gone too deep, too fast.

But then he exhales, slow and honest, like he’s choosing his truth carefully.

“Yeah,” he says at last, and the rough edge in his voice makes your chest pull tight.

“All the time.”

You lift your head, searching his expression.

He looks at you then not guarded or rehearsed, but with a startling openness.

As if he’s been waiting for someone to ask him that without expecting some perfectly packaged answer.

“There’s this moment before every race,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking to the city lights like they could help carry the weight of his words.

“Right before I get in the car. Helmets on. Engine’s quiet. You hear everything your own breath, your pulse, the static in your head.”

“And for a split second you wonder if this time will be the one that costs you everything.”

He squeezes your hand, not out of fear, but in a way that tells you he’s still here, still fighting.

“But then I think about why I do it. About what it means. And I hold onto that. Like a lifeline.”

You nod, wanting to say more, but the moment feels too sacred.

Instead, you just lean your head back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and find your own lifeline there.

Somewhere in the quiet between breaths, the city around you, and the stars above, you know this is the start of something rare.

Something real.

Something that no race, no pressure, no shadow of fear can touch.

Because for the first time, you’re riding not just into the night, but into a future with him steady, wild, and entirely yours.

Lewis’s voice breaks the silence, low and hesitant, almost like he’s afraid to shatter the fragile stillness between you.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question is soft, respectful like a whispered promise and somehow it makes the air around you feel heavier, charged with something unspoken yet deeply understood.

You lift your eyes to his, heart pounding with a fierce, fluttering certainty. The world narrows until there’s nothing but him and this moment. You nod, barely daring to breathe.

His hand moves slowly, deliberately, and cups your cheek with a tenderness that takes your breath away. His thumb traces tiny, feather-light circles against your skin, as if you’re something precious he’s never allowed himself to touch before.

Time seems to slow even more as he leans in, inch by inch, giving you every second to pull away, to change your mind. But you don’t. Instead, you lean into him, drawn by something you can’t quite name.

His lips meet yours soft, warm, and hesitant at first like the gentle unfolding of a secret you’ve both been waiting to share.

The kiss deepens, slowly growing richer and more certain, but never rushed. His mouth is asking, inviting, trusting everything wrapped in the careful rhythm of patience and desire.

You respond in kind, your own lips molding to his, the steady thump of his heartbeat against your chest syncing with yours like a quiet, steady drum.

Around you, the world fades into a blur the distant hum of Monaco’s nightlife, the whisper of the breeze nothing matters except this electric hush that hums between your lips.

His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair, pulling you closer as if he never wants to let go.

The kiss is everything full of all the quiet fears and wild hopes, the chaos of the track and the calm of this stolen moment. It’s both fierce and tender, fierce in its promise and tender in its honesty.

When he finally pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm and mingling with yours, his eyes searching yours with something like awe, he smiles a slow, genuine curve that makes your heart soar.

“Feels right,” he whispers, voice thick with something you can’t quite put into words.

And in that moment, you know it does.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #x reader #lh44 x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton one shot #team lh44 #f1 one shot #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1

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alexzeaqua · 2 years ago

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And now, here they are!

The most daredevil group of daffy drivers to ever whirl their wheels in the Wacky Races! Competing for the title of world's wackiest racer!

The cars are approaching to the starting line...

First is the Turbo Ocean, driven by Octodad.

Next is Shovel Knight and The Knight in the Shield Wagon.

Maneuvering for position is the Pizza Surplus Special.

Right behind is the Angry Birds, in their Egg-Bird Bomb.

And here's ingenious inventor, Engineer in his Convert-a-Sentry.

Oh and here's the lovely Ms. Chalice, the glamour gal of the gas pedal.

Next we have the Dynamite Mobile with the dynamite duos, Anton and Annie.

Lurching along is the Creepy Spook with Spooky and Golden Freddy.

And right on their tail is Annalynn.

And here's the Celeste Mt. Chugga-Bug with Theo and Madeline.

Sneaking along the last is the Bone Machine with those double dealing do-badders, Papyrus and Sans.

And even now they're up some dirty trick, and they're off! ....To a standing start. And why not? They're been chained to a post by shifty Papyrus, who shifts into the wrong gear.

And awaaayyyy they go! On a way-out, Wacky Races!

(edit 7/23/24: my dumbass thought if tf2 and angry birds were both indie games, but not anymore lol........ ALSO THANK YOU FOR 1000+ NOTES YALL, OH MAH LORD!!!1!)

#art #wacky races #crossover #undertale #antonblast #spooky's jumpscare mansion #fnaf #team fortress 2 #annalynn #cuphead #pizza tower #angry birds #celeste game #octodad #shovel knight #hollow knight

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nizhspo · 1 month ago

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genre: haikyuu imagine, minor angst

pairing: kotaro bokuto x fem!reader

warnings: drug use, addiction

summary: breaking bad inspired. frank ocean lost inspired (please have a listen!)

you were good once.

not perfect, never that, but good.

had a planner. a part-time job. a bullet-point life you were trying to keep from falling apart. second-year at a state university, your loans stacking faster than your credits. business major. something practical. something you told your aunt would pay off someday. you worked the closing shift at a laundromat that doubled as a convenience store, just off the highway, neon lights buzzing even when the ice machine was broken.

that’s where you met him.

kotaro bokuto.

he used to have it all. back in another lifetime, he was a star. starting outside hitter for a D1 school, full ride, a future in his hands so bright it could blind you. recruiters calling at all hours. NIL deals coming in hot. they called him showtime. highlight reels, gym posters, shirts printed with his number.

but it was too much. the pressure cracked something in him. he started skipping lifts. started partying harder. started missing practices with no reason but that hollow feeling in his chest that nothing really mattered.

eventually, he just left. packed his bag and drove out west with a friend-of-a-friend who had a connection, said he could show him how to make real money without ever picking up a ball again. that was two years ago. now, he’s got scars on his knuckles and burn marks on his arms. hasn’t seen a clean gym in eighteen months.

but he’s magnetic. even now. especially now.

you meet him in that gas station-laundromat. he comes in for rolling papers and red gatorade. wears sweat-streaked tank tops and gold chains with no shirt underneath.

something about him makes your stomach twist, the loose way he talks, the heavy-lidded stare, like he’s constantly hovering somewhere between awake and dreaming.

at first, he’s just a regular.

then he’s leaning over the counter longer. asking about your classes. offering you rides. telling you to call him ko.

then one night your car won’t start. and he’s there. joint in his fingers. half smile on his lips.

“want a hit?”

you take it. and it’s smooth, sweeter than you expect.

everything about him is sweeter than you expect.

…

at first, it’s harmless.

it started with joints. rolled effortlessly, tight, clean, always burning even. his fingers worked with the kind of ease that only came from muscle memory. he never looked down while doing it, just kept talking, lighter flicking like punctuation.

he passed them to you without asking. never pressured. just held them out like an offering. like smoke could be communion.

then came the cart. “no smell,” he said, grinning, tapping the mouthpiece against the counter. “you can keep it under the register. no one’ll know.”

you found it later, tucked behind the paper towels. sleek. gold-trimmed. a sticker on the side with a smiley face and your name, spelled wrong.

next came edibles. rice krispies, melted marshmallow fingerprints on the baggie, your name again in sharpie, this time spelled right. little hearts around it. he asked if you liked the taste. told you he’d make more.

and he did.

you tried shrooms on a tuesday. just a cap. maybe a stem. he sat with you in the break room after close, lights off, vending machine humming like a lullaby. he gave you a hoodie when your arms started to shake and let you trace the stitching on his knuckles while your pupils blew wide. when you told him the soda cans looked like planets, he leaned in close, whispering, “which one do you think we’re on?”

you laughed for ten minutes. he didn’t mind.

now it’s the desert.

his truck, rattling loose down some nameless stretch of highway. stars above. cassette in. otis redding. tevin campbell. marvin gaye. the stereo warbles between tracks, and he taps the wheel in time, window cracked just enough to let the wind bite.

you bite your lip to keep from laughing.

you just passed a cop car doing eighty. he doesn’t slow down.

he says things you shouldn’t believe. stories that don’t add up. names that change.

but you believe him. you believe all of it. even the lies.

especially the lies.

because when he says you’re safe with me, you want it to be true.

because nothing else feels safe right now.

not the laundry card that keeps declining. not the rent hike notice slipped under your door. not the way your boss at the laundromat keeps slashing hours and calling it budget cuts. college tuition emails go unopened. your fridge hums louder than your phone rings. even your shoes feel tired.

but him?

bokuto doesn’t flinch when you cry in the front seat. doesn’t ask questions when you show up empty-handed. he hands you lighters like you need them, lets you roll down the window as far as you want. he laughs like you’re still someone soft, even when you don’t believe it.

and in that moment, in the hum of tires, in the bass line of stolen soul records, in the smell of weed and old vinyl and the wind tangling your hair:

it is safe.

just for a little while. just long enough to forget the difference.

he never takes you to the same place twice.

when he works, it’s always late. always hot. always quiet. he tells you don’t ask. you nod like you mean it. but you do. of course you do.

you start noticing things. coolers packed tight with baggies and twist-ties. coffee filters stained brown. burner phones. lighters with no cigarettes. his hands always smell like iodine and citrus.

he keeps you out of it. makes you wait in the truck, windows cracked. sweat pooling in the dip of your back.

you don’t mind. not really.

you love being near him. love when he leans over to kiss your jaw and calls you his good girl. love the stacks of cash he counts on motel beds. love how he still holds you like he’s scared you’ll vanish in your sleep.

you think it’ll stay like this. you think you’re smart enough to keep your head above water. but the tide’s already coming in.

and one night, you find him cooking.

you weren’t supposed to be there. he told you to wait at the station. but you came anyway. traced the route you knew by heart. the back lot. the rusted trailer. the porch light blown out.

you open the door, and the smell hits you first, pungent, acidic, like something sour rotting in plastic.

he’s bent over a table, mask pulled up, latex gloves on. beakers bubbling. a hot plate glowing red. steam curling from a pot.

you freeze.

he doesn’t notice at first, until you shift and the floor creaks. then he looks up. eyes wide. face pale.

“what the fuck are you doing here?” he barks.

you blink. don’t move. don’t breathe.

“ko…”

he strips the gloves fast, peels the mask off, grabs your wrist. “you weren’t supposed to see this,” he says, voice hoarse.

but you can’t stop staring. not at him. not at the lab. not at what he’s become.

“is this what you’ve been doing?” you whisper.

he doesn’t answer.

just looks at you, like he’s already ruined you by accident.

you step forward. touch the edge of the counter. glass jars. pill bottles. lye. ammonia. crushed cold pills. everything.

and still, you say, soft and steady: “let me help.”

his face twists.

“no,” he snaps. too fast. too loud. “absolutely not.”

but you don’t flinch. you know how to talk to him now.

you remind him of your hours getting cut at the laundromat. how school feels like a rich kid’s joke. how your mom hasn’t called in three months. how you’re already with him on every drop, every drive, every late-night cash swap under flickering gas station lights.

you promise you won’t get in deep. you just want to help. just want to be useful. just want to breathe for a little while without feeling like the world is chewing through your skin.

he doesn’t say yes.

not at first.

just stares at you, jaw locked, hand raking through his hair like he’s trying to dig a hole through his skull.

his voice is tight when it comes out. his whole body trembling.

“fine. but you don’t touch anything. you don’t cook. you don’t sell. you don’t lie for me. you sit. you watch. you keep your fucking hands clean.”

and that’s what you do.

for a while.

…

you knew he used.

not because he told you. not because he ever did it in front of you.

he kept his highs away from you, like a secret. like a stain he didn’t want to smear on your hands.

but you saw it anyway.

you saw it in the track marks. little bruises blooming along the inside of his arms, half-faded and rearranged every time his sleeves slipped up while he was driving. sometimes you’d catch him rubbing his wrist absently, fingertips brushing the skin like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

you saw it in his eyes.

some nights, they were clear. steady. warm in a way that made you forget where you were. but other nights they turned glassy. sharp. too still. like he was watching the world from two feet behind his own body.

he never used in front of you. never touched you when he was high.

but you knew the signs.

the jaw that clenched too hard when the silence stretched too long. the way he’d press his knuckles to the bridge of his nose like he was holding back something ugly. how he’d go hours without speaking, then burst into laughter that didn’t reach his chest.

how he slept sometimes for a day and a half, and sometimes not at all.

you never asked. you told yourself it wasn’t your place. you told yourself he’d stop if he could.

but you saw it all. and still, you stayed.

because the highs were part of him now. not the best part. not the worst. just there.

woven into the threads of who he’d become.

you saw it. and maybe—maybe some quiet, shameful part of you wondered what it felt like.

…

the first time you ask to try it, he flinches. hard. his whole body jerks like you slapped him.

“no.” his voice is flat. but shaking. “you don’t need that. don’t even say that shit.”

“but you do it,” you say. petty. childish. desperate. “you do it all the time.”

he turns away. his hand curls into a fist, then relaxes. then curls again.

“because I’m already fucked up,” he mutters, jaw clenched so tight it trembles. “because i don’t have choices anymore. but you—you still have a way out. you could leave right now. go back to school. go back to someone who isn’t like this.”

you step closer.

he doesn’t look at you.

“don’t do this to yourself,” he says, quieter now. his voice breaks on the last word.

but your mouth is already dry. already aching with a want you don’t understand. you want to know what it is that keeps him coming back. what it is that lets him float when the world drowns everyone else. maybe, if you feel it, you’ll understand him better. maybe, if you feel it, you’ll feel closer.

“please.”

you say it soft. too soft. like a wound being kissed.

it breaks him. he stares. shakes his head. curses under his breath.

and then, slowly, he lines it out.

a single line. smooth. pale. on the back of an old mirror with a cracked corner.

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t gloat. he just holds the mirror steady and watches you lean down.

trembling. wide-eyed. mouth dry as paper.

his hand rests on your back. not pressing. just there. warm. steady. alive.

your breath catches. your pulse screams.

then the high hits like god. not light. not air. not clarity. fire. everything burns and sings and pulses.

you feel like you could lift the world in your bare hands. your heart’s a hummingbird. your skin buzzes like a stereo too close to the amp.

the trailer melts into gold and orange. sunset dripping down the walls.

his hands on your hips feel like velvet and lightning. you kiss him. you can’t not kiss him. you laugh so hard you cry. you cry so hard you moan.

your body shakes from the inside out.

you grab his face, breathe him in, press your forehead to his and whisper, this is it. this is the best thing I’ve ever felt.

he nods. but his eyes are hollow. his jaw is tight. he holds you like a man watching someone walk into a fire they can’t come back from.

and then— you crash at dawn.

hard.

your mouth is sandpaper. your chest is collapsing in on itself. your nerves scream. your legs won’t stop shaking.

the world is too bright. too loud. even the silence hurts. you cry. ugly, cracked, wet sobs. you curl up on the mattress and press your face into the crook of his arm like it might save you.

he holds you. rocks you. whispers against your hair. “you shouldn’t’ve done it, baby. you were good. you were so good.”

you cry harder.

and he just holds you tighter. like if he squeezes hard enough, the poison will leak out.

you shake until you sleep.

and when you wake up— you still want it.

…

from there, it’s a blur.

you lie to yourself.

say it’ll be the last time. say you’ll stop before it’s too late. say you’ll only help when he really needs you.

but the late nights come fast.

so do the favors. the exceptions. the can you just hold this and watch the door and keep the engine running.

you start picking up lingo. you learn what the codes mean. what a “half” looks like in a ziplock bag. you learn how to measure without a scale. how to tell when someone’s trying to short you. you start carrying a burner. you stop asking who the product’s for.

you’re not cooking. not yet, but you’re there.

mixing. breaking down. packaging with trembling fingers while he checks the blinds. he teaches you how to keep your prints off glass. you learn how long it takes to cut and cool and double-bag.

your hands stop shaking after a while. your heartbeat slows. you get good at this.

…

one night, a guy talks to you.

it happened outside a gas station just past dusk, the air thick with heat and the smell of fried food, rubber, something faintly chemical. the sky was still bleeding color, oranges melting into purples, the neon from the ice machine sign flickering against the hood of bokuto’s truck as you leaned against it, arms crossed, waiting for him to come back with change for the quarters you forgot.

the guy is too close. too greasy. he sees your face before he sees bokuto, and he gets stupid. asks if you come with the product. laughs when you don’t answer.

you try to move past him. he grabs your wrist and bokuto’s there before you can blink.

not yelling. not dramatic.

just calm. deliberate. a kind of stillness that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

his hand dipped under the driver’s seat like muscle memory, like it wasn’t even a decision. just instinct. he pulled the piece without blinking, without flinching, without looking to see if anyone was watching.

it was simple. dull black. heavy in his grip.

you didn’t catch every word. the blood in your ears was too loud. but you heard the tone, cold. deep. old.

“say that again.”

the guy froze. hands raised. tried to laugh it off. started stammering apologies you couldn’t hear over your own heartbeat.

bokuto didn’t move. didn’t speak again. just stared.

and then, without a word, the man backed off. quick. turned. disappeared into the night like he’d never been there at all.

bokuto holstered the gun slow, like he’d done it before. like it was routine. like it was just another part of the job.

he didn’t look at you right away. didn’t ask if you were okay until nearly a full minute later, eyes scanning the dark before finally shifting to your face.

“you good?” he said, like nothing had happened.

you nodded. but something cracked open inside you. not fear. not exactly.

just something ugly.

something you couldn’t name. because the truth was, in that moment, watching him fold danger back into silence like it had never existed, you felt safe.

and that? that was what scared you most.

…

the mirrors go quieter after that.

you stop checking them. stop picking up your phone when it rings. you don’t know how to explain this. you miss your cousin’s birthday. you miss rent. you miss the way bokuto used to laugh before all of this swallowed him whole.

you’re still getting high. but it’s not about feeling good anymore. it’s about not feeling anything.

you tell yourself it’s just until things settle down. just until the next drop. just until you can breathe again.

but you haven’t taken a full breath in weeks. and bokuto watches you.

starts using less. starts hiding the stash in places you can’t reach.

beneath the trailer floorboards, covered in duct tape and loose insulation. inside the back of the toilet tank, double-wrapped in a freezer bag. once, tucked into an empty pack of marlboros sealed in a ziplock, jammed behind the rusted car battery.

he thinks he’s being careful. thinks he’s protecting you. thinks you don’t notice.

but you do.

he’s different now. quieter. hollow in places he didn’t used to be. you can feel the way he pulls back when he kisses you. not because he loves you less. because he’s afraid.

he touches you like glass. like if he’s not gentle, you’ll splinter. washes your hair when your body aches too hard to move. sings under his breath when you can’t sleep. old soul records. songs you recognize in pieces. you think that maybe he’s singing to who you used to be.

…

you go looking on a tuesday.

midday. no clouds. the kind of heat that peels paint. makes your knees sweat just from standing still.

you tear the trailer apart. not slow. not careful. frantic. guttural. hungry.

the drawers, the vents, the mattress. behind the fridge. under the couch. in the crack where the wall doesn’t meet the linoleum.

your breath is clipped. your fingers twitch. your vision pulses like your brain forgot how to filter light. you’re halfway inside the cabinet beneath the sink, hair wild, knees bruised, fingers bleeding from the sharp hinge, when he finds you.

and the second your eyes meet you snap.

“where is it?” your voice is sharp. hoarse. already broken.

he steps in slowly. arms down. voice low. “baby,” he says. “you don’t need—”

“don’t,” you hiss. “don’t call me that. just tell me where it is. please.”

your throat is dry. tears spill before you feel them. your voice climbs high and helpless. your fists dig into your own ribs like you’re trying to hold yourself together from the outside in.

“i’ve been good, haven’t i ko? i’ve been so good. i didn’t ask yesterday. i didn’t use last week. i just need something. just a little. i won’t go too far. i swear. please.”

he’s frozen. his face cracks in real time, eyes raw, mouth barely moving, grief written across every inch of him like bruises.

“stop,” he says, almost choking on it. “please don’t do this.”

he moves to kneel. to hold you. to reach for your wrist like he’s done a thousand times when you’re spiraling.

but you jerk back like his skin is fire.

“you made me like this.”

and that—that ruins him. he doesn’t speak. just flinches. back hits the cabinet. he slides down slowly, hands limp in his lap. his face crumples without collapsing. the kind of expression that doesn’t scream. it just dies.

you’re sobbing now.

fists in your hair. rocking. nails dragging across your scalp. everything in your body screaming. everything outside of it quiet.

“just—just tell me where it is. please. i need it. bo, i need it.”

still, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.

then slowly, he reaches into his hoodie pocket. pulls out a folded bit of foil. unfurls it. tiny. half a hit. barely anything. not even enough to feel.

he doesn’t say a word as he lays it out on the lid of an old film canister. no torch. no mirror. just desperation and dust.

you’re already nodding. crawling across the floor into his lap. fingers trembling. face soaked.

your voice is wet. gravel and glass.

“thank you. i’m so sorry i said that baby, i love you. i don’t blame you. i swear i don’t. i’ve just been feeling so bad, and this doesn’t even make me feel good anymore, but it helps. it helps. i promise it’ll be the last time.”

he holds you after. arms around your waist. cheek against your spine. body still. his hand rubs circles into your back. slow. careful. afraid.

but his eyes never leave the wall. blank. burned out. gone.

but he won’t leave you. he can’t.

not when you’re the only thing he’s got left that still feels like anything. like home. like maybe he didn’t ruin everything.

and you—you’ve given up too much to turn around.

school. home. your body. your breath.

…

you kiss him in the truck with the windows rolled down. the wind is hot. your neck is sticky with sweat. the gun rattles under the passenger seat.

the cooler between your feet is packed with bills.

you tell him you love him. he says it back.

the drive stretches on forever. the desert opens like a wound. wide. flat. aching. the sky burns low, yellow at the horizon, then orange, then a red so deep it feels like drowning.

the road hums under the wheels. sand dances in the rearview. everything around you is nothing.

he drives with one hand, and the other rests on your thigh. his jaw tense. his eyes far.

the radio crackles. worn. warped. one knob missing. the deck held together with duct tape, loose wires, and hope. you glance at the display. the green light flickers, half-burnt out.

frank ocean – lost

the tape warps slightly under the heat. the vocals slide soft and slow through the cracked speakers, syrupy and half-muffled like a dream underwater.

“she’s at a stove, can’t touch her soul…”

it almost feels ironic. mocking, even. like the song knows. like it’s watching you from inside the tape deck, whispering truths you’re not ready to admit.

your throat tightens. not from emotion, not at first, but from the way the lyric lands right in the hollow of your ribs.

you feel it in your molars, in the ache at the back of your jaw. in the gums you’ve bitten raw from the come-downs. in your chest, where the breath doesn’t always come easy anymore.

it settles like a weight. not heavy enough to crush. just enough to remind you that it’s there. that it’s always there.

and still the song plays. and still you listen. and still, despite everything, you don’t reach for the volume.

you just sit there, staring out at the open desert, wondering how you became the kind of girl a song like this makes sense to. the kind of girl who lives in metaphors and motel rooms and the passenger seat of someone else’s bad decisions.

you weren’t always this. but now you are.

and no one’s coming to save you. not from the sun. not from the heat. not from him. not even from yourself.

the sun is bleeding across the sand.

painting everything in gold and rust and regret. and for a second, you remember something else.

your name. your laugh. your bedroom walls. your mother’s perfume. the way you used to hum in the kitchen while waiting for coffee to brew.

that girl is gone. burned up. buried under powder and smoke and him.

lost. in the heat. in the love. in the ache. in the hum of tires. in the crackle of tape. in the steady weight of the backseat that smells like cash and death.

and somewhere in your bones, you know. you’re never coming back.

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eretzyisrael · 18 days ago

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THURSDAY HERO: Nancy Wake

Nancy Wake was a gutsy journalist from Australia who became a leader of the Allied resistance and killed a Nazi with her bare hands.

Born in New Zealand in 1912, Nancy was raised in Sydney. She ran away from home at age 16 and went to London, where she became a self-taught journalist.

As a young woman, Nancy described herself as someone who loved nothing more than a “good drink and handsome men, especially French men.” In 1930 she married Henri Edmond Fiocca, a wealthy French industrialist.

During the 1930’s Nancy worked for Hearst newspapers as a European correspondent. Stationed in Vienna, Nancy witnessed the rise of Nazism. She was shocked to see roving gangs of Nazis beating up Jews, and never forgot the sight of Jews chained to massive wheels and rolled through the streets. She later said, “I resolved there and then that if I ever had the chance I would do anything to make things more difficult for their rotten party.”

Nancy became a courier for the French resistance. Speaking perfect French, she worked with the “maquis” – guerrilla bands of resistance fighters. After Germany invaded France, she helped Allied POW’s and other personnel escape the country.

The Gestapo called Nancy the “White Mouse.” They tapped her phone and intercepted her mail. Nancy’s life was in constant danger.

Nancy described her method of avoiding detection by the Germans: “A little powder and a little drink on the way, and I’d pass their German posts and wink and say, ‘Do you want to search me?’ God, what a flirtatious little bastard I was.”

Nancy led repeated attacks on Gestapo headquarters. By 1943, she was the most wanted resistance fighter, with a 5 million franc price on her head.

After Nancy’s maquis network was betrayed, she fled France. Her husband stayed behind, and he was captured, tortured and killed by the Gestapo. Nancy, on her way across the Pyrenees to Spain, was unaware of her husband’s death until after the war.

In 1944, Nancy parachuted into France. Her assignment involved collecting and distributing arms and equipment that were sent in by parachute. Nancy was a highly successful recruiter, and is credited with bringing 7500 fighters into the resistance.

From April 1944 until the liberation of France in August 1944, Nancy’s band of maquisards fought 22,000 German soldiers, causing 1400 casualties while sustaining only 100 of their own.

At one point, Nancy killed an SS guard with her bare hands to stop him from raising the alarm during a raid. She later described how she did it, “They’d taught this judo-chop stuff with the flat of the hand at SOE [special operations training] and I practiced away at it. But this was the only time I used it – whack – and it killed him all right. I was really surprised.”

Another time, Nancy’s wireless operator was shut down in a German raid, and she rode her bicycle over 300 miles through German checkpoints to deliver the secret codes.

After the war, Nancy was awarded the United States Medal of Freedom, the Medaille de la Resistance, and the Croix de Guerre, among many other honors.

Nancy continued to work as an intelligence agent. She married a Royal Air Force officer in 1957 and for the next several decades they divided their time between London and Australia. Nancy’s autobiography, The White Mouse, was published in 1985 and became a bestseller.

Nancy’s husband died in 2001, and she returned to London permanently. She lived at the Stafford Hotel near Picadilly, her expenses largely paid for by the hotel’s owners, who were honored to host a renowned heroine. She could be found every morning at the hotel bar, drinking her first gin and tonic of the day.

Nancy died in 2011 at age 98. Her remarkable story has been the subject of multiple biographies and television mini-series.

For fighting the good fight against the Nazi war machine, we honor Nancy Wake as this week’s Thursday Hero.

#Thursday Hero

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emmg · 3 months ago

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wip whenever

i was tagged by my baes @heylittleriotact @aldisobey @ollypopwrites so im tagging yall three back in turn and adding @thepalehorsevictoria @excited-hiss @jainydoe @rooks-leather-jumpsuit @caffeinatedmunchkin @xxnashiraxx @lavenderprose and everyone else

euh this is from that Hadestown Emmrook AU I drunkenly posted about yesterday. The brain rot is real. I'm putting Emmrich & Rook as Hades/Persephone and Bellara & Neve as Orpheus/Eurydice.

anyway lol

Excerpt from Emmrich’s Research Notes (Unfiled Addendum)

"The Veil is deteriorating at several key fault lines. Surface-level efforts remain inconsistent. Solas and I are in agreement: stabilization must occur from both sides. He holds the Fade. I hold the world. He tends the dreaming. I manage the dead. The Grand Necropolis must serve as a stabilizing anchor, its necromantic field designed to resist volatile Fade incursions at structurally compromised points. The city is not merely a sanctuary for the dead, but a mechanism of containment. Lichdom is not corruption, but crystallization. Ritual intention remains pure. Undeath becomes the framework through which purpose endures. Mortality introduces entropy; emotion distorts the weave. I am—by nature—too human. The living cannot bear this burden forever. The dead do not fray under repetition. She will not understand. Rook fears what does not grow. She believes stillness is stagnation. But stillness is the only reason the walls still hold."

The train to the Grand Necropolis has no windows. It unsettles her every time. She always hesitates, Rook notices. Always. One foot extended, the other still grounded, she teeters at the threshold, suspended between the platform, the train, and the void that lies between.

But inevitably, as always, she boards. Time snaps back into motion. The whistle shrills, the wheels begin to turn. She almost loses her balance, lurches forward, arms flailing, takes three quick steps to steady herself. Behind her, the doors slide shut.

It’s always the same: hesitate, glance down, step in, stumble, recover.

Ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk. She hears the great machine; or maybe she feels it. It travels through her bones as much as through her ears, a pulse in the metal spine of the train as she walks the corridor toward her private cabin.

The one that needs a key.

The key she wears on a chain around her neck. The key that rests cold between her breasts, always cold, no matter how long it lies pressed to her skin—and that is always. It never warms. It only leeches.

She stops. Fumbles at the chain, trying to free it. It snags, scratches her collarbone. She tugs. Harder. The chain catches on the top button of her blouse and, with one sharp pull, it snaps. The key flies.

“Motherfucker,” she mutters, dropping to one knee just as the train jolts beneath her. The key skitters away.

A foot steps out from one of the cabins—a pointed boot catches it before it vanishes. Then the other foot follows, this one curved, elegant, and false: a gilded, dwarven-forged prosthetic that ends just below the knee. Its owner leans down, humming as she picks up the key, rolling it along her knuckles like a two-penny magician with a coin. A cheap trick. Still, impressive.

“Thank you,” Rook says, brushing off her knees as the woman holds it out to her.

“Think nothing of it,” the woman replies.

Her smile is small. Kind. A touch reserved.

As soon as Rook takes the key, the woman tilts her head and says, “It must be very important to you.”

"Why do you say that?"

“For starters, you wear it tucked beneath your clothes, not over. You check for it with your fingers without even realizing it. Twice since you stepped on board. You flinched when it hit the ground. You swore when the chain broke, not because of the chain itself, but because the key was loose. You didn’t run after it; you dropped. Dropped fast. Knees first.”

She spins the snapped bit of chain once around her finger before handing it over as well. “Also… you didn’t say ‘thank you’ right away. You looked at it first. Made sure it was intact. Still yours. Still there.”

“Ah,” Rook says, folding the key into her palm. She closes her fingers around it, then covers it with her other hand. It probably looks ridiculous. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to lose it again. “Well, then.”

“Take care, now.”

The woman offers a small nod, then turns and walks back into her cabin, the one she shares with three others. None of them acknowledge her return. Each stares at something else entirely: the wall, the floor, the ceiling. Anywhere but her.

She picks up a bound stack of papers, set aside, apparently, to catch her flying key. She licks her fingers, tugs the ribbon loose, and resumes reading. As her head dips, a loose strand of hair slips forward, veiling her face.

“Just as important as those are to you,” Rook says, nodding toward the papers.

She doesn’t know why she says it. The woman had clearly meant to end their encounter then and there. Rook should let it go. She doesn’t know why her mouth keeps moving.

A pause.

A soft, half-exasperated, half-fond huff. Then, “Yes... though it’d be better if someone hadn’t filled the margins with half-baked schematics.” She lifts a page and gives it a little shake—lines and diagrams scrawled at odd angles, layered between blocks of cramped handwriting. “They’re everywhere,” the woman mutters, more to herself now. “As if her thoughts were leaking sideways.”

She never looks up. Never looks back.

No one goes to the Grand Necropolis for fun.

Rook stands in the hallway, fully aware she’s staring but unable to stop. She wonders who she forgot. Or what.

The Veil has been faltering for a year now. Sizzling at the edges, breaking apart, only to re-knit itself moments later, as if nothing ever happened. Nothing, then everything. Collapse and recovery, over and over.

Some whisper it’s better to be almost-dead, half-dead, very-nearly-dead—anything but truly dead. So they board the train. They go underground. They enter the Grand Necropolis.

No one is truly alive there, Rook thinks.

Not even Emmrich.

Eventually, she moves. Drifts. Leaves the hallway behind and slips into her cabin.

The key turns in the lock without resistance, smooth as butter, as always.

Inside, she presses her back to the door and inhales deeply.

It never changes. Not really. The same every time. Familiar to the point of wrongness. So strange. So perfect.

Rivaini spices from the box of loose teas on the table. The warm musk of amber clinging to the upholstery. A new bracelet—gold, always gold. Never silver, never steel. Only gold. The eternal metal. The one that still shines beneath the earth, even without the sun.

For Gold and Glory, she thinks, or half-remembers. The words come hazy, distant. She’s fairly certain she once shouted them, leaping into a cave to plunder its depths.

She wonders which meaning they were meant to hold. The glory or the sun?

Both belong to the past.

One is hers. The other… isn’t.

It is a ritual.

She sits. Gives the small kettle two taps and waits, silent and patient, for the magic to do its work. Boiling water with no flame, no sound but the faint hiss as heat blooms. Cinnamon, ginger, clove; all ground fine and mixed. Good for headaches. For steadying the nerves. For softening the edges of thought.

She pours a cup, then reaches for the letter that brought her here. Again.

Written in her own hand.

A sigh escapes. A smile follows. And then the impulse, half-dramatic, half-genuine, to cover her face with her hands. As if the gesture might shield her from the absurd sweetness of it all. Something theatrical. Something borrowed. Something Emmrich, certainly.

Not his voice, but hers, written out in a looping, slanted script. A ghost version of herself, leaving messages in the dark: come home, come home, come back down—look what you’ve made me do. I’ve written it in the mirror for you, the words seem to say, so you’ll catch it next time you look at your reflection.

Yes. That is the trick. Not a summons, this letter—a call, soft and strange. That is how Emmrich writes to her.

He constructs a tableau, precise in its staging, uncanny in its intimacy. He does not sign his name. He does not need to. The handwriting is hers—flawlessly imitated, down to the curl of the descenders, the pressure points in each curlicue—but the voice beneath it is unmistakably his.

It reads as if she is speaking to herself.

Or rather, as if he is speaking through her.

Or perhaps—as it once was—as if they are speaking together, inside the same sentence.

All she ever has to do is arrive.

You once said you would return when the world cracked open. It is cracking, Rook. The Grand Necropolis hums still, but the rhythm falters. They say it moves souls like clockwork. I believe it only winds them tighter. They do not understand, of course. They were not here when it was soft, when it bloomed. I have missed you. In all the ways you expect, and in those you would not. In silences that shape themselves like your name. If you can come—come now.

And then, a ring.

It arrives precisely as she finishes reading the letter for the umpteenth time, as if summoned by the final line. It does not fall so much as appear, condensing from the air. Another gift. Another gesture. Emmrich’s handwriting in mineral form.

Because beneath the earth, it is always cold. And in the cold, there is pressure. There is rock. There are veins that glitter. Jewels curled like thoughts in the dark. There is gold.

She catches it mid-air, instinctively.

An emerald. Deep, green, and quiet.

It matches the bracelet.

It fits as though it had always been hers.

Ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk.

****

Bellara’s Workshop Log—Personal Tinkering Notes (Filed: Messily, Unsorted)

"Prototype #227b failed. Resonance sync fractured mid-loop. Neve would say it’s because I didn’t test it long enough. I’d say she’s probably right. Again. She said I don’t finish anything. That I leap to the next idea before the first one even settles. I told her I can’t sit still, that I don’t want to. She didn’t laugh. The truth is, I was building something for her. I just never got to the part where it worked. She left before I could name it. Maybe that’s fair. Maybe I would have left me, too."

#the brain rot is brain rotting #anyway lol #wip whenever #im gonna go take a bath im tired now #emmrook #emmrich x rook #emmrich volkarin #dragon age the veilguard #datv

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writingwisterias · 6 months ago

Text

Day 19: Edging/Denial

Leon Kennedy x AFAB! reader

Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Sex toys, Public Teasing, Underwear Vibrators

Masterlist

You felt the metal shelf bite into your hands as you gripped it tightly. The items clanged as they shook with the force. A swirl of dancing lights soon became visible with how tightly you screwed your eyes shut. Your breaths cut short as you worked to control the pleasure coursing through your pussy. At the end of the aisle, Leon stood watching you, his fingers toying with the remote button deciding in his head whether he should increase the level of the toy sitting snugly inside you or let you breathe.

His cock thumped in his trousers as he stared at the display of you. His erection pressed at the zipper of his jeans so much it began to hurt. Leon watched, waiting for the small buckle of your knees to sign that you were close to your orgasm. You were good at hiding the signs from him so that you could feel the release not even caring if you were in the middle of the store. But you weren’t good enough, he had spent countless hours analysing your body. The way it moved, how it felt beneath or above him. He would be able to map out your spots of pleasure if someone asked him about it. Your back was turned to him but he didn’t need your facial expressions; his mind was already forming it from memory.

You tried your hardest to force the orgasm, to feel the coil that was so unbearably tight in your stomach snap. Whimpers of frustration threatened to leave your lips- the taste of blood filling your mouth from how hard you are biting your lip. Leon smirked when your breath of relief echoed down the aisle, your head whipping around to face him. On shaking legs, you returned to where he stood with the trolley. A scowl covering your features. “Why would you do that?” You whispered, poking his side when you finally made it back. Now you were closer he could see the tried tears that pricked at your eyes, the light sheen of sweat that decorated your forehead. “Oh I’m sorry I thought this was the intention of our little day out” Leon chuckled his lips touching your forehead briefly with a kiss. “Did you get the item you needed?” He teased looking at your empty hands, the shopping list now crumpled tightly in your hands. Your eyes glared at him, looping your arm with his as you dragged him to get the item with you.

He had done it a few more times during the trip, the pleasure now completely drenching your underwear. The fabric stuck to you uncomfortably. You also couldn’t ignore the gentle throb of your pussy a constant reminder of the release that you had yet been gifted. Leon didn’t fail to notice the frustration that bubbled up as you walked around like a ticking time bomb. He almost felt bad - almost - but you were too cocky and needed to be proven wrong with this challenge. At least in his mind.

Leon’s fingers thumped against the steering wheel, the remote trapped between his fingers like it was some form of fidget toy. Your fingers itched to snatch it out of his hands. Or at least dive underneath the skirt you were wearing and give your pussy the attention he was denying it. You watched as he turned into the drive-thru of a random fast food chain, his smirk prominent as his finger now toyed with the on button. The faint buzz filled your underwear- your already abused clit twitched again. “Stay quiet now” he said looking at you with a sickening grin before turning to the ordering machine. You didn't have to speak to say what you wanted, he already knew your order instantly so instead you allowed your body to relax against the constant flow, the hum low and bearable. That was until you approached the pay window and the vibrations increased “careful” he taunted as he watched the subtle grind of your hips.

He felt bad, part of him did at least. Watching you suffer like this, your body exhausted and sensitive. He wasn't helping with the way he gripped the wheel, the small adjustment of hips as he leaned over to pay. All movements that he knew just subtly turned you on with how his arms flexed or the veins that decorated his hands. You stared blankly at the number plate ahead instead refusing to make contact with his body; trying to remember the numbers instead of the now increased vibrations. You heard the click of the button, the highest level now beginning it's assault as you rolled up to the final window. You wanted nothing more than to just moan and whimper, plead that he would finally allow you to have your release. The food was warm when he dumped the bag on your lap, his fingers brushing yours as he handed you the two drinks. He smirked at your focus, your attempt to keep your hips from jolting everything. You let out a breathy whine as he finally pulled out of the drive thru, his window rolling up again trapping your noises in the car.

“Leon please…it's too much. Let me cum” you practically begged as soon as he pulled out on the road again. White hot pleasure soared through your system, your nerves now fuzzy. He smiled at the tears in your eyes, the trip on the paper drinks tray you had. “I suppose you have been good…”he drawled out, his tone low and teasing. You whined, bucking your hips so much he had to reach out and save the food. “Leon…please…I've been so good” you whimpered. He caved, increasing the toy once more as he pulled over. His hands took away the drinks from your own. Yours instantly gripping at your thighs instead. It was so close, right there the release you desperately needed.

He smiled as you groaned and collapsed against the chair, your orgasm finally flooding through you. He lowered the hum to the first setting, keeping it going until he at least got him to sort out his release. “Thank you” you whispered, your head flopping to the side to see his grin. His fingers stroked your head placing a kiss on your crown. “Good girl, now relax until we get home” he teased.

Taglist: @kasueli @luvrgreyy @michellekmsh @miss0giarra @cinnabunnysavvy @redollface @my-loved-figure-skates @luvlouiee @drawboo22 @moth-quasar @nyxxoxo @crazy-b1tch

#resident evil x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #leon scott kennedy #resident evil #resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine

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diabolica45 · 6 months ago

Text

I've Cooked!

The quality of the dish remains to be seen... but we're not going out to eat!

I'm revamping and changing up a bunch of plot points in "Don't Save Her", to make it flow better, and to better personalize the Reader character. You can also check it out on AO3 - I'm Diabolica45!

Chapter 1: Homelander Versus

Homelander watched from the top of the stairs as New York's finest milled about below, the anticipation of tonight's events nearly tangible to his enhanced senses. They were excited, he noted with vague distaste, for the New Year. Ready for fresh opportunities to mingle, to rub elbows with fancier people. It was better than what ordinary people did, he conceded, smirking as Stan courted a gaggle of senators; better than believing the lie of this year being any different than the previous one.

Still, though, he thought, where the elites had succeeded in avoiding one trap, they fell prey to another. At the top of the food chain, Homelander knew, better than any of them, that their pursuits - the hobnobbing, the wheeling and dealing - were just as worthless as striving to do cardio three days a week. Some of them, he thought, knew better. And yet... they dove back in, nonetheless. It was a Chanel and Dior scented rat king, any taste of decadence long since evaporated - but to be denied entry to it was unacceptable. Homelander cleared his throat, and descended the stairs, holding his hand out for Maeve.

Maeve smiled softly as she took his hand - but found the gaze of the cameras as they made their way down, effectively avoiding his eye. Tactful, he snorted. "PR says we should look at each other, dearest..." Homelander muttered under his breath. The flash of the cameras lit his blue eyes to a near white. Maeve beamed for the cameras regardless, subtly angling herself toward NSNBC's crew - away from him. "PR's the least of your worries," she breathed, tossing her hair perfectly at another camerman. The shutters clicked furiously, highlighting the auburn wave of her hair. He felt his eyelid twitch. She'd promised not to humiliate him in public.

And, of course, she was right. PR was the least of his worries. Between the recent scandal Vought was embroiled in - an embezzlement lawsuit, how crude - his slowly declining percentages in the polls, and Maeve's disinterest, which even the tabloids were beginning to notice, Homelander had his choice of topics to ruminate on. But, still, the thought came, wheedling and, God help him, desperate: Would it kill her to try? To look at him?

They'd made their way to the bottom of the stairs, and, like clockwork, Maeve found the ear of some influencer with a microphone to talk to, blathering on about resolutions, thanking them for coming. Maybe it would kill her. Maybe it would kill him, too. Homelander parted the crowd in the opposite direction, detirmined not to follow her.

She'd been like this for who knows how long, Homelander stewed, making his way to VNN's camera crew. Truthfully, he couldn't pinpoint when it had all gone sour. Had it been after the last botched save? An interview gone awry? Maeve had sworn to him that she didn't care about these things - that the media machine was just a means to an end. He knew she'd meant it; her own lackluster performance was testament to that, Homelander sniped, lips quirking into a smirk. Her points sank faster than his on average - but then again, they were liable to shoot right back up, after an event like this, with her sober, glossy, poured into a deep burgundy dress that hugged her body in all the right ways... But if the game wasn't what mattered - if that wasn't why she jerked away from him, even in private - then what?

"Homelander! Homelander, over here!" a reporter clamored for his attention. Homelander snapped out of his reverie, training his gaze onto the man, a dark satisfaction rising in him at the sound of the instant race of his pulse. Maeve was wrong; this was what it was all about. Quickly, the reporter steeled himself, raising his mic to Homelander's face. "Homelander, this has been an eventful year, wouldn't you say? What was the best part of it all, in your opinion?"

Homelander took a brief moment to consider, though the pre-discussed points PR had drilled into him echoed in his mind.

Working With Toys For Tots. Christening the babies last June. Being the Most Requested Supe for the Make A Wish Foundation. Anything to do with children; they were good for points. Everyone loves a family man.

Do not, under any circumstances, bring up personal points.

"Well," Homelander started, taking hold of the mic, "I'd have to say... any moment with my better half here," he said - and, with that, he plucked Maeve out of the conversation she was nestled in, wrapping an arm around her waist. She quickly fixed her mouth into a smile, holding a hand to her heart. "Oh, you," she grinned. Homelander held her closer.

She almost seemed genuine, if he squinted.

"This whole year has been the best, thanks to this one - but, if I can tell you something... I've been more excited for midnight than anything else." He winked then, sending the crowd around them swooning, the chorus of 'oohs' breathy and reverent, before they left, chasing the next soundbite. Maeve smiled again. Homelander watched the muscles around her mouth twitch.

This wouldn't be so hard if she'd just play along...

Was he really so unlovable?

The question lingered, unwelcome, in his mind - before, as if on cue, a voice rang out, cutting through the darkened tangle of his thoughts.

"Your 'better half'?" it teased. "What about me?"

A slender hand curled around Homelander's forearm, and the scent of amber wove around his brain. Homelander smiled, genuinely, and turned to look.

Madelyn gracefully disentangled Maeve from Homelander's grasp, watching with a slight smirk as she danced off. She was wearing a sparkly black number, her hair curled to perfectly frame either side of her face.

"She's making this difficult," Homelander pouted, looking after Maeve's retreating figure. She had her back to the two of them, and had moved further out, to ensure she wouldn't be grabbed, at least until midnight. Madelyn patted his hand, frowning sympathetically.

"I know, dear," she said. "But, you're doing all you can, at the very least. That's what matters."

"I just... I'm trying," Homelander sighed. He leaned in to whisper now, making sure no cameras watched, before taking her hand for a brief moment.

"She knows I am! But she just keeps... keeps... making it so hard to keep on. Like - you remember when she wouldn't hold my hand at the premiere of Troubled Waters II? It was embarrassing!"

Madelyn sighed as well now, quirking her lip as she thought. Homelander always loved that expression; the muscles underneath her skin created the cutest little shapes; little squiggles and wobbly patterns - once, if he squinted, a heart. She looked up at him, and furrowed her brow.

"What did I say about X-raying me," she said, raising a brow. Homelander looked away, slightly abashed. "Sorry," he said, smiling.

"Anyway..." Madelyn continued, "Maeve is... complicated... but at the end of the day, she's still a woman. Your woman, no matter what she might have to say about it. You've got to make her miss you. Pull away a bit - let her reach. She doesn't like to be fed - she likes to hunt." Homelander frowned.

"But I've done that!" he said petulantly. "She didn't call. She didn't write! She seemed glad!"

Madelyn swirled her drink in her hand as she deliberated, before taking a sip.

"Maybe, then..." she said, giving him a sly smile, "you should stop worrying about Maeve, and focus on women who invite your attention. Hmm?" Taking his hand in hers, she led him to the dance floor, just as the band began to play. Homelander tried to hold his pout.

"What am I? Chopped liver?" Madelyn teased; her smile was rueful again. Homelander rolled his eyes, but his frown gave way to a small smile in turn, and he took his place with her on the floor.

With Madelyn in his arms, he felt... not whole, but at least... not as broken. Certainly not as hollow as it would feel to be holding Maeve - but he wasn't thinking about Maeve, Homelander reminded himself. He looked down into Madelyn's face, and, noticing the light dusting of rouge across her cheeks, furrowed his brow.

"You don't wear makeup," he said, puzzled. Madelyn met his glance with a sly one of her own, tilting her head. "I'm not," she countered innocently. "Rouge doesn't count."

She leaned in then, slightly tightening her grip on his arm. "That's not the only thing I'm not wearing," she whispered. Homelander raised a brow. "Meet me on the balcony after midnight," she murmured.

Well. That was more like it, he thought, his mouth curving into a smile. If he squinted, if he tilted his head just so... it almost felt real. Almost.

"You can't go - you promised thirty more minutes! At least until midnight!"

"But New Years is on a Tuesday! You can't expect me -"

" Thirrrttyyy more minutes! Then, you can go slliink back home, an' work - an' work on your revolutions, or whatever." You looked at your assistant, politely exasperated - before sighing and patting her hand, chuckling when she snatched up yours instead. "Resolutions, Alicia. I'm going to go home and work on my resolutions. Even I can't plot a revolution in an evening," you say as good naturedly as you can.

"Same thing," she slurred, conducting you ike a wayward train, around the bar crawl you hadn't found a reasonable excuse to dodge in time.

Of course she meant well... you thought as Alicia lead you to the next bar, with you in one hand, heels in the other - but night like these never had the effect your co-worker seemed to have in mind. Being draffed out to bars on work nights only made you antsy - but, despite your no-nonsense demeanor, you never found the will to stand up, and tell her that you would rather die than go out to a bar, holiday or otherwise.

You checked your phone again, fidgeting in place as you entered the bar. It was still only 11:45 - but, it seemed that, in her haste to keep you from leaving, Alicia had chosen the wrong bar. She'd meant for the loud, overpacked place next door, you were sure... but this bar was a place you might have visited organically. The lighting was dim, with faint house music playing from the ceiling speakers; the walls, you noted with surprise, even lined with climbing ivy. You nodded approvingly, though Alicia edged towards the door, disappointment clear on her face.

"Wait a minute," you said, striding towards the bar, "I kind of like this one." Alicia groaned, though part of you felt slightly vindicated at dampening her spirits. Now both of you were annoyed. Her New Years was soured, too.

You sat at the bar, ordered an old fashioned, and watched as Alicia busied herself with the menu; she whined lightly when you plucked it out of her hands, and ducked her head when you raised a brow. "It is still a Tuesday," you said, voice matronly, "and I know for a fact that your presentation needs more work. Let's not get sloppy." Alicia rolled her eyes, but laid her head on your shoulder, conceding.

"Why can't you be a cool mom?" she slurred, settling her head into your lap. "Sso bossy..."

You absentmindedly played with her hair, smoothing down the errant baby hairs that framed her face. Not unaffectionately, you smiled down at her.

"You love it," you said, chuckling when she sighed.

"I love it..." she repeated, her voice dipping as she closed her eyes.

The two of you sat there, you with your drink in hand, Alicia and her hair tumbled over your lap - when a loud bang had the both of you whipping your heads around in the opposite direction. You caught sight of the creator of the commotion - and groaned, while Alicia immediately perked up, phone at the ready.

It was one of your main stressors at work - arguably, the reason your entire department received funding at all: a beligerent Supe, flying off the handle at the cruel realization that the world did not, actually, bend to his whims. In fact, in terms of Supes you had bones to pick with, he was top contender - one that had borne so many complaints and investigations that he practically had a wing of files dedicated to him.

"Hey! Don't leave when I'm talking to you!"

The Deep.

He was gesticulating wildly at the woman seated across from him, face curled up in rage, as she collected her purs and phone, clearly in the process of leaving this date. But Deep wasn't having it; he slammed his hand onto the table again, wincing when his palm connected with a shard of glass - he'd broken his glass in his first outburst, and hadn't realized. You felt your mouth turn up into a smirk as the first droplets of blood began to bloom.

Interesting. You'd thought Supes were invulnerable. You fished through your bag, and made a note, while Alicia continued recording, her sprawled position across her lap acting as cover.

The bartender heaved a heavy sigh, making his way to Deep, but the Supe had his hands raised, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, alright. There's no need to - hey, stop! I said there's no need to get TMZ! I'm leaving! Okay?"

He tried his hand at an abashed smile, looking in the crowd of wide eyed patrons for a sympathetic ear. "Women - right? I take her out to this fancy bar, and she - okay! I'm going!" Muttering to himself, he snagged the cloth napkin from the table and wrapped it around his hand, before loping out the door, head hanged. You chuckled; he'd tripped on the rug on his way out, to a chorus of shuttering cameras. It seemed the bartender had called TMZ, anyway. Good.

"I thought the Seven were supposed to be at Times Square ..." Alicia mumbled, watching as Deep slammed his coat into the door of his cab and sped away.

"They changed it to the St. Regis," you replied, watching the paparazzi disperse in his wake. "Maybe they couldn't book the time slot this year," you mused.

"With antics like that, I'm not surprised," Alicia said, raising a brow. You chuckled. Alicia was almost pleasant to be around when she was like this; when she was in her element, instead of trying to play matchmaker, or hostess - or any of the other hats she wore that didn't spell out "Investigator". It was hard to square her away in your mind, sometimes - often, you just relegated her to the role of childish assistant in your mind... but, as if she knew what you were thinking, she surpised you. See, she seemed to say. You've got me all wrong. You don't have to treat me like a child.

"Where's the bathroom," she said suddenly, interrupting your thoughts. She lurched from your lap and steaded her hands on the bar. "I think I'm going to be sick."

You sighed. Maybe you hadn't been wrong. "Let me walk you," you said, gingerly taking her arm, and leading her to the stalls.

"Thanks, Mom," she hiccupped, her heels clacking in your hands.

Homelander dashed over to Maeve as the clock lurched one minute to midnight. "Sorry - gotta steal this one real quick," he told the gaggle of paparazzi, winking and grinning into their lens of their cameras.

"Homelander - "

"You promised."

Maeve scoffed. "I'm getting tired of you just snatching me up -"

"Because you keep running!"

Homelander took a deep breath, running his hands through his hair. That had sounded… desperate.

He culed his lip, disgusted, before closing his eyes, hard, and opening them to reveal a practiced resolve. He set his jaw, and stared Maeve down.

"You promised."

Maeve paused, her brow creased, before she nodded, head bowed, and sighed, offering her hand to him.

"Fine. But we're not staying longer than we have to."

"Fine," Homelander agreed, his spirits brightened. Taking Maeve into his arms, he bounded to the rooftop, where the rest of the party awaited, and the giant clock counted the seconds down.

The crowd cheered upon seeing them enter, and Homelander beamed, rising in the air as they all counted, climbing higher and higher until Maeve grabbed at his arm.

"Five!"

"This is high enough; I told you, it's cold."

"Four!"

"I want to get us centered with the Moon. Come on. Live a little."

"Three!"

Maeve rolled her eyes. Homelander shifted her in his arms, looking her over with a furrowed brow.

"Two!"

"Maeve... please?"

The world beneath them seemed to hold its breath as Maeve weighed his words in her mind; Homelander raised his brows, looking expectant.

"One!"

He leaned in, tasting her resignation in the frigid New York air - and Maeve let her eyes slide closed, as she took his face in her hands. When it was like this - when she couldn't see him, could only feel the structure of his face - she could almost pretend that he was still the man she knew, one who she wouldn't have spent the entire night ducking and hiding from. She slid closer to him, his grip secure against her body, and pressed her lips to his, just as the clock chimed midnight.

"Happy New Year!"

Homelander cupped her face in his hand, smiling against her mouth - but before he could deepen their embrace, she nudged him with her elbow, and pulled away. But Homelander wasn't finished. He drew back, boyish smile still faint on his lips, and tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Happy New Year, Maggie."

Maeve held back her wince at the use of her real name. She did promise, after all.

"Happy New Year... John."

Homelander smiled softly, and pecked her on the cheek - and, satisfied, lowered them back down to the ground.

Alicia wretched as volley after volley of vomit surged up her throat. You sighed, rubbed comforting circles into her back, your hushed murmur interspersed with the endless spray of upchuck.

"Oh, Alicia..." you fretted, holding her hair back. "I told you not to go for the Peach Schnapps..."

"I wanted to see if I could handle them this time! It's not -" she vomited again, cutting herself off. You winced, standing to refill her water at the sink. She took it gratefully, wiping her mouth.

"Thanks."

"It's not stupid," she started again, "it's... scientific."

At this, you had to laugh. She was only two years your junior... but sometimes, she really did feel more like a daughter than an assistant. But perhaps you'd been the same when you first started out. This year, you thought, you'd try a little harder to be less condescending towards her - even if her actions did warrant it.

"I'll be sure to alert Bill Nye," you said dryly. That, you told yourself, wasn't entirely fair; she had asked for that one. After this, you'd stop. Maybe.

Alicia fished through her bag, whining loudly as she checked the time. "Oh, noo! We missed the countdown! I'm sorry..." she pouted as you rose to your feet, and offered her your hand.

"It's alright," you said. "Just... don't die within the next 365 days, and we can try again next year." She took your hand, and fixed herself in the mirror.

"I would never," she said with mock seriousness. "There's so many places I have to drag you to! Did you know they're opening up a crepe shop right next to the office?"

You smiled in spite of yourself. "That sounds dreadful," you teased. "I'll be sure to find an excuse not to go."

"Oh, shut up..." Alicia mumbled, pulling you into a hug. The action shocked you into stillness; her tight embrace sending the breath from your lungs in a great whoosh. "I know you're lonelier than you let on."

You opened your mouth, trying to think of something to say - but found yourself at a loss. You tried again, only to come up blank - and so you patted her back once more, before leading the two of you back out, into the bar.

"I think you should resolve for a Dry January," you said finally - but she'd already won the exchange, you both knew. Alicia gave you a rueful expression and laughed.

"Whatever. Happy New Year. Stop being an old crone."

"Happy New Year. I wouldn't bet on it."

#diabolica writes #don't save her #Homelander Versus #Homelander X Reader #This one has a lil more sauce than the first draft!#I will never post a story before outlining the plot ever again!#I'm sorry for dragging y'all through the first time!!#Will also not update so crazy fast #that's what contributed to the burnout the first time #I hope you enjoy!!

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mulletpermsicantlookaway · 2 months ago

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Riding to Work

One afternoon in early summer, Brandon rode his bicycle home from work. He rode his bike to work and back nearly every day, if he could – it was his favorite part of the day. He had a good but unexciting job with a software company in an up-to-date large city in the western U.S. He fit the stereotype of a hipster tech worker perfectly. He had done well in school, had a solid job in his early twenties, and lived in a decent loft apartment just far enough away from his job to have some serious time on his bicycle. He wore nerdy-looking glasses that he actually needed in order to see. He dressed casually but fussily at the same time, and his long-on-top-faded-on-the-sides haircut, complete with a shaved-in part, required regular maintenance.

He rode to and from work in the same clothes he wore in the office, using a bicycle clip if he thought his skinny jeans or slim-fit pants might have enough material at the ankle to catch his chain. Anything he needed for work he carried in a messenger bag, even though there were hardly any actual bike messengers left in the city. He hadn’t lived there long, and he really knew no one except a few of his co-workers. He supposed that he was okay with that, but something still felt missing in some way, missing from his life, that is. The only time he felt fully alive was when he was riding his bike.

On a whim, he stopped by a cool-looking bar on the way home. “Might as well stop and have a drink – do something different for once,” he thought. The place had a moderate crowd, mostly other young urban types like himself, but no one he knew. Like most bars, the TVs were tuned to a few different sports channels.

Soon he was sitting by himself at a table, idly sipping on a mojito or a mule or something – he hadn’t really paid attention to what the bartender had recommended, but he was sure it began with an “m”, at least. His eyes wandered to one of the TV monitors. The channel was promoting its upcoming coverage of the Tour de France and showing clips from previous years. Even someone as low-key about sports as Brandon had heard of the Tour. That was the one bicycle race that nearly every American who wasn’t into bicycle racing had heard of.

He found himself drawn in, fascinated by the fast racing machines so unlike his single-speed commuter. The racers fascinated him, too, clad all in matching team kits of skin-tight spandex with tanned arms and tanned hairless legs. Without really understanding the tactics, he could see that the team members were working together to get certain racers into certain positions. And they moved so fast! He wondered what it would be like to be a racer on one of those teams, riding his bicycle all day. Those tanned, skinny guys in spandex, that was their job: riding a bicycle for a living. What would that be like?

The channel moved on to some other sport, and Brandon found his attention wandering. He finished his drink and headed home to another night alone in his hipster loft. He had hardly felt the alcohol, but he was intoxicated in a different way: he couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to be a professional bicycle racer, flying over those European roads so fast. It was all he could think about the whole night.

Waking up dully the next morning after restless dreams (which he couldn’t remember), he got ready to head to work. He felt better as soon as he got his bicycle moving into traffic. He was enjoying himself, as usual, but his mind kept wandering back to the racers in the Tour. The race was supposed to start today. He might actually decide to watch the coverage this year, he thought. Why not? He rarely watched sports, but it wasn’t as if he had other plans.

He suddenly came out of his reverie as a big delivery truck pulled out from a side street right in front of him. He hit the brakes as hard as he could, locked up the wheels, flew over the handlebars onto the pavement and blacked out.

« Bruno, mon pote! Lève-toi, lève-toi. Il faut qu’on aille! »

Hearing those words, he tried to rouse himself. He couldn’t remember where he was or what had just happened, but the voice was urgent – and familiar. Feeling very dizzy and disoriented, he stood up, examining his fallen machine. Instinctively he checked the handlebars and chain as he’d done countless times, looking for damage that would mean he’d have to get a spare off the team car. It was hardly the first time he’d fallen in a race, and it probably wouldn’t be his last. But putain – there was no way he was going to crash out of the Tour de France on his first day, though it seemed to happen to some unlucky rider or two every year. The bike looked good; other than a scrape or two in the finish, it was undamaged. It should be ridable, and he knew the team mechanics would check it out thoroughly later. He looked himself over next. He didn’t have a scratch. The only visible sign of damage was a small, ragged hole in his shorts, revealing a patch of undamaged skin much paler than his tanned legs and forearms. Why had he blacked out, then? He was sure he hadn’t hit his head, and his helmet didn’t have a dent or a scratch anywhere.

« Bruno » his fellow domestique and roommate Thierry said, more urgently this time: « Dépêche-toi! Allons! T’as quelque chose? »

« Bruno? » he thought. « C’est moi, Bruno? Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé? » Something about the name Bruno seemed wrong to him, but why would his own name seem wrong? In any case, he didn’t have time for daydreaming. Thierry was right; they needed to get back in the race. He got back on his machine and clipped in.

« Rien de trop grave, » Bruno replied to his teammate, who was already pedaling away from him. « Attend, attend un moment; j’ arrive. »

A number of racers were still trying to get back on their bicycles. Some were still on the ground. Maybe a few would have to abandon. The chatter of the racers around him, speaking in half a dozen different languages while his race radio was jabbering in his ear, did not help his feeling of disorientation. His thoughts felt foreign in a way that he couldn’t define, as if he were a different person or thinking in a different language. A couple of riders near him were speaking German, which he understood barely a word of, and a couple of others were speaking English, which he understood better. Foreign languages had always come hard for him. Thankfully, he and Thierry were on a French team.

It wasn’t just his head that felt strange, though; even his body seemed different. But as he finally got his bicycle moving at race speed and locked onto Thierry’s wheel, his feelings of otherness lessened. He fell into the comforting rhythm of turning his pedals. He never felt more alive than when he was on his bicycle. That had been one constant in his life as long as he could remember, and now that he was actually in his first Tour, he couldn’t imagine his life getting any better. He wasn’t going to blow this chance. Their team had one of the best GC contenders the French had had in years. This year they had a real shot at winning.

Even though the rhythm of racing was as familiar to him as breathing, Bruno still felt a vague sensation of unease. He was safely back in the middle of the peloton, but the pace felt insanely fast. Why did it seem as if he’d never ridden this fast before? His body felt so light and small. His arms were thin, and he didn’t have a speck of fat, or a lot of muscle, anywhere on his upper body. But his legs looked strong; he could see the striations of his powerful thighs through the spandex of his bib shorts, and his diamond-shaped calves bulged above the tops of his socks. The warm breeze felt amazing on his smooth legs today. They were always particularly sensitive after a fresh shave, and he and Thierry (and probably every other rider in the Tour) had made a point of shaving last night in preparation for opening day. Bruno had almost forgotten what it was like to have leg hair anyway. When he was still a teenager, he used to let his hair grow back in the off season, partly because some of the guys at school made fun of him for having no leg hair. But that first shave of the season was such a hassle! Soon he had decided it was easier to just keep it up all year. He was a professional bike racer, after all. Leg hair just looked wrong on him now.

The feeling of disorientation had mostly passed, until it came back again strongly at his first pause naturelle. Now his penis somehow seemed alien to him. What was with all that skin over the head? Oh right, that was just his foreskin. Perfectly normal. Why should he be circumcised, after all?

He put that thought aside and got back in the race. He and Thierry had a lot of work to do. They spent the day doing the kinds of things that domestiques normally did. They carried water bottles and other necessities to their teammates. They took turns pulling their sprinters and GC contenders to keep them fresh. The stars had to be kept from becoming exhausted, after all. Bruno and Thierry weren’t stars, not yet; no one cared if they got exhausted. That was their job. Bruno was happy enough just to be on a team that was riding in the Tour.

Unfortunately, their star sprinter didn’t win the stage, but Bruno and Thierry got a little bit of attention from the press. They were interviewed – sort of – by a British reporter looking for riders who were in their first tour. The problem was that there was no interpreter. The reporter barely spoke any French, and Thierry had laughed out loud at Bruno’s English. Bruno couldn’t blame him. His prof d’anglais had always said Bruno was hopeless. He just didn’t have the knack for foreign languages. He’d studied Italian, because it was supposed to be one of the easiest for a French speaker to pick up, but he found even Italian challenging. English was far worse. It had so many bizarre sounds that were impossible to reproduce. The reporter’s strong London accent hadn’t helped; Bruno was sure he would have done much better understanding an American. Thierry had translated the reporter’s questions, but Bruno hadn’t managed to say much more than a laborious “I yam veree ‘appee to be in ze tour”. In truth, Thierry’s English wasn’t great, either, but it was way better than Bruno’s.

Mercifully, the interview was soon over. They rode the team bus back to the hotel, giving everyone a chance to recap the day’s action. Dinner gave them both more time to socialize with the rest of the team, but their directeur sportif insisted on everyone getting to bed early, naturally. Back in his room, another wave of disorientation hit him as he got ready for bed. He stopped dead in front of the mirror, staring at a face that was familiar and strange at the same time. He couldn’t think of what was bothering him. His thick, dark brown hair was cut in a no-nonsense buzz cut; the last thing he had wanted was hair getting in his way while he was racing. His soft brown eyes stared back at him. What was different about them? Wait. Where were his glasses? But no, he didn’t wear glasses or contacts. Why did he think he did? Shaking his head at his expression of bafflement in the mirror, he got ready for bed.

Bruno was surprised by how quickly he fell asleep. He was tired enough, but he was so keyed up after a day of racing that he thought he would be awake for hours. He was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

In the middle of the night, Bruno had a dream. It was a confusing dream; he dreamt of someone else’s life, some tall, skinny, American guy living in a large apartment and working for some kind of software company. He felt a vague distaste for the man, yet he seemed familiar, as if he should know him. Then he heard a voice. “Brandon, Brandon!” it called. He woke from his dream – or thought he had.

“Branne-donne?” Bruno questioned out loud. « C’est qui ce Brandon? »

“You don’t need to talk out loud,” said the voice, slowly and in English. “Only you can hear me. You have a choice to make. You can still go back, but you need to choose now.”

Thierry stirred in his sleep. Bruno was afraid for a moment that he’d wakened, but Thierry started snoring again steadily – as usual.

“He won’t wake,” the voice said. “I have to explain. The man you dreamed of – his name is Brandon. You used to be Brandon. But Brandon wanted to experience the life of someone who rode his bicycle for a living, a racer in the Tour de France. Through an extraordinary gift, you have been given that opportunity. But now you have to choose which life you want to live. You can go back to being Brandon again. Or you can remain Bruno. The choice is up to you.”

“Quoi? De quoi tu parles? Oh yes! I remembair now,” said Bruno, speaking out loud despite what the voice had said. Remembering Brandon had made it easier to understand English, and he had switched languages without realizing it, until he heard the bizarre sounds coming out of his mouth. He fell silent for a moment, hesitating. Bruno’s lips and tongue were simply not capable of making the sounds he heard Brandon making in his head. No wonder Thierry had laughed at him. He tried again: “But what ‘appen to Brandon if I stay ‘ere?” He grimaced at the odd-sounding, halting words, but the voice seemed unconcerned.

“Reality will adjust to your choice, Bruno. Neither you nor anyone else will remember that Brandon ever existed.”

“And eef I become zees Brandon again, what ‘appen to me, you know? What will ‘appen to Bruno?” Bruno was losing his self-consciousness as his labored English started to sound normal to him.

“You will wake up as Brandon, after a very vivid dream.”

Bruno considered. He could remember more of Brandon, now – dimly. Brandon was a good guy, sure. He made plenty of money, and he had a good life – for a young, lonely American in a big city. But his life was empty. He had nothing in his life but his job, and Brandon didn’t even love his job. He remembered that now vividly. The only thing he really loved was riding his bicycle. That was the link between Brandon and himself.

Thierry snorted in his sleep, louder than usual. His snoring was so annoying! But he was used to it. He and Thierry weren’t just roommates for the Tour; they’d shared an apartment ever since Bruno had joined the team. Thierry was a bon gars and a good friend, he remembered. They’d had a lot of amazing times together. As for the other guys on the team, well, he wasn’t as close to them as he was to Thierry, but they were great guys, too. And they had a real shot at winning this year. It was the fucking Tour de France, after all. He wasn’t going to miss that. His team needed him. No way was he going to let them down.

Of course, whichever choice he made involved sacrifices. Wistfully, Bruno realized that Brandon would probably have made more money than Bruno ever would. Brandon was probably smarter, too. Bruno knew he’d never been the best student, but he had managed to pass his bac, at least – barely. On a sudden whim, wanting proof that Bruno was real and not just a dream, he got out of bed and grabbed his wallet, looking for his carte d’identité.

It was there in his wallet, right where he always kept it. Reassured, he smiled as he read the official French document. He was born in Beauvais? He supposed that was right. He realized that he was thinking completely in French, and his memories of Brandon were already fading. The choice was easier than he’d thought. He’d already made his decision, hadn’t he? It was time to let Brandon go.

« T’es sûr? » the voice asked.

« Oui. Absolument. »

« Eh bien, Bruno, t’as choisi. Adieu, et bonne nuit! »

Bruno put his wallet back on the nightstand, wondering why he had thought he would need it in the middle of the night. He must have had some weird dream. He was pretty sure he had been dreaming, but any memory of it had already faded. He’d better try to get some sleep. Thierry was snoring soundly, and they had a long day of racing in the morning.

#jock transformation #jock tf #nerd to jock #mental change #language change #jock #cyclist

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giddlygoat · 2 years ago

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i wanted to experiment with dave and buck fits and how they might dress if they didn’t have a dress code. some thoughts on the design process below :’D

i want to keep dave’s rose motif going strong in my art bc i feel like the rose at the end of his cutscene is really important to his character. the music note pin on his lapel is based off my chum @megalophobic-astronomer’s headcanons :]

he also has a big, bold zoot suit because i feel like it represents him very well. the butterfly collar is always a must and a staple of my design for him lol. golden box chains around his neck and hanging from his waist are mostly me projecting my taste upon him but i think he would wear chains and jewelry pretty regularly!

buck is all over the place bc i wanted to incorporate a bunch of different styles into one mess of a fit. my main inspirations boil down to Punk Butch at Poker Night lol. i think buck’s taste extends far past this look, and we know he wears a suit well, but i think he would be very adventuresome in his style. at the end of the day, i want him to look rambunctious, jagged and fun.

along with the built in chip dispensers in his arms, he also wears a vintage coin dispenser on his belt, card pouches organized by suit on his thigh, and fuzzy dice for luck on his key ring. this guy jangles! oh, and i’ve had lots of hcs about buck’s body for a while but haven’t drawn them too much yet. here’s a kind of outdated ref that still stands

he has a [convoluted and under-referenced] card shuffler in his chest and a roulette wheel in his belly because i said so <3 the gold trim and detailing is inspired by vintage slot machines and i wanted to give him a kind of cheap tin look.

i don’t have all my hcs for dave’s body drawn out yet, but i’m thinking of giving him accordion bellows in his lower torso and i know for sure he has radio dials on his forearms along with more speakers on the top side. i want to cram as many musical motifs as possible into his design and hopefully i will come up with more ideas for buck too!

#ttcc #dave brubot #buck ruffler #the duck shuffler #the major player #toontown: corporate clash #giddly’s art #no id #ttcc fanart

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urhoneycombwitch · 1 year ago

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hands of love

Eddie Munson x greenwitch!Reader

foreword: omg been so long since I wrote for greenwitch!reader she’s baaaack. thx for reading if u do <3

cw: greenwitch!reader, R dresses very femme, referred to as ‘girlfriend’ once

wc: 1.5k

___

It’s the first sunny spring day in Hawkins, so when Eddie’s cursory call goes straight to your answering machine, he’s not worried. Wherever there’s sun, you’re sure to be found- dozing on his front porch like a cat in the sun, making daisy chains with rings sparkling on your pretty fingers, anywhere but indoors.

He hums along mindlessly to the radio on his way over, plucking at the neck of his cut-off tank for airflow. Metalhead fashion is a killer during warm months; he’s already regretting the choice of black ripped jeans over more weather-appropriate shorts.

Your dad’s house is just off Cornwallis, nestled in a forested area, gravel service road for a driveway that’s easy to miss. Eddie swings his van with a practiced wheel-flex, tires crunching down the lane when something catches his eye and he hits the brakes, hard.

Just off the gravel, sittin’ pretty in the dirt, is you- deep green tank top hugging your chest, bare feet poking out of a long patchwork skirt, gold and silver jewelry dripping from your ears, sliding around your neck and wrists, glinting in the sun.

You’re a fucking vision. Eddie swears, softly, then throws the gear shift to park and pockets his keys.

At the sound of the van door closing, you look up from your spot sat on the ground, the little crinkle of focus between your brows smoothing out into a devastatingly radiant smile- for Eddie. All for him.

”Hey! Was just thinkin’ about you!”

Eddie’s careful not to disturb the gardening tools spread out in haphazard array when he walks over, bending to his haunches for a kiss.

You taste like fragrant oil and sunshine. He gives you another for good measure, then pulls back, bracketing your face between his palms- “You were thinkin’ about little ol’ me?”

“Always.” An honest grin for an honest answer. “I was making you a present and then wishing you’d show up, so it’s kind of like I manifested you. With my mind.”

“Freaky,” he replies, indulgent, giving you a forehead kiss then dropping to sit at your side. “Good thing I have a witch for a girlfriend, hm?”

“Uh-huh. Good thing.”

He’s already lost your attention to the trowel you’re plunging in the dirt, churning up the earth, loamy smell filling the air. Used to chasing after your trains of thought, Eddie asks, “Whatcha doing?

“In a minute.” The reply is kind but distracted, a sort of coded rhythm that Eddie’s good at breaking- I want to tell you but if I try to find the words, my focus will slip.

Your focus is a precious thing- especially when it comes to your craft. Unintentionally, you’ve taught Eddie more about the virtues of shutting up and taking the world in these past few months than he’s ever cared to learn before.

After reaching past him for an open mason jar, you carefully shovel in about an inch of dirt, hold it up to the light for inspection, then repeat the same motion for the other nearby jar.

Eddie waits patiently, leaning back into his hands, watching you work. It’s soothing, seeing you interact with the nature that runs through your veins; having been on the receiving end of many of your gifts, he wonders if it’s a spell jar. Or a planter. Or-

“Terrarium.” As if responding to Eddie’s internal questions, your full attention envelops him, suffocatingly, wonderfully close as you lean in. “Was gonna make it for you as a surprise, but now that you’re here… wanna make it with me?”

Eddie’s still reeling from the steadiness of your eyes on his, the soft slip of bare arm pressing against his own. With a slow, dazed head shake- “Hold on. Give me a second.”

Your turn to be patient, jar of soil held at the space where your bodies are joined, paused, lashes sweeping with each curious blink.

Eddie blows out a breath, only half-joking as he says, “Goddamn. Really unfair. Thought you promised not to get prettier?”

Compliments only land with you half the time, so when a bashful smile pulls at the edges of your pretty mouth Eddie mentally fist pumps.

“I made no such promise.” The jar is thrust into his waiting hand, and you turn to pick up your own. “This one can be for your windowsill, maybe in the kitchen? It’s gotta have some light, but not too much. If Wayne likes it, maybe you can share-”

“Not sharing shit with that man,” Eddie says, grand in his petulance. “Wayne can get his own jar of dirt.”

Your squint straightens him out. Eddie folds easy for you, always has.

“Gotta find some moss,” you say, eyes still unerringly on Eddie’s, “That’s the substrate layer. And then little plants, maybe some grass, whatever we can forage that’s small enough to fit. Oh, and isopods, if we can find ‘em.”

“Iso-what?” Eddie asked, alarmed, but you’re already standing, moving past the edge of the forest in search of terrarium treasures while he scrambles to catch up.

There’s an easy, graceful lilt to your movements when you’re outdoors, as if you’re meant to be there- moss reveals itself to you faster than Eddie would’ve thought possible. One overturned rock later and your gleeful exclamation rings bright through the woods.

“Sheet moss!”

“Oh, sheet,” he jokes, lamely, but you laugh anyways.

A circular patch of moss gets pushed into the jars. Eddie’s fingers feel bulky and clumsy in comparison to your dexterous ones, but the praise you give him once the layer is settled makes it worth it.

He happily trails after you in search of more small greenery, listening to your lengthy explanations of each new addition, huffing in amazement when you come up with the scientific name for crabgrass.

“Christ, sweetheart.” He whistles low as soon as you’re done, reaching over to brush some sticky pine needles off your hip. “So fuckin’ smart. Would’ve killed to have you as my teacher back in the day, might’ve actually graduated on time.”

“I don’t think Hawkins High has a botany program.” Your reply comes distracted, but this time it’s because Eddie’s hand has found a home on the strip of skin between your skirt and top.

He rubs a thumb into your bare hip, moss jar hanging loose from his other hand as he pulls you towards him. “Yeah. Probably for the best. I think they frown on students who sleep with teachers. Couldn’t keep my hands off’a you.”

Chin tilted to meet him halfway, you give him a real good kiss, lips soft and smooth over his, parted slightly until the thrill of your wet tongue presses into his eager one.

“Gotta show you the best part.” When you pull back, sounding a little out of breath, you slip your hand into Eddie’s and lead the way to your original spot.

Two flat metal disks are procured from your pile of things; you hold one out for Eddie in your palm, explaining as he takes it- “Made this one special for you. It goes on top, like this-” you rotate the other disk until it slides into place over your jar. “Like a lid. But I had to make my own from scrap pieces ‘cuz the original mason lids didn’t take the markings.”

Eddie flips the homemade lid over in his hands to find a five-pointed star hugged by a circle, raised and tamped by hand into the metal. He blinks up at you, in awe. “You did this?”

“Yeah, it’s-” you must misread his wonder because the words spill out like you’re nervous, fiddling with the sides of your jar like you don’t want to see his expression anymore. “It’s a pentacle. Like from your Judas Priest poster? But this one’s not upside-down like his, so I meant it more for protection and prosperity. Y’know. To help keep your little world safe. And make it grow.”

Gently, a little unsure, you clink your jar against his in the sweetest cheers he’s ever seen.

Eddie swears again, achingly in love, then spins the lid tight over his new terrarium and grins at you. “I’m gonna marry you one day.”

There’s no room for a buffer as a smile nearly splits your face in two, giggling, delighted with his affection. “Over a jar of dirt? Man, can’t wait to see what you promise me when I give you an even better gift.”

“I’ve got some ideas.” His voice pitches low, taking the jar from your hand to join his on the ground so he can wrap you up in his arms, properly. “Gonna have to come over a lot more and make sure I’m keeping it alive. Think of all those tiny ocelots depending on you.”

“Isopods,” you correct in a whisper, letting Eddie nuzzle into the crown of your hair, warm and smelling faintly of your bergamot shampoo. “And it only needs to be watered like, once a month, but I’ll come over way more than that.”

“You better.” Eddie puts on his best threatening tone. “I get crazier every hour we’re apart. Swear.”

He feels the curl of your smile against his sternum, and you let him hold you and sway in the afternoon sun.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x greenwitch!reader #greenwitch!reader #greenwitch #eddie munson x you

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