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thefantasyden · 19 days

Text

Guarded

Pairing: Chan × AFAB Akita Hybrid Reader

Genre: SMUT, FLUFF

Watnings: Hybrid!Reader, shock collar, muzzle (reader is people aggressive), Guard Hybrid Reader, unprotected sex, biting, dirty talk, angst IF YOU SQUINT, riding.

Word Count: 5396

Synopsis: Chris develops a soft spot for one of the companies security hybrids, breaking every rule along the way.

Hybrids have always been considered a superior choice for security. The second the benefits were noticed, specific lines of canine hybrids were created for the sole purpose of idol protection. Generally, these would be shepherd hybrids or the occasional doberman. You, however, had been an experiment.

An Akita was not a popular choice for a hybrid. The huge fluffy tails often considered to be a distraction and their general distaste for humans made them undesirable for the average house hybrid. JYPE, however, had specifically asked for such a creation.

The company had considered your soft fur and disinterested expression as a skill that made you appear less intimidating to fans, whilst your distrust of strangers and hyper sensitive ears made you a perfect match for their highest earners.

༄ જ⁀➴

"This doesn't come off unless you're eating."

The rumbling voice of your boss, an overbearing and obnoxiously muscled human, grates against your eardrums as he breaks the silence of the meeting room you were in, the distinct click of the lock on your black wired muzzle stirring its usual annoyance in your stomach.

You were used to this. Yet a growl still crept from your throat, the collar secured around your neck buzzing in warning, having been enough to cut you off. You'd usually take the harsh shock purely for the satisfaction of sending your chosen expletives his way, but even you had a limit when it was 6am and you'd been poked and prodded by every form of physician to ensure you were up to your assignment.

"Four of the members have their finger prints registered to unlock the muzzle. As always, it's connected to the sensor in your collar. In case of an emergency, it will detect your heart rate and unlock itself."

You yawn, having heard this speech a few hundred times. It's more for the benefit of Bang Chan, who had never had to handle you without your boss before.

"You'll be with them every waking moment for the full 2 weeks. If they're broken off into groups, you're to stay with the younger members. If anyone has a solo schedule, you will stay with them. Do you understand?"

You stare blankly, offering no response until a sharp shock pulses in your neck, your muscles tensing in response, yet offering no other indication of your pain.

"Yes, Sir."

Chris stares at you almost sympathetic, yet cautious. The muzzle was for their protection, too.

You'd been labelled a safety hazard not long after your training had been completed. You didn't care to distinguish between a threat of high societal status or your average safety risk, and you had no hesitation in treating them equally. Truthfully, you'd been labelled as having no sense of morality, despite the inaccuracy of such a term. Your loyalty was to that of whomever you were assigned to, and that was it.

You notice Chris' curious eyes and open your mouth, baring your incredibly sharp canines as you run your tongue over them, taunting him for your own entertainment.

"If it gets too ballsy, just press this button."

Your boss hands Chris the small control for the collar, pointing out which button was which. You could tell by the look on the man's face that he wouldn't have the strength to use it.

༄ જ⁀➴

It had been a long demonstration before you'd been sent back to the dorm with the man who chose to ramble facts about himself to you in the back of the car, attempting to fill the silence until the moment you stepped through the door, immediately greeted by 7 other pairs of curious eyes.

"Oh hey, I know you!"

Felix was one of the 2 boys that had never been cautious of you, immediately making his way toward you to stroke your velvety ears in spite of your low growl. You'd spent most of your time accompanying himself and Hyunjin on their solo schedules, so he'd had plenty of time to analyse your body language and felt more than comfortable around you.

"Felix! Don't do that!"

Changbin scolds for the kitchen, and you roll your eyes more at the absurdity of the situation than at him directly. Changbin often enjoyed when you'd join them as you could easily keep up with his workouts and happened to enjoy eating as much as he did. Two wonderfully helpful hybrid traits.

You accept quiet greetings as the group spread into different corners, some heading back up to their own dorms to complete their packing before you left for the airport.

"I'm sorry... about the muzzle..."

Chris' voice is quiet, guilt lacing his words earning a devious smirk as you responded with honey dripping from your words.

"Oh. It's for your safety, really. You look like something I'd want to sink my teeth into."

༄ જ⁀➴

Getting through the airport is harder than you'd expect with a hybrid, and you're forced to accept a full body pat down before you're able to comfortably seat yourself behind Felix and Seungmin, Chris settled to your right as you listen to the quiet clicks of his keyboard. Every time you were with them, he had spent every spare second working, and you guessed this would be no different, trying your best to tune out the monotonous tapping as you left for your destination.

༄ જ⁀➴

The first 3 days are nothing special. You enjoy shoving people to the side at the airport and the events you accompanied the group to had their own healthy amounts of security, leaving you to float between small groups as the members mingled with their peers. All light work until the fourth day when you'd been assigned to the Sunshine twins and Jeongin. They had a free day and whilst the others had chosen to spend their time working out or otherwise entertaining themselves in their rooms, the three boys you were currently following had chosen to venture out into the city, aware that they had a very poor collective sense of direction.

You're constantly on guard, scanning the area as you walk behind the men. You had hardly noticed, han holding a small bag of chocolate covered pretzels in front of you, waving it enticingly.

"I thought you might like a snack!"

He had chosen quickly to accept Felixs judgement when the blonde expressed his trust in you, and you stare at him in confusion when the tips of his fingers slip into the gap in the bottom of your muzzle, holding the chocolatey treat in front of your mouth.

He laughs a little when your tongue pokes out to tilt the treat into your mouth, seeing you smile slightly for the first time.

"So food is the way to your heart, huh?"

You shake your head, unable to contain a quiet chuckle.

"I wouldn't say that, but it's definitely a good offering."

"Have you actually bitten people?"

Jeongins voice shouts curiously from your left, approaching you with a little more caution than the other two boys, biting into his own snacks as he speaks.

"That wouldn't really make sense, right? Don't you have normal teeth?"

It was almost endearing how little he knew, and as you bared your teeth in his direction, you could see a brief flash of fear run through him.

"I did bite a man once after training. I guess I've never been great at respecting authority?"

You can hear Hans laughter, a quiet 'me too!' Sounding between dramatic gasps. You guessed that was another reason he felt so comfortable with you.

"Don't look so scared." You coo, flashing him a mischievous smile. "I'll only bite you if you ask me to."

You can almost smell his confusion, laughing to yourself as you continue to follow them through the city, guiding them back to the hotel when they inevitably find themselves lost.

Chris is just happy to see them in one piece when they let themselves into his room, eager to show him the pictures they'd taken.

You quietly tend to tidying the cables of his equipment, primarily to ease your own annoyance at the careless pile they were forming, and only slightly due to the concern that if he tripped, it would be your problem.

"Oh wow. This one's really cool. Very dark."

You peek over Chris' shoulder, involuntarily sounding a deep growl when you see the picture Felix had taken of you.

"Delete it."

Chris turns to glare at you, always defensive over the younger boys in spite of any fear he may have held toward you.

"It's not a big deal. Calm down."

It sounds like an order, and your lip twitches into a snarl. The quiet click of the door opening before a sharp shock catches you off guard, pushing you to find stability against the back of the couch.

"Minho, what the fuck?!"

You struggle to regain your focus, turning to face him with a dangerous scowl.

"I heard growling! That's what it's for, isn't it?"

Han is snatching the control from his hand, angrily berating him about how cruel it was and stating that you were allowed to be upset. It made you cringe, somewhat embarrassed by his need to defend you.

"It's fine. He's right."

You straighten yourself as you speak, trying your best to be gentle when you pry the control from the smaller man's hand and hand it back to your new adversary.

"Someone needs to be willing to use it. And you shouldn't be so quick to trust me."

༄ જ⁀➴

You've left Chris' room in favour of making your rounds, sure that Changbin would be found in Hyunjins room and pleasantly surprised to see Seungmin in there too, sat neatly on Hyunjins bed and watching Changbin type next to him.

"I'm surprised that you three are the easiest today." You laugh to yourself, earning a warm smile from Changbin who had always had a particular soft spot for you, mostly out of respect. Maybe he found you a little relatable, harbouring his own distrust of strangers that may even rival yours.

"Seungmin had this really cool concept for a song, so we've just been here all day."

You nod in response, failing to stifle a yawn after so long without sleep. Another flaw in hybrid evolution. Your sleep schedule was patchy, always taking a few hours at a time and never a full 6-8 like most humans.

"Did you wanna nap?"

It's Hyunjin this time, and he's up fluffing a pillow on the extra bed beside them.

"Oh, no. I really shouldn't..."

"We'll wake you up if anyone needs anything." Seungmin adds, nodding along when Changbin all but orders you to rest at least a little bit.

You're reluctant, but that quickly sinks away when you find the soft pillows, wrapping your arms around a spare one and registering the faintest remnant of Hyunjins' fresh scent, almost akin to laundry detergent.

༄ જ⁀➴

You're awake 2 hours later, your collar vibrating, however, offering no shock.

"See, it can be used nicely."

It's a surprise to hear Minhos voice, noting that Changbin and Chan were now the only other men in the room.

"I forgot it could do that." You think more to yourself than to them, but you see the sadness in Chans' eyes. He may fear you, but he felt for you more.

"Channie has a solo schedule, so you're off with him for the night."

You hum in acknowledgement, stretching before following Chan down into the lobby and out to the car. You're in closer proximity than you're used to, but he isn't yapping your ear off this time, and you think briefly to be grateful for that.

"I'm really sorry about Minho." His words are laced with the same guilt as you'd heard before, and you frown, confused.

"He was doing exactly what he should have. I snarled at you?"

Your confusion prompts his own.

"Yeah but like... you wouldn't have done anything, right? I mean, you couldn't if you wanted to."

He taps the muzzle to make his point, and you scoff, indignant.

"It's about respect. And really, biting you isn't the only way I could hurt you."

Your frown quickly pulls up into a signature smirk, and he's already rolling his eyes, fulling expecting what comes next.

"But I prefer to use my claws for pleasure."

༄ જ⁀➴

You stick by his side most of the day, patiently watching through photoshoots and interviews with writers, paying careful attention to his mood as he grows frustrated by the change in temperature from outfit to outfit, his usual bright attitude faltering the more tired he grows.

It's almost 12am by the time you make it to the hotel room you're spending the night in, needed close to the venue for his early morning continuance. He's barely thinking when he orders food for you both, making his way to where you sat on the floor and crouching down.

"Promise you're not gonna get me in trouble for this?" He asks quietly, fingers searching for the lock on your muzzle.

Your eyes are wide, almost concerned as he takes your silence for an answer, pressing his thumb to the sensor pad.

You're motionless as you process the unsuspected freedom, slowly opening your mouth as you hear the subtle crackle of your jaw, the relief being welcome yet somewhat frightening. It had been years since you'd be free in the vicinity of a human, and if you were honest, you're not sure you trusted yourself.

"You'll be fine. Just eat, ok? I can put it back on after if you're uncomfortable." He shakes his head, laughing to himself. "I'm sure if you wanted to hurt me, a muzzle wouldn't make a difference."

He was right. You were as close to a trained assassin as legally allowed (maybe a little illegally, but that was between you and your creators), and you hadn't felt any sense of true animosity toward him.

As you begin to eat, he's aware of your fork scraping at your bowl of food, the chicken not really sparking your interest as your nose scrunched at the smell.

"Is something wrong?"

You want to be delicate, but the sheer volume of vegetables had your appetite waning.

"It's fine, I'm just... more of a red meat kind of dog."

You hope that tacking on a laugh would ease some of the tension, but it makes no difference to him when he hears the distate in your voice, humming to himself as he reached for your food, taking it from you and replacing it with his mostly untouched mixture of beef and rice.

"Oh, you don't have to -"

"You need to eat. Besides, I could use the uh... greens."

He looks just as uninterested in the food as you were, yet offers no complaint as he clears his plate, smiling to himself when he sees you enjoying the meal he'd sacrificed. He'd never really seen you relaxed like this, and it made him think maybe he could offer you a little care more often.

You wipe your face, hesitantly reaching for the wire basket of your muzzle, and hold it in your hands, staring with an emotion Chan couldn't quite place.

"You don't have to... I mean, it's just me. I won't tell if you don't."

You're analysing his face, searching for even the slighting hint of hesitance and coming up empty-handed, immediately softening and offering a whispered thank you, which he smiles in response to, happy to see your guard lowered.

He offers you half of his dessert, ignoring the clear instructions he was given about your food intake for the chance to commit the way your face lights up to his memory. He can feel himself growing fond of you when you curl up on the bed across from him, telling himself to remember that you like to have an extra pillow for hugging. For now, he'll ignore the other thoughts that skim through his mind about that pillow.

༄ જ⁀➴

He's gentler with you after that day, and it makes the next week pass quickly and comfortably. You're slow to warm, but you find yourself feeling a little less guarded around the boys, even developing a bit of a soft spot for Jeongins curious questions which you answer with only a teasing hint of annoyance.

It's virtually impossible for you not to miss them when you get home, almost immediately being forced to return to your usual maintenance schedule. What was the point of your phone when you weren't allowed to make friends? As much as you cared for the few other hybrids in the companies inventory, it was never the same. The obligatory bond you held was hardly an honest form of friendship, and you found yourself craving the kindness Chris had shown you.

༄ જ⁀➴

The change in your attitude when you're finally reunited with the group is notable, your boss commenting on how unusually willing you were being locked into your usual gear, thinking he had finally managed to break your stubborn spirit.

You're silent, almost obedient, as you're carted off to the main building, your leg bouncing impatiently as the details of the photoshoot you'd be chaperoning them at were relayed to you. Your fidgeting doesn't cease until you're greeted by the 8 men, Felix and Hyunjin, offering you a hug to which you reluctantly accept for the benefit of your boss who shoots you a questioning glance before spewing his usual monologue to Chris and Minho before ushering you into separate vehicles.

༄ જ⁀➴

You quietly observe the boys throughout the day, admiring their features as their makeup is retouched and they're manouvered into various positions by their photographer. You try to ignore your gidiness when Chan slips you bites of various snacks through your muzzle, occasionally absent mindedly petting your ears in what seemed like an act of self soothing. You don't acknowledge the intimacy of such an action, returning it by staying closer than necessary when he's having his pictures taken.

You had been relatively calm most of the time. The bustle of the venue provided a sense of security, your ears perked, and tuned into the background noise as you monitored the scene. It wasn't until you heard a dark laugh, a sense of unease settling in your stomach, that you began to tense.

Your ears flick in the direction of the unknown voice, easily hearing his whispered disapproval toward the idol of focus. Any attempt at subtlety is lost when you turn your head to face him, recognising one of the company's newer security recruits. You were unfortunately familiar with him and were far from a fan, standing to move toward the catering table he was standing by as you nonchalantly commented in his direction.

"It's actually really rude to comment on the appearance of others when you're built like the worm from Labrinth."

It may have come out ruder than intended, but you hear the quiet giggle of Changbin to your left, and any sense of concern drifts from your mind.

"Mind your business, mutt."

You and Changbin both turn to the man, matching scowls as a deep, threatening growl sounds in your chest.

"Watch yourself."

You're not as aware of your surroundings as you should be, fixated on the man who, in a moment of bravery or perhaps stupidity, reaches to shove you, your body flushing with heat as you lunge forward, immediately caught by Changbins hand on your arm which tugs you back. It takes you a moment to register Chris in your view until he begins berating the other man as your ears ring, rage flooding your body, causing you to struggle against Changbins grip, easily freeing yourself.

Chris makes brief eye contact with you, and it takes your last shreds of reason to force you into dragging yourself to the changing room, slamming the door behind you as you pace obsessively, desperately willing yourself to calm down lest you be offered an unnecessary shock that would only make things worse.

༄ જ⁀➴

You avoid Chris like the plague.

He wants to address it. To ask why you were mad at him, but between wardrobe issues and scheduling errors, he can't seem to catch a break, and he's barely seen you at all by the time you're all being sent off to your hotel rooms and when that time comes, you're locking yourself in the bathroom, leaving him no option but to spread out on one of the beds and sit with his thoughts until you finally exit, still silent save for the sound of your footsteps on the thin carpet.

"Did I do something wrong?" He sits up to grab your attention and is met with a scoff, your eyes rolling in his direction before you turn your full body toward him, leaning against the dresser that was pushed up against the wall, your tail thumping against the wood in annoyance.

"You embarrassed me."

"How did I embarrass you?!"

You'd been growling a lot more than usual today, and it surprises him to hear it directed toward himself, your lip twitching as if fighting the urge to bare your teeth.

"I could have handled it."

Confusion doesn't cover how he feels, his eyes narrowing.

"You could have gotten yourself in some serious shit. I was worried!"

"Well, don't be! I can take care of myself! That's my entire fucking job."

"Can you not swear at me right now?!"

You're both raising your voices at this point, emotions bubbling over from the tension you'd been harbouring.

"Don't piss me off and I won't fucking swear at you!"

"Oh god forbid someone shows you a little concern! Am I not allowed to fucking care about you?"

The words trip something in you and you almost instantly fall silent, swallowing loudly as saliva pools on your tongue.

"You don't mean that."

The tears pooling in your eyes feel shameful, but the way Chris softens immediately almost makes up for it as he steps closer, reaching out to grab your fingers.

"Yes, I do. How couldn't I?"

You try to tug your hand away from him, but his grip is firm, and he tugs you closer to wrap his strong arms around you, cooing as he hears you sniffling. You'd never cried before in your life. You'd never really felt much, in all honesty. It's not like hybrids came with families to miss or emotional bonds. The bond you'd built with him was one of the only things you'd grown to cherish in a world not meant for you.

"It's okay. I got ya."

A click echoes in the room, and he carefully slides the muzzle down your face, petting you as your tears dried on his shirt.

You flinch a little when he pulls back, softly holding your cheeks in his hand as he forces you to make eye contact, a gentle smile tugging at his lips.

"You're really cute when you're emotional."

Both of you giggle when you swat at his chest until he's silent, thinking to himself before he speaks.

"Can I try something?"

You nod, curious and trusting as he covers your eyes, your guard all but shattered by the care he's shown you. It's not until you feel hesitant lips brushing yours that you understand what he was really asking, and it's entirely instinct when your lips meet his own more forcefully, eager to show him your appreciation.

His hands move from your eyes to your waist, carefully squeezing your hips in silent thanks as he sets a leisurely tempo, playing around with the pressure until he hears you breathe a dreamy sigh.

You're not pushing for more, but your hands are restless, and you keep trying to get closer to him in spite of the complete lack of space, your chest now pressed flush against his own as your hands sneak their way under his shirt. He really hadn't noticed, too caught up in his own reeling mind as he tried to savour the moment, finally having you in his arms in a way he had only dreamt of.

"Please."

He doesn't hear it at first. The whine that followed being his only indication that you'd said anything at all and causing him to pull away, much to your disappointment.

He was glad he did. Your face was flushed with heat and there was a new found almost airy quality to you, as if you had finally let go of something that was weighing you down.

"Huh?"

His own voice is little more than a strained whisper, fighting to keep his composure as his own resolve slips with every passing second of your warm skin sending flushes of pulsing need through his own body.

"Need..." There's an impatient huff that tells him you're not really sure what you need, and he's right there with you as he dares to push a little further, his lips tentatively ghosting over your neck, another flush of pleasure finding him as he feels a rumble rising in your throat.

"Chris, please!"

He's gripping your hips, turning you so that he can guide you back toward the bed. His lips never leave your skin, teeth nipping at your flesh. You're on your back before you know it, tugging at his shirt as he settles between your legs and pushes your shirt up, disconnecting for only a moment before his lips are on your chest.

You're pushing at his shoulders, and he's moving to sit beside you, confused and anxious until you climb into his lap and begin mindlessly nipping at his neck, your sharp nails tickling his skin as you drag them over his stomach and up toward his chest.

"Need you so bad. Please, Chris. Wanna ride you."

He's completely dazed, losing himself to the pleasure as you desperately fuss at his belt, struggling to undo it in your frenzied state.

The buckle clinks, and he's helping you get his pants down, whispering soothing words in an attempt to calm you both.

"You're okay. You're gonna get what you want, yeah? Just gotta be patient."

You're anything but. You really don't mean to growl at him this time, but the way his hand meets your throat with commanding confidence has you moaning pathetically, practically clawing at his skin as you grind against his painfully hard cock. You hadn't even managed to undress, too feral to spare a thought for anything but the warmth pooling between your thighs.

"Baby, take these off."

Lips meet yours once again, and he has to force you from his lap so he can get your own pants off, taking the chance to strip you completely before you begin whining at him.

"Shhhh. C'mere puppy. Come take what you want, ok?"

The frantic nod of your head makes him smirk a little and you're sinking down on his cock before he can ground himself, your shaky panting earning the most delicious groans from him. You're so wet that he can feel it coating his thighs and your pussy is clenching around him with every grind of your hips against his.

"Fuck. You're making a mess, baby. Nobody takin' care of this pretty cunt?"

You're too embarrassed to respond, sinking your teeth into his neck instead. It catches him off guard, and he's bucking his hips up into you as you set yourself the mission of marking every inch you can without stopping, your nails digging into his chest.

Everything is slippery and rushed and you have to find his cock again a few times thanks to your overenthusiastic movement, but he doesn't stop you from relentlessly chasing your high until he feels you shaking on top of him, pussy fluttering as you whimper and whine into his neck.

Your mind is hazy, and somehow you're hungry for more, yelping when he presses you back into the crisp white sheets of the bed. He's lost all restraint now, hand wrapping around your neck right beneath your metal collar. Wide, watery eyes only encourage him as he begins pounding into you, picking up speed from the very start.

"You're mine now, ok? All mine. Gonna have to convince 'em to let me keep you all to myself. My dirty little puppy."

"Please let me be yours! Please. Love you!"

He tells himself its lust fueled rambling, but he can feel his heart skip a beat when you speak, and he wants nothing more than to show you how good he could be to you, even if just for a night.

His hands find the back of your thighs and he's pushing them up, allowing him a better angle so that the tip of his cock could find your gspot, coaxing small tears that slip down your cheeks. He can't help but lean over you, planting the sweetest kisses to your cheeks and forehead in direct contrast of his harsh thrust.

"You're so good for me. Look at how well you're taking my cock, huh? Like you were made for me."

One of your thighs is dropped in favour of Chris lacing his own fingers with yours as he finds your lips in a passionate, albeit slightly messy kiss. He's moaning against your lips, and you're gasping, clawing at his back as you spill desperate pleas among whispered 'love you's.

"Say it louder. Fuck, please."

The strain of need in his voice flips a switch in you and the need to please him buries itself almost as deep inside you as he was.

"Love you, Chris! Love you so much. Fuck, I need you. Need to be yours! Please keep me-"

He cuts you off with another desperate kiss and now he's the one whining, his hips stuttering as he drops your other thigh, fingers finding your clit to rub firm circles that push you over the edge once more, your cunt spasming being the final push he needed to send him over the edge and he fills you completely, cock pulsing for what feels like hours.

He's never cum so hard in his life and he can't help but laugh a little, distracted by the sight of his cum dripping down your slit as he pulls out.

You're shushed when you try to sit up, and he's petting your head before leaving to get a damp towel, which he uses to gently wipe your thighs and tummy which had been coated in your slick. It's a gentle act, and you can feel the tears stinging your eyes again, concern flooding him

"Baby, are you okay? Did I do something wrong?"

He sinks back down beside you, pulling you back against his chest so he can hold you close to him. It's more to soothe himself than you, his fongers running over the soft fur of your tail, but he still hopes it offers you some sense of comfort.

"Meant it."

He can barely hear you, but his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"Meant what?"

You huff and try to scoot away, immediately pulled back flush against him.

"Pup, what are you talking about?"

"Meant what I said. Y'know... about you..."

It takes him longer than he'd like to finally register what you're talking about, and he buries his head in your neck as a rush of emotional overwhelm finds him. He really had been sure you were just rambling nonsense, but your conformation solidifies his own feelings. He needed you more than he could find words for.

"Me too. Every word."

༄ જ⁀➴

You spend the entire night cuddled up to each other, Chris waking intermittently and pulling you back to him when you'd spread out a little too far away from him for his liking. It's when he's getting ready the next morning that he finally sees the obscene display of deep purple and red bruises littering the entirety of his neck, splotches along his shoulders, and trailing down his chest.

"Baby, are you kidding?! I can't hide these!"

You know he's not mad, and the thump off your tail against the bed wipes the scowl from his face with ease, his head shaking in disbelief.

"I told you that you were something I'd wanna sink my teeth into!"

#stray kids smut #skz smut #bang chan smut #chan smut #chan x reader #chan hybrid smut #hybrid reader x chan #bang chan x reader

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makkir0ll · 1 month

Text

you finally turn in your essay you breathe a sigh of relief. but that feeling is soon gone when you check the time and see that it's 11 pm.

you look at the windows nearby and see that it's pitch black, and you check your surroundings and there are very few people left. it's finals season and the library is no stranger for students to be pulling all-nighters trying to study or turn in their projects at the last minute.

you close your laptop and pack up your stuff and go to head out when you look outside the door and you see a weird man outside, smoking something that smelt absolutely disgusting. you felt a pit of anxiety grow in your stomach because this is the only way out and any of the other exits would sound the emergency alarm. you take deep breath and decide to walk out (dumbest decision ever) and you're hit with a "hey there pretty girl, what are you doing here?" from the creep and you immediately run back into the library.

you open your contacts and go to the one labeled tobio❤️ and click on it, calling him. you knew he was probably sleeping, but you didn't really want to sleep at the library.

he picks up "hello?" his voice is groggy and laced with sleep. you start to feel bad knowing you woke him up.

"tobio?" you start. "hey i'm sorry for waking you up but there's this creep outside the library and i just-"

"i'm on my way." he cuts you off. you hear some shuffling in the background. "give me like ten minutes and i'll be there". his house is a thirty minute walk from the university library. "just wait inside okay? don't worry."

"it's okay tobio you can take your time. i'll be waiting. i love you"

"i love you too." and he hangs up. you put your phone back into your pocket and you can't help the guilty feeling that begins to swirl in the pit of your stomach. you know he has a busy schedule with balancing volleyball and school and you soon begin to regret your decision. but there was no stopping him he was probably halfway to the library by now.

you're sitting on one of the armchairs with your phone in your hand, mindlessy scrolling on social media when you feel a hand on your head, you look up and see your dark hair boyfriend. he seems out of breath and his hair a mess. he's still in pajamas, you can tell because he's wearing a stained hoodie underneath his puffer.

"lets go" he says with a small smile.

you stand up and he follows next to you as you walk out the building. when you see the man coming to approach you again you feel his arm wrap around your shoulders and pull you into his chest. you can hear his heartbeat.

"oh? back again pretty girl-"

"hey man fuck off alright." kageyama scowls at him, pulling you impossibly closer to his chest as he begins to walk faster. leaving the creep behind.

once you guys are a safe distance away he begins to loosen his grip on you but never moves his arm from your shoulder.

"i'm sorry if i woke you up." you start to say.

"why?"

"i don't know, i guess it's because you have such a busy schedule. and i know how much you care about your health and that stuff-"

"but i care about you more." he says bluntly, dark blue eyes staring into yours. "i mean i would much rather be tired at tommorows practice than have you be unsafe." he says with his cheeks turning a light shade of pink. yours do the same at his words.

you continue your walk back to his apartment. he says that after waking him up you owe this to him. of course you can't deny when he offers to give you his t shirt, and when you pull the covers up to your chest and feel his hand snake around your waist and pull you close to him, nose nuzzling into your neck you hear him whisper.

"don't ever worry about bothering me if something like this happens again." he presses a kiss to your neck and you turn around to cup his face and kiss his lips softly. you see the moonlight illuminate his features as you pull back, his eyes half lidded with a smile on his face.

"okay, tobio. goodnight" you say smiling. resting your head onto his chest as he pulls you closer.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenarios #hq imagines #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu!!#hq fluff #hq x reader #haikyuu imagines #hq fanfic #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu #haikyu x reader #kageyama tobio #kageyama fluff #kageyama x reader #this was rotting in my drafts so enjoy

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liketolovexx · 2 months

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Okay I have a request for Regulus if you’re up for it… how about the reader having to wear him down because he believes he’s unlovable etc etc. but once she does, he’s the biggest softie, always gentle and caring and seeking her presence?? only if you feel like writing it though!!! Kisses

Hii! It’s taking me a while to get round to my requests but everyone feel free to send them in to keep me busy!! Kisses to u too my darling 🫶🫶

I actually turned out really loving this. It turned out a little angstier than I anticipated, though. Sorry.

Unlovable. ~R.A.B

{in which regulus believes no one could ever love him, but you’re here to prove otherwise.}

Regulus had been distant lately.

Avoiding you, which wasn’t normal. Not for you, at least. You’d been best friends, and the moment you started dating, it’s almost like something happened inside of regulus. He wasn’t around you much anymore. It hurt, honestly. To love somebody who hides from you. It took you a trip to the gryffindor common room, begging on your knees, incredibly puppy-eyes (that apparently all of the Black family is weak for, because it made Sirius melt too), a new chocolate bar for Remus and literally just a tight hug for James to get the marauders to lend you the map.

There it was. A pair of dark footprints teetering at the top of the astronomy tower, where you and your boyfriend often snook after hours, labelled ‘Regulus Black’ in elegant italics, much like his own trained penmanship.

The map was on the floor. You could vaguely hear James yelling at you not to drop it while you rushed to the tower. Lead curled around your heart, weighing heavily in your chest as you climbed the steep, eroded steps up to Regulus. You were thinking the worst. Your regulus was going to jump. Moonlight flooded your vision as you emerged, only to see a black silhouette stood precariously at the edge of the balcony. Your eyes widened and your stomach dropped as your very worst fears were reinforced.

“regulus?”

He spun around swiftly, his usual perfect black curls unruly and tousled out of the place by the cold wind. His eyes were wild and panicked and dark bags shadowed shadowed them. he was paler than usual, the white of his skin closely mimicking the pearly hue of the moon that ignited you both. You lifted your arms slowly, as if trying to calm a beast.

“Regulus, it’s me, it’s only me, sweetheart, calm down.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to know why you’ve been ignoring me.”

You said, keeping your tone calm as to not startle him. “Can you please come here? You’re scaring me.” Something changed in his eyes when you spoke that phrase, as if scaring you was out of the picture. He’d never want you to be scared of him, because he was meant to protect you. His rosy lip trembles, and at first you thought it was from the harsh chill of the night air, until it was accompanied by furrowed eyebrows, glossy eyes and him stumbling towards you with his arms outstretched like a child.

“Oh, Reg…” you hummed, cupping the back of his head with your hand as you tucked his face into your neck. His back started to heave with sobs so you used your other hand to rub soothing circles across his shoulders. “It’s so cold out here, you’re gonna-“

“Why do you fucking love me?” Regulus growled, his grip on you tightening almost aggressively.

“What?” You whisper, fear seeping into your veins. But in your heart, you knew regulus would never hurt you. He raised his head, staring deep into your eyes, face glazed in a mixture of frustration and despair.

“Why do you love me?”

You were silent. Why did you love regulus? Well, he was kind. Not to everyone, but to those he trusted, those he loved. He was incredibly loyal. He was a sensitive soul, underneath his facade. He was soft. He was beautiful. He was yours. But you couldn’t find the words to even begin to express the reasons behind your adoration for him.

“Regulus, you are… everything.”

His face changed. He looked almost bewildered, confused.

“What? I’m not anything. I’m from a family of fucking blood supremacists, I’m-“

You kissed him. He shut up in seconds when your lips pressed to his. “You’re fucking perfect. And you’re not them, Regulus. You’re perfect.” You told him sternly, gripping his shoulders hard, but gently. He broke down again, his face scrunching up as the tears began to fall. You pulled him in again. “No… no, I don’t deserve this. I- I don’t.” You shushed him, stroking his hair. “You deserve everything. And I love you. You deserve love most of all, Reggie.”

A week or so later…

Regulus was curled into your side in the slytherin common room. No one was there except him, Barty, and Evan. He’d fallen asleep with his head on your chest, and you didn’t have the heart to wake him to go to class, so Evan and Barty jumped at the chance to skip with you two. Though, Barty couldn’t refrain from making dramatic gagging noises whilst gripping Evan’s shoulder and lurching forwards every time regulus nuzzled closer to you in his sleep. He teased, sure, but really, he knew his friend had never been happier. He’d never seen regulus with so much sparkle in his eye. He’d never seen regulus so lovesick.

He’d never seen regulus so touchy with somebody.

He’d never seen him trust so deeply. love so unconditionally.

~~~

Please don’t copy any of my work!!

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black x reader prompt #marauders x reader #sirius black x reader #marauders #regulus black💌*~

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opluffys · 1 year

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Leading Score-

somethin quick, posted first to my archive. pls let me know if there are any errors or if it copied weird. pls enjoy <3

tags- size kink, size difference, creampie, vaginal sex, rough sex, desk sex, fem reader.

2.3k words.

-Ghost x Reader-

-smut/nsfw-

As you had graded papers from your young students, you idly hummed as you noted how most of the scores had went up. Regarding spelling, it had been some of your kids weaker points, but after practicing with them one on one, they had gotten better, much to your pleasure.

"Done!"

You looked up from the monotonous tone of black on white, quickly writing a red mark next to the misspelled 'contree', you smiled warmly and took Joseph's paper.

"That was quick, sweetie. You could've taken until your daddy came to pick you up." You said, looking down at his exam and clicking your red pen.

"I'm fast." He smiled, sitting back in his small desk and chair, kicking his legs wildly as he awaited your feedback.

And however badly you wished to give him a full twenty out of twenty on his exam, spelling was one of the things that Joseph had struggled the most with. You knew he wouldn't improve overnight, which is why you were hopeful for tonight.

Even though it wasn't parent-teacher conference night, Joseph had been chirping, 'my daddy is picking me up today, and then we'll get ice cream.' before hearing a cacophony of envious groans. It had you laughing, yet hatching a quick plan to discuss Joseph's struggles with his father. You already had a small packet labeled 'trouble words' to give to his father, hoping they'd be able to practice over the long weekend.

Seeing as Joseph had been bored at his desk, you called him over to give him some puzzles or colouring sheets to do. He eagerly thanked you before returning to his seat, noisily scribbling on the paper.

Quickly finishing grading his spelling errors, he'd gotten a thirteen out of twenty. It'd been a wild and vast improvement from his other exams, but you knew he could do better.

You stood up and walked over to Joseph's desk, ruffling his hair and placing a small lollipop on his table. "You did better, honey. But I want you to practice more, can you promise me that?" You crouched down to his level, talking to him in a soft and understanding tone, a warm and inviting smile on your face. It had made him feel comfortable, not scolded, not 'do better', no. He'd wanted to do this on his own, seeing as he had nodded furiously, telling you that he'd do perfect on the next one.

You took his exam and walked outside of your classroom, leaning against the wall and waiting for Joseph's father to show. School had been finished for a while, the extracurricular activities ending early due to the extended weekend.

Out of your peripheral, you'd seen a tall figure walking towards your class. He had caught your eye easily, since the man was extremely tall and well built. As he'd gotten closer, you noted how he wore a balaclava with a skull pattern over the material. An interesting, choice to wear to an elementary school, but to each their own, you supposed.

"Mr. Riley, before you take Joseph, can we talk about how he's doing in class?" You inquired, quickly checking on the adorable child idly drawing on his papers before continuing the conversation with his dad.

"I'm not his old man." He said, voice low and gravelly as he held your stare.

Before you were able to ask what his relation was, he quickly replied that Joseph was his nephew.

"Oh! Then you must be Simon." You smiled, resisting the urge to tear your eyes away from him, seeing his dark eyes change expression for a moment, wondering how you knew who he was.

"Emergency contacts." You quickly added, chuckling awkwardly. He only offered you his cold stare, waiting for you to continue. "Well, if it isn't too much trouble, can you relay this to Joseph's dad for me?" You timidly asked, the tall man's presence causing you to feel skittish.

He gave you a curt nod, his shoulders relaxing as he stepped closer to you, looking at the paper in your hands. "Joseph struggles a lot with spelling," You almost choked on your words as you felt his arm brush against your shoulder, attempting to find your words once more, "as does his classmates. But I know he can show further improvement if he can practice at home." You showed him Joseph's test, his hand connecting with yours briefly before he took it in his larger one.

He hummed lowly, reading over his mistakes. "I have a packet of tough words for him that he'll need to practice," You went back into your classroom, hearing Simon's impossibly quiet steps echo behind you.

"Honey, your da-" You caught yourself before making the mistake, "uncle, is here." Though, you didn't really need to tell him, seeing as Joseph shot up from his seat to run over to Simon, hugging him tightly.

"Hey kid." His voice was soft, still low and rough, but that was just how he'd always sound. Seeing such a thing made your heart melt, having to quell the want to 'aww' at the sight unfolding, the huge man embracing such a tiny child endearing yet comical.

"It was nice to meet you." You said, handing Simon the packet, "And you," You laughed, looking down at Joseph, "keep your promise to me."

"I will!" He happily beamed, a toothy grin shining up at you.

You waved the two goodbye, turning to go back into your class and continue the long trek of finishing up your students papers. You had also wanted to enjoy your weekend, placing work on the back burner as you got lost in endless glasses of wine.

•

Never in your years of teaching had you ever expected a parent-teacher meeting to end like this, never.

Bent over your desk and crying out as you felt Simon behind you, large hands on the fat of your hips as he slammed into you. Your hands grasped at the edge of the wood desk, glossy eyes popped wide open as you felt his fat cock stretch you open inch by delicious inch.

How you two had went from talking about Joseph's amazing and impressive progress in class to him whispering the most vile things in your ears, an impressive feat. But you'd be a filthy liar if you hadn't been thinking of you and him in this very position.

"Simon..." You moaned, laying your tear stained cheek onto your desk, wetting any loose papers that remained. You almost sobbed when you felt his big hand slap your ass harshly, rubbing in small circles to soothe the stinging supple flesh.

His hard and toned muscles were flush against your softer back, his masked forehead pressing against your shoulder. His deep grunts and groans were right into your ear, having you squeeze him tightly, dragging him in deeper. Just the fact that he was so big had you unraveling on his fingertips. His hoarse and low voice telling you to be a 'good girl and push yourself against the desk.'

What else could you do but oblige?

"Fuck, you're tiny." He cursed, accented voice directly against your ear, his deep breaths and sounds repeating in your head again and again. You lost your words, brain just muddled thoughts and him in your head. You just mewled in response to his words, already aware of the fact that the differences in sizes between you two was evident. Evident in how his entire hand seemed to swallow the skin at your hip whole, how his shadow enveloped your own, he was just so big.

Tears continued their flow down your heated cheeks as you felt his dick assault your insides. Wet and warm walls clamping down on him with a vice-like grip, the hot sliding of his cock deep inside you having you cry out to him. Your blouse had been bunched up and held by Simon as he anchored himself to it, his hold on the fabric tight as his pace never faltered.

Your mixed sounds had been heard, skin against skin reverberating around the walls. Your heat taking him in and out hung embarrassingly in the room, your sounds louder as his hips continued to meet your backside. He watched, mesmerised at seeing your body recoil in response to his movements, how despite your smaller stature, you took his large girth, in fact, you'd wanted more.

The feeling of being stuffed to the absolute brim, or rather well past it, had you seeing stars. You don't remember the last time you'd been fucked like this, so raw and primal like. Losing your ability to form cognitive thoughts, the only thing that you'd been able to say was quiet, meek curses and affirmations.

To further your pleasure, he snuck a hand under you, pressing hard on your abdomen, pressing your insides against his cock. You almost screamed, his hot hand against your stomach had you reeling, your pussy squeezing his cock tightly at his touch.

"So good," You sobbed, knuckles blanching at how harsh your grip had been, he was so deep inside of you, too far. You wondered if you should curse him, as no other individual would surely match him in bed ever again, shattering your expectations of any other man permanently.

Your back had arched as you felt your high quickly approaching, sobbing when you felt his flushed head kiss flush against your womb, having your painted nails claw at the wooden desk. Crying his name out in broken sobs, stringing your words together pathetically as he unraveled you with his cock.

His hands around your soft body tightened, hearing the threads of your blouse rip, it's buttons loosening from its rightful position and scattering onto the ground. It'd been one of your favourites, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care, not with such a huge cock splitting your insides, having you yell out to him like a mantra.

When you felt him slam directly into that spot nestled within you, that bundle of nerves that had you seeing double, you nearly screamed, burying your head into your folded arms. You had to bite your wrists, you throat growing raw at all of your screaming, muffled whimpers spilled from your lips, eyes watering as you felt him ram into that spot with unknown precision.

He took both of your hands in his lone one, using your own wrists to hold onto while he continued to fuck you into the desk. "None of that, wanna hear you." He huffed, groaning when he felt you squeeze him tightly at his words.

You quietly moaned, your aching throat unable to produce sound at this point. Your fingers clasped and laced with your opposing hand, making it easier for him to hold onto your wrists. Grounding himself against you, his pace sped up, his length slamming into you over and over, it was too much, too good.

Your teary eyes etched closed, that familiar knot deep in your abdomen beginning to loosen, disentangling with every drag of him inside. Your gummy walls tightened around him, that pressure within finally ridding, just feeling pure bliss. Your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave, rough waters eventually calming as your slick trickled down your spread thighs.

"That's it, take it," He cursed lowly, feeling your velvety heat clamp down on him, "doin' so well for me." You had no choice but to lay there and take it, take him. But you'd lay yourself down on any surface if he had asked you to, offering him your all whenever he'd commanded.

He assisted you in riding out your orgasm, your excess arousal making it easier for him to fuck deeper into you. He still trapped both of your hands in his singular one, garnering you unable to move properly without the assistance of your hands. His other hand had been attached to your hip, absentmindedly squeezing the fat of it every few thrusts.

You whimpered his name, your senses being thrown into overexertion while your nerves felt fried. His stamina was impressive, as you were normally used to a quick and disappointing fuck where only one of you had finished. He'd actually taken your own pleasure into consideration, that in itself had been surprising.

You felt his thick and heavy cock twitch inside your wet heat, hearing him curse deeply. His thrusts were sporadic and random, yet they still had your back arching.

You felt his masked forehead press against your bare shoulder. He deeply groaned as he shallowly thrusted into your wet and fluttering heat, spilling himself deep inside of you, painting your insides the prettiest of white.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, feeling him soften inside of you as he pulled out with a pained hiss. You had been slightly saddened at the loss of warmth inside of you, biting your bottom lip in fear that you'd accidentally blurt out something lecherous.

He assisted you in redressing, apologising at ripping your blouse. He offered you his large sweatshirt, covering majority of you. His scent was intoxicating, you had half a mind to lead him onto your spin chair, seating yourself down on his cock and using him for your own pleasure. But you just thanked him, rolling the sleeves up as you adjusted the scattered papers on your desk. You'd come back to clean in the morning, it was still the weekend and you had wine to attend to.

After ensuring you were dressed adequately, he walked you out and into your own car. He stared deeply into your endearing gaze, before a single question left his covered lips.

"What'd he get?"

You couldn't help but smile, turning the key into the ignition and hearing your old car sputter to life. Your hands loosened around the steering wheel before turning back to him once more,

"Twenty out of twenty."

#fanfic #smut #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #cod smut #cod x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon riley #ghost mw2 #ghost cod

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handweavers · 1 day

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something that comes up for me over and over is a deep frustration with academics who write about and study craft but have little hands-on experience with working with that craft, because it leads to them making mistakes in their analysis and even labelling of objects and techniques incorrectly. i see this from something as simple as textiles on display in museums being labelled with techniques that are very obviously wrong (claiming something is knit when it's clearly crochet, woven when that technique could only be done as embroidery applied to cloth off-loom) to articles and books written about the history of various aspects of textiles making considerable errors when trying to describe basic aspects of textile craft-knowledge (ex. a book i read recently that tried to say that dyeing cotton is far easier than dyeing wool because cotton takes colour more easily than wool, and used that as part of an argument as to why cotton became so prominent in the industrial revolution, which is so blatantly incorrect to any dyer that it seriously harms the argument being made even if the overall point is ultimately correct)

the thing is that craft is a language, an embodied knowledge that crosses the boundaries of spoken communication into a physical understanding. craft has theory, but it is not theoretical: there is a necessary physicality to our work, to our knowledge, that cannot be substituted. two artisans who share a craft share a language, even if that language is not verbal. when you understand how a material functions and behaves without deliberate thought, when the material knowledge becomes instinct, when your hands know these things just as well if not better than your conscious mind does, new avenues of communication are opened. an embodied knowledge of a craft is its own language that is able to be communicated across time, and one easily misunderstood by those without that fluency. an academic whose knowledge is entirely theoretical may look at a piece of metalwork from the 3rd century and struggle to understand the function or intent of it, but if you were to show the same piece to a living blacksmith they would likely be able to tell you with startling accuracy what their ancient colleague was trying to do.

a more elaborate example: when i was in residence at a dye studio on bali, the dyer who mentored me showed me a bowl of shimmering grey mud, and explained in bahasa that they harvest the mud several feet under the roots of certain species of mangroves. once the mud is cleaned and strained, it's mixed with bran water and left to ferment for weeks to months. he noted that the mud cannot be used until the fermentation process has left a glittering sheen to its surface. when layered over a fermented dye containing the flowers from a tree, the cloth turns grey, and repeated dippings in the flower-liquid and mud vats deepen this colour until it's a warm black.

he didn't explain why this works, and he did not have to. his methods are different from mine, but the same chemical processes are occurring. tannins always turn grey when they interact with iron and they don't react to other additives the same way, so tannins (polyphenols) and iron must be fundamental parts of this process. many types of earthen clay contain a type of bacteria that creates biogenic iron as a byproduct, and mixing bran water with this mud would give the bacteria sugars to feast upon, multiplying, and producing more of this biogenic iron. when the iron content is high enough that the mud shimmers, applying this fermented mixture to cloth soaked in tannins would cause the iron to react with the tannin and finally, miraculously: a deep, living grey-black cloth.

in my dye studio i have dissolved iron sulphide ii in boiling water and submerged cloth soaked in tannin extract in this iron water, and watched it emerge, chemically altered, now deep and living grey-black just like the cloth my mentor on bali dyed. when i watched him dip cloth in this brown bath of fermented flower-water, and then into the shimmering mud and witness the cloth emerge this same shade of grey, i understand exactly what he was doing and why. embodied craft knowledge is its own language, and if you're going to dedicate your life to writing about a craft it would be of great benefit to actually "speak" that language, or you're likely to make serious errors.

the arrogance is not that different from a historian or anthropologist who tries to study a culture or people without understanding their written or spoken tongue, and then makes mistakes in their analysis because they are fundamentally disconnected from the way the people they are talking about communicate. the voyeuristic academic desire to observe and analyse the world at a distance, without participating in it. how often academics will write about social movements, political theory and philosophy and never actually get involved in any of these movements while they're happening. my issue with the way they interact with craft is less serious than the others i mentioned, but one that constantly bothers me when coming into contact with the divide between "those who make a living writing about a subject" and "those who make a living doing that subject"

#you dont have to read all this im just ranting to myself #like this goes on for a while im just warning you

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throwaway-yandere · 7 months

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And The Sun Is Silent (Yandere!Wriothesley/Reader)

Unreliable Synopsis: You, a former writer, received a fan letter. Truly a curious thing, for the contents appear more personal than what it should be.

A/n: I am not back. I posted this cuz first off, I adore Joe Zieja and all his works and I was so hyped when I saw he voiced Wriothesley and second, mfer gave me C4 qiqi. i love my daughter but cmon wrio, I literally got the same haircut as you do now-

CW: nothing really. Just a lil mind frick ig

“When I saw his hands wrapped around his dearest new spouse, cutting that vile wedding cake together, I wanted nothing more than to take that knife and slit his throat.”

(Y/n) was a serialized author in Fontaine whose works were primarily geared towards detective novels. However, their words were less laced with objectivity and “irrefutable facts” as the heavy pockets do when spinning their tales. Unfortunately, they weren’t meant to fill their coffers with hit-release masterpieces. (Y/n)– pen name “Maestro Justiniano” – was more engrossed in the perpetrators' psychology like the barkeeps and magicians do. They were the main characters– the sung hero of the tale. The glorified violence thrived in each passing page for the only mystery to be solved was “who will they target next?”

If young fans of other authors were seen as aspiring detectives or law enforcers, those who were known as fans of the Maestro were unjustifiably labeled as “future degenerates.” For (Y/n), it was funny. Overhearing grandparents waste their already fleeting energy to scold their grandchild’s love for their sinful work was their source of joy.

But (Y/n) (L/n) was not Maestro Justiano in public.

They were Duke Wriothesley’s spouse. Maestro Justiano is but a shade and (Y/n) is a human. The maestro does not feed on earth nor mora, but (Y/n) is obliged to. He bought his title, and he bought his spouse.

Gone was their free fourth finger. With a golden shackle, they sealed their fate to a wealthy man for table scraps. Perhaps it is fortunate that he is generous with his pockets, but to (Y/n), they would rather starve themselves writing than sit through another seminar about the nation’s ever-changing laws.

The Maestro’s life used to be so full of thrill; the “pelf” they received for each writing commission was a life worth their breaths.

The Maestro’s life used to be coated in moonlight; sneaking out and running gigs was their bread and butter.

But now the sun is silent, and (Y/n) stands with a tail behind their legs.

“(Y/n), do you need anything?”

Wriothesley asked even when he could guess the answer. Lazily, (Y/n) shifted from the covers, peering over with half-closed eyes.

“Nothing, Your Grace.” (Y/n) yawned. “Close the door.”

The Duke nods, understanding their fatigue. He silently shuts the door, and nothing of interest is to be noted afterward.

This has been their canned script every Wednesday to Friday without fail for the past 3 years.

In (Y/n)’s eyes, Wriothesley is a mere animal with whom they mate for survival. Barely any true emotional trysts occurred in their first two years of marriage. They’re a “friend” of fortune. With him always away from home, (Y/n) is left with nothing but their thoughts.

The nights were warm, but the mornings were cold.

And the sun is silent.

Their husband has never been quite the same after an incident during their 2nd year of marriage.

On the night they were attacked in the comfort of their shared home, a gear in his head was stolen.

Wriothesley held them, audibly more alarmed and broken than (Y/n)– the victim– was. He shook, afraid of what you must’ve gone through in his absence. Robbery, that’s what the records say. An armed man entered their home with the intent to steal. Black were his gloves and hair. The perpetrator thought they had been away on a business trip and pulled the trigger by surprise when they emerged from the kitchen.

That thief had failed to steal material possessions, but their husband had lost his good of intellect. He cannot stand the notion of leaving them alone. What is a collector’s item if it’s not in great condition? Wriothesley has locked the gates and kept (Y/n) in, and he’ll continue to do so to preserve their value.

“I want to meet you somewhere someday, in a place where the sun is no longer silent. I want to crawl and bury myself under your skin where I can read through your mind. The house is too quiet. I want to trace your collarbones. I want to bite into your flesh, and I need you to look into my eyes as I tear myself apart. I am in love with you, (Y/n). It’s unbelievable, but it’s true. I live within these walls. I am what keeps you grounded with a golden ring. But why does the sun hide from me?”

Despite how much closer the couple are now, (Y/n) feels more distant than before. Not that they had the right to say "The duke was not the man I married" when they rarely talked— but it surely felt that way.

And in one Sunday night, the forcibly retired author used their words not to immerse readers, but to intimidate guards to grant entry to their "beloved" husband's office.

"You fucking bitch…"

"Lovely to see you too, honey."

"You made me lose my job!!!"

"Here I thought you refer to it as a side-line."

"Are you fucking for real right now?!" They screamed and slammed a fist down on the table. The pain hasn't hit them yet as their unbridled shock and rage hit overdrive. "Since when did you have the right to just take my–"

"Your hobbies away?" Wriothesley placed down his chamomile tea and shrugged. "Honey, I'm not doing anything like that. No, I'm only protecting you."

"Oh, great!" They waved a hand around dramatically before slapping it back to their thigh, rolling their eyes. "Let me guess, there's a biiiig explanation that fits into one giant puzzle."

"You know me too well for someone who never initiates conversation." He smiled mockingly.

"You're right. Court Dense Publishing House is being investigated for numerous allegations. Toxic working environment, which included stalking and superiors leveraging pay for sexual favors might I add, and tax fraud. The details of the latter will bore you." Wriothesley continued.

He sighed. "Can't you tell? I'm just being a decent husband. What if you were being harassed and you were afraid to tell me?"

"Like hell, I was–" They took a sharp deep breath in. "Listen. Let me get back to my work and we won't have any problems, Your Grace."

"No can do. You're an ex-Maestro now."

“And you're an ex-con.” They quickly retorted.

…

“... You're calling me an ex-con?" Wriothesley laughed dryly. The lone sound made them inch their heels slightly backward.

His eyelids lowered as his dull gray eyes peeked behind underneath his tilted glare.

They had never seen him this serious.

"Who do you think turned me into one?”

…

They blinked.

His words– though not making sense without context– carried a heavy weight they had unfortunately missed.

His gaze and words were accusingly pointed.

At them.

…

Wriothesley laughed.

"I'm kidding, of course. Don't be so tense."

(Y/n) didn't laugh.

He smiled. They can't tell if it was fake or not. He's been too good at pretending to be nice that they never knew when he genuinely dropped the act.

Like Maestro Justiniano, that argument is history now.

And maybe that's why (Y/n) first thought it would be a comforting experience to read a story written by an avid fan.

It was a long manuscript. Sigewinne claimed it came from a fellow Melusine who wanted her favorite author's thoughts on how to write a criminal male lead. When asked for the writer's name, she refused to say it. (Y/n) respected it since they too posted anonymously…

But this reading sounds less like a professional job and more like a stalker's confession…

“When I first finished a book of yours in two sittings, I had formed a vague fantasy on how you looked like. You were a tall man, thin, long-necked, sharp-nosed, with a body slightly bent forward. Needless to say, I was stoked to find that description failed to perfectly describe who you were in person. I hope that with my new appearance, my description perfectly describes how your husband used to look as well. These black gloves just don’t fit me right.”

These black gloves…?

"Honey, I'm home!!! Oh, and Sigewinne's here too."

As soon as they heard the door open, (Y/n) shoved the fan's manuscript inside their drawer. Wriothesley hates seeing any semblance of creative writing inside the house.

"Can you brew two cups of tea for us?" Wriothesley asked as he removed his jacket, placing it recklessly on the sofa. "We're exhausted."

(Y/n) nodded. They never tell him how they make his tea. For a bottle weighing 8 fl oz, they'd take a rounded scoop of sunsettia powder to the pitcher and pour steamed 2% milk to whatever was the appropriate line. Once aerated for 3 seconds, they fill it with their macha mix with ¼’’ foam and ¾’’ more below the rim for the aesthetic.

The process is not as difficult as it sounds, but they like withholding information. Why else won't friends and family know that they're a prolific writer, right?

"Sure. I'll be right back."

They left.

Their “husband” picked up the letter they hastily hid, a faint smile playing on his face.

Were you frightened after reading it?

How did his favorite author react?

He wished he knew. But he’s no detective– he’s a present “degenerate”. He won’t find clues just by looking at the parchment. "Wriothesley" placed it back to where it was earlier and adjusted his black gloves to fit just right.

“Wriothesley” glanced at Sigewinne with a giddy smile.

“So, do you think they liked my writing?”

"(P.S: I finally figured out how you make your coffee. It's 3 pumps of Fonta, 1 shot of espresso roast, chilled milk, and stirred with ice. This unique combination would've perplexed me if I didn't find out you made it out of spite.

But it does taste good. I promise. After all, in the cold solitude of your sunless prison, I'll be the one brewing you coffee. May each sip be a reminder of my affection. The sun may be silent too in the Fortress, but maybe in there, you'll finally appreciate my warmth.")

#ansy-writes #tw: yandere #yandere genshin #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere male #yandere wriothesley #yandere wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley #genshin #yandere wriothesley x you #wriothesley x you #sigewinnie

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word-wytch · 9 months

Text

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 14

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 14/? 18k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ An invitation to The Hideout answers some long burning questions.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter CW: kissing, heavy petting, jealousy, protective!eddie, drinking, smoking, fluff

Tuesday, December 10th 1985

Winter crept in like a lamb. It nipped at your ankles when you got out of bed, beckoned you to hibernate in the warm cocoon of soft sheets and heavy blankets. The room was a lightless cave, the sky still as dense as midnight. Feet shuffling blindly at the floor to find your slippers, you clicked on the small lamp atop your nightstand to offer some light to your habitat.

Standard routine — making shadows on the wall as you brushed your teeth, emerging out the door to the dark hallway, squinting under the harsh light of your kitchen. Two eggs over easy. Two pieces of toast. One phone that hung to the right of your small kitchen table like an omen as you dipped the crust into the yolks. Looming. Waiting. You swallowed a feeling with your next sip of coffee; flutters that danced down your throat and settled in the pit of your stomach.

By the time you returned to your bedroom, the sky touched your sheer curtains with the palest blue. Your clothing was already laid out neatly on your dresser, poised like soldiers in a row — thick ribbed stockings; plaid wool skirt; stiff white blouse; cream knit sweater.

As you suited up, stripping yourself of warm pajamas to brace the chill of your formal attire, your eyes drifted to an object on your desk. Powder blue and collecting a fair amount of dust; an IBM Selectric II typewriter. It was more or less a decoration now, pushed against the wall to make room for piles of papers in need of grading. Still, you liked the way it looked; cheery against the drab apartment wall, like something a real writer would have.

It was a trusty old thing, still chugging along despite countless college essays hammered into the grey keys. It had been your only company in the wee hours of many mornings such as this one, only then there had not been sleep to separate you from the night before. Sturdy and dependable, it captured your imagination too, letter by black inked letter.

Fastening the buttons of your blouse in a methodical rhythm, you could almost trick yourself into believing it was any other morning, except today there was something else you needed to do before you left, and the clock on your nightstand let you know in glowing red that your window to do so was closing.

Cold linoleum creaked under your stocking feet as you padded into the kitchen, stomach twisting into knots as you approached the phone. If you were going to do this, it had to be now.

Running your finger down the laminated tabs of the well-loved address book on your counter, you flipped to the section labeled “J”. After scanning a dozen hand-written names, you found the one you were looking for. It was a mess of chalky white-out and hasty scribbles. Last name replaced, same with the phone number and address. You weren’t sure why you didn’t just write it all fresh under “P”, perhaps it was something about not wanting to erase the history entirely.

You took a deep breath and snatched the phone off the receiver. Pressing the cold plastic to your ear, you glanced down at the numbers in blue pen and whispered them quietly to yourself as you slowly, hesitantly, clicked them one by one into the cream button pad on the wall.

You stared across the kitchen in sober contemplation of your life choices as the phone rang. Again. And again. And again, until a familiar, groggy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey! Janet!” you greeted brightly, sounding far too awake for 7:06 AM. In your nervous haste, you almost forgot to tell her who was calling.

“Oh… hey there,” came a hesitant voice on the other line, a sharp squeal cut through the static followed by a hush.

“Hey, um, I know it’s like, super early and totally last minute but I wanted to catch you before I left for work. Listen, I’ve had a hell of a week already and I was wondering—and I totally get it if you can’t, but—well I was wondering if you’d be up for going out tonight. Like say around eight-ish?” You bit your lip and grimaced, twisting the gummy cord around your finger.

The pause was filled with the rattling of tiny fists against plastic. “Oh! Well let’s see,” she said in a voice that was suddenly very awake. “The kids will be asleep by then, or at least they should be,” she chuckled, “and Bob doesn’t go to bed till after eleven anyway, so I’m sure he’ll be fine if I escape for a few hours. I mean I’ll check with him but I really don’t see why not.”

It was equally as promising as it was a relief; the excitement that crept through her voice.

“Great! Yeah, I figured you could probably use a night out.”

“Oh gosh, you don’t even know the half of it,” Janet laughed. “So where were you thinking? You wanna just go to Pal-Joeys again?”

Pacing toward the counter, you braced to offer your suggestion. “Actually, I was thinking we could go to The Hideout, I hear there’s a band playing tonight.”

“The Hideout?” she asked through an incredulous smile.

“I know,” you breathed nervously, “it’s not really our um, regular haunt, but that’s kinda why I want to go, you know? Shake things up a bit. Everything’s just been feeling so… routine lately, you know?”

Janet’s sigh was deep and heavy. “Oh trust me, I know.” A bright coo crackled through the telephone line.

“Like, I kind of want to just…” you coiled your finger deeper into the phone cord, glancing at the glaring red clock above the stove, “I dunno…pretend to be somebody else for a change.”

“You know,” she started, a quiet mischief creeping into her voice, “I could really stand to be somebody else for a night too.”

You paused in your pacing as a smile cracked across your face. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Gosh, do you know your birthday was the last time I went out? Seriously! And before that I don’t even remember. Sometimes I look around and it’s like, man I used to be fun. You remember when I was fun, right?”

You chuckled, drifting back to memories of truths and dares, of creeping down her dark basement steps with freshly painted toes. “You still are fun, Janet.”

“Well maybe you can help remind me because sometimes I look in the mirror and I swear I don’t even recognize myself. Really! I swear I see my mother more and more and that’s what’s really terrifying.”

“You mean you don’t see Bloody Mary anymore?”

Janet’s cackle would have woken the whole house had it not been wide awake and eating Cheerios already. “No that’s just at my parents’ house, remember?”

You snorted, leaning back against the counter. “I think we screamed so loud we woke the neighbors. I swear that bathroom is haunted.”

“That’s what I’ve always said! You feel like you’re being watched, right? My parents still don’t believe me. Oh well, not my problem anymore.”

You laughed, the knot in your belly releasing slightly before you glanced at the clock again, 7:13. “Crap, I’ve gotta get going. So I’ll see you at eight tonight? At The Hideout?”

“Yeah, should be fine. I’ll call you if anything changes. Ah!” she squealed, “I can’t wait.”

“Glad you’re excited,” you chuckled, gripping the smooth plastic. “Ok, see you later.”

“Bye now!”

You hung the phone back on the receiver and stood in the blaring silence of your kitchen, frozen by the impact of your choices. It was real now. In a matter of about thirteen hours you would be getting in your car, driving down a dark road, and parking it at a seedy bar where you would see Eddie for the first time in public. Your feet felt glued to the floor, but as the clock blinked to 7:15, you willed them to move.

Before taking the dark road that led to a seedy bar, you would first need to get in your car and take another road — to work.

You cursed the cold. Cursed it as you hurried across the parking lot to find your car covered in fractals of frost. Cursed it vehemently as you worked the glass with your feeble plastic scraper, shaving holes just big enough to see out of your dashboard and rear window as the clock on your wrist ticked on minute by precious minute. You cursed it audibly when you turned the key and the engine whirred, and whined, and refused to turn over. It must have heard you, because after the fifth time of stomping on the brake and snapping your wrist forward, the engine roared to life.

You rode in on a wave; a daze like the fog that escaped your lungs in shallow breaths. The sun rose above the frozen farmlands, casting its golden-pink light across the empty fields. Out here the roads stretched on for miles. Flat and straight, with little variance in elevation. There was nowhere to look but straight ahead. No curves to surprise you, just you and the rumble of the salt-dusted road, bumping along in silence as an anxious fog rolled across the landscape of your mind.

A sea of students swept you through the front doors of Hawkins High and into the bustling office. Amidst the flurry of ringing phones and voices settling into the cadence of their roles, you grabbed your punch card and stamped the date and time in line with the rest. Pushing the metal handle of the heavy glass door, you exited the humming reprieve of the office and into the din of the main hall. Your boots made hollow clicks against the glossy tile, wind at your face as you marched forward, dodging roughhousing students and hall monitors rushing toward them.

Goodness was a mantle. A strap that dug into your shoulder; heavy with books, and papers, and responsibility. You wedged your thumb beneath it, shrugging it up onto the padded wool collar of your coat as you strode on, vision locked ahead as chaos swirled around you.

Your mug left a ring on the big desk; a remnant from where you’d sloshed it coming down the hall. You’d tried to be careful; slow and deliberate in your pacing when you left the teachers lounge with it, but when a blur of wild curls drew your gaze, your footing faltered. At least you missed your shoes.

Coat hung on its solitary hook and grade book stationed at the center of the desk, you took your place in front of it. Clutching your clipboard, you glanced across the rows of desks, down at the rows of names, beside the rows of boxes that your green pen would fill with neat little P’s and A’s like it did every day. Bell after bell, swipe after swipe of your eraser at the board, the fresh sticks of chalk dwindled to nubs. Question after question, the patience in your voice grew thin.

Between the bells at the top of fourth period, you stood poised like a sentinel outside the door to your classroom. Arms folded across your knit sweater, you sighed, shifting your weight back and forth between your tired feet, offering gentle smiles as your students filed through the threshold of the door. You smelled him before you saw him; the waft of leather and cigarettes with notes of shampoo more prominent than usual.

Against the flow of traffic, Eddie Munson brought his salt-licked combat boots to a halt in front of you. Thumb hooked under the heavy strap of his backpack, he offered you a smile so broad it crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your knees want to give.

You tightened your arms around your sweater, over the hard plastic of your faculty lanyard, and breathed a shy, girlish greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he mimicked, shifting his weight with a less than subtle restlessness as his dark eyes drank you in. They darted back and forth between yours, plush lips parted and primed with words. You felt them brimming impatiently behind his eyes, saw them in the pink flash of his tongue as it darted out to wet his lips.

Out here in the bustling hallway, with eyes that watched and voices that echoed off the polished tile, Eddie edged a bold foot closer, dove in, and ghosted the shell of your ear with his burning question.

“Will I see you tonight?”

The words were a low, hot rumble — rippling from your ear down your spine, pooling deep in your belly. His heat thawed your shoulder as he hovered there, lingering for each aching second it took you to eke out your response.

“Yeah,” you whispered into his curls.

Pulling back with a blinding grin, he tipped his head and ducked into the door of your classroom.

The slam of a locker made you jump. Arms crossed to shield your pounding heart, you stood there in the middle of it all, swimming in a sea of passing bodies, struggling to keep your head above the waves. It surged with images of a lighted stage, of bottles, and tables, and a dark corner for both of you to hide in. The bell echoed loudly down the hall, shrill enough to wake you from the dream you were surely having. Donning your mask, you took a deep breath and dove in, shutting the door behind you.

______

Eddie swung open the heavy back doors to his van, piercing the darkness with the dull yellow overhead light. Gravel crunched under his boots as he leaned in to grab the first amp from the stack, like a pile of black Christmas presents awaiting unwrapping. The night air bit at his fingers, stars twinkling in the patches where the clouds gave way above the tree line. Tightening his grip around the thick gummy handle, he hoisted it and followed the pale path the moon offered out of the side parking lot toward the patio behind The Hideout.

It wasn’t much; a stout fence in dire need of a paint job that caged in a few meager picnic tables. They still had umbrellas in the middle, wrapped tightly like mummies for the winter. He knew the back door would be open, it always was. Turning the weathered knob with his free hand, he welcomed the heat that wafted toward him. He could almost say he welcomed the piss smell coming from the bathrooms as his heavy boots thumped down the dark linoleum hallway, but that would be a stretch. Accustomed was a better word. Familiar was a better word.

Stale beer and cigarettes soon drowned it out as he entered the dimly lit bar, stopping to plunk the heavy amp down to his left on the stage, which was little more than a raised platform painted black. The thud drew the attention of the five usual suspects at the bar, and Eddie wondered which one of them was responsible for playing “Free Bird” on the jukebox.

Bill raised his hand, tipping his baseball cap back in a friendly nod as his fingers splayed. “‘Ey, Eddie!”

He returned the gesture of a single raised hand and flashed a smile before turning down the hall again. Eddie took a deep breath at the door to calm his pounding heart before pressing it open. He couldn’t believe he had been crazy enough to suggest something like this. That soon enough, you would be perched atop one of those rickety stools at a tall, sticky table, watching his every move, listening to his every note. The chill of the night air was a welcome thing, sobering and distracting from the heat that was creeping up the collar of his thick, leather coat. As the gravel crunched under his boots again, headlights blinded his vision.

He could hear the bass pounding from the outside of the small sedan as it rolled up beside his van, followed promptly by another. After a moment of squinting, the headlights shut off with the rumble of the engine, leaving him in the darkness once again. Seatbelts clicked and laughter emerged from the open doors as his friends tumbled out into the parking lot.

“What the fuck took you guys so long? We left at the same time,” Eddie groused.

Dave lumbered over and sighed, a smirk playing on his broad features in the moonlight. “Jeff had to take a shit and he parked me in.”

Jeff rolled his eyes, swinging the door shut with a huff as Gareth laughed into the night air.

Eddie sighed, glancing toward the tall stack of amps and drum heads sitting backlit in the rear of his van. “Ok, well we’ve got like forty minutes to get our shit together so start hauling.”

Dave groaned, cracking his back with a twist of his hefty torso. “Ugh, can you at least let me hit this doob before you put me to work?”

On any other night, Eddie would have welcomed the suggestion, but his nerves were traveling to his hands now and he itched to move them. “Dude, it takes us like an hour to set up, we don’t have time right now. We can smoke after we get this shit on stage.”

Jeff quirked his brows suspiciously, “Dude, since when do you care that we’re on time for anything?”

“Yeah seriously, we’re late like every week,” Gareth added.

Eddie balked, searching for the answer in the treeline, one that excluded you. “It just—if we’re ever gonna play anywhere else besides here we’re gonna have to start getting our shit together.”

There was a lukewarm pause as the band considered his answer. By the looks on their faces, Eddie wasn’t entirely sure if they bought it, but it was the best he could come up with and the statement was true. Dave broke the silence with an exasperated sigh. “Come on. I’ve been jonesing since we got to Gareth’s. His mom is so anal we can’t even smoke outside.”

“That’s ‘cause you reek when you come back in,” Gareth defended.

“At least I don’t reek of ass like you,” Dave chortled.

Jeff didn’t miss a beat. “That’s debatable.”

Gareth’s cackle wafted into the frigid air as he pointed a pale finger at Dave.

“You wanna find out the hard way?” Dave’s eyes glimmered wildly as he hooked an arm around Gareth’s shoulders, locking him into a power noogie position.

Gravel shuffled under their stumbling feet. “Let go of me you asshole,” Gareth gritted through a strangled laugh. Jeff only egged them on, howling uproariously like he had tickets to the show.

Eddie dragged his hands down his face with a deep, seething breath as Dave ground his thick knuckles into Gareth’s mop of hair, kicking up rocks and pivoting as Gareth attempted to pry away. This was his circus, his monkeys, and he would have to step up and be the ring leader if they were going to take the stage at all tonight. “CUT IT OUT!” he hollered.

Dave paused, arm still locked around Gareth’s neck. “Come on, we’re just having a little fun. You remember fun, right?”

Gareth groaned weakly, looking up at Eddie with pathetic eyes. “Who’s we?” he choked.

Eddie’s expression didn’t budge from its scowl. With a roll of his eyes and a resigned huff, Dave released his arm and Gareth stumbled backward, gasping. “Fine, captain killjoy.”

A heavy plume of fog left his nostrils as Eddie stormed toward the back of his van, weaving his arm through a thick ring of cables to rest on his shoulder before hoisting another amp from the stack. Gravel shuffled behind him as the others followed suit.

You were risking a lot to come here. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint you.

______

The silence gnawed at you, filled you with an itching discomfort as you thumbed your dresser knobs. Staring into your open shirt drawer, you faced off with your biggest decision yet — what to wear tonight.

The chasm of options laid before you in neat, folded rows. An excavation site of cardigans, and turtle necks, and things you hadn’t unearthed in years. You ran your fingers through the layers of folded cotton, peeling them back with deep consideration.

Nagging thoughts crept in like whispers over the softly ticking clock, pinball plunger pulled and ready to fire. With a determined huff, you stepped back from your dresser and padded down the hallway, out into the living room.

Your skirt pooled around your stocking feet as you crouched down in front of the long wooden cabinet that housed your records. Fingers dancing over the worn cardboard spines, you flipped them softly forward as you perused one by one, walking steadily until one of them fell open to a scene; a painting of a man hunched over with sticks tied to his back that hung on a wall of peeling paper. You paused, pulling it out to scan the track list. This would do.

Placing the the record softly on the felt pad, you lowered the needle to the ridges, and with the press of a button, a crackle roused the room.

Hey hey momma said the way you move

Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove

A smile, like a crocus peeking up from the snow, bloomed across your face. You cranked the volume, wrapping yourself in a sound that would carry to your bedroom.

Your fingers found the tiny metal tab behind your waist, and with a downward tug of the zipper, your wool skirt became a puddle on the floor. Peeling back the layers, your tight sweater joined it in a heap, your thick stockings lay deflated on the pile, the buttons of your stiff blouse worked free until it was a crumpled afterthought. The chill that kissed your skin was a welcome thing. Goosebumps raised like the current flowing through you as your near-naked silhouette danced across the wall to approach the open drawer once more.

Emboldened with a curious delight, you began to dig. Past the crust of crisp blouses, beneath the squishy mid-layer of cardigans, down into the sub-layer of camisoles and tees, deeper and deeper until finally your fingers made purchase with a soft treasure.

It fell open as you unearthed it, the solid black gone grey from washing, the white letters and arched angel cracked and faded: Led Zeppelin — United States of America 1977.

It happened on a Sunday in April, which began as most Sundays did, with you hunched over your powder blue typewriter in a race between the clock and the keys. You had it down to a science. At the speed you were typing, a rough draft could be finished by dinner, and the final could be churned out by cutting into a few hours of your sleep. A worthy sacrifice, as your final grade was on the finish line. This, like countless others, was how you planned to spend your day — until your roommate found you.

You remembered the way she leaned against the wooden frame of your bunk bed, amused, watching the paper you hammered with black-inked letters grow longer and longer. Finally she spilled it; as of an hour ago, she was down one boyfriend and up one ticket, and now it had your name on it. When she dangled it between you and the tidy rows of text, your hands froze over the keys.

You eyed the invitation — temptation printed on a neat, orange strip. Free admission, at a price.

The show was sold out. It had been for a long time.

Your class was at 9:00 AM tomorrow. A late paper took twenty percent off your grade.

You loved the band dearly, had a bigger crush on Robert Plant than you’d openly admit to anyone. Fights had broken out over tickets nation wide. You had no idea when they would play the states again.

The clock ticked on beside you, the long hand grazed past three. Maybe you could churn out the rest in the next few hours. Maybe the rough draft would be enough. But the realist in you knew neither would happen if you seized the ticket. Your grade would never recover, your streak of straight As you’d kept since grade school would come to an end. Your GPA would dip for the semester.

On April 17th, 1977, you left your paper sitting unfinished in the typewriter to see Led Zeppelin play Market Square Arena. You didn’t know it then, but it was the last time they ever would.

On April 18th at 9:00 AM, you showed up to class with empty hands and a brand new shirt.

You had altered your souvenir; taken scissors to the collar so that it draped off your shoulder. Time and your washing machine had made Swiss cheese of the bottom hem, so you cropped it. You admired the handiwork as it draped off you now, the way the black strap of your bra peeked out from the slope of your shoulder like a coy secret.

Pulling open the lower drawer—opened far less frequently than you would like—your knuckles grazed the bottom of the smooth wood interior as you peeled back the layers of folded denim. A crease of black jumped out from the sea of blue, and you examined it. It had a nice worn-in fade for only having lived in your dresser a few years, a flatteringly high waist, and most importantly, tapered legs that could easily be tucked into the tall, black boots sitting in the back of your closet. Your bare legs welcomed the barrier against the chill, and you caught a glance at your rear as you hiked them snugly upward. They hugged you in all the right places, as the music electrified the air, you transformed.

A vision of you — sprawled across a blanket on the quad with your face in a book. Making shadows on your dorm room wall while transmuting fantasies to black-inked pages. Strolling down a lamp-lit street, face to the stars, fueling your wild imagination. Here, in your reflection, the ghost of you looked back.

You painted her darker than normal, swapping the usual chapstick for a deep, dusty red exhumed from the bottom of your makeup bag. Eyes smoked and cheeks dusted, you drew out the beauty from angles of your face with every stroke.

Coat donned and purse in hand, you paused at the front door, glancing over your shoulder, down the hallway, toward your coffee table piled with papers. There was another ghost of you here — tucked into her slippers and cozy robe with the voices from the television as her only company, flicking her green grading pen down rows of questions.

On December 10th, 1985, you left the papers sitting on your coffee table to see Corroded Coffin play The Hideout. With a decided twist of the handle, you pushed out into the cold night air.

Light pooled in sparse puddles as your boots echoed off the rough pavement. Stillness whispered on the wind as crisp remnants of fall scuttled across the asphalt. The apartments behind you were a tapestry of glowing squares, pictures of the rest of Hawkins tucking into their slippers and washing their dishes, grabbing their blankets and turning on their televisions.

You grabbed your keys and unlocked your car, and when it roared to life with a swift flick of your wrist, a strange exhilaration coursed through you.

It rose like the moon over the barren fields, thrumming in your chest, spreading to your limbs, alight with something wild and teeming as you drove past rows of lighted windows—vignettes of tired routine—and stopped at the same red sign you did this morning. Your fingers twitched over the turn signal leaver — an impulse to flick up, to turn right, to settle into the familiar rhythm of your muscle memory. This time you pressed down, pressed your foot to the gas, and cranked the wheel left.

Cruising boldly down the straight and narrow road, fields and farmland faded in your rearview mirror and soon there were trees on the horizon; dense and dark. Gripping the wheel as the silhouette closed in, the corners of your mouth drew upward, pulled by a wild, awakened force. Headlights illuminated pale, naked limbs. Eyes beamed back at you from the shadows. You cranked the volume on your stereo, and as you braced for your first bend, something deep within you—dormant and restless—howled.

______

The water was so cold it burned. Eddie cursed the old plumbing, instantly regretting having the decency to wash his hands in the first place. Soap just barely rinsed, he twisted the lime-scaled handles and shut it off. With a trembling hand, he grabbed one of the last paper towels. Gareth’s kick drum echoed down the narrow hallway, thundering just like his chest. He glanced at his watch again. 7:56.

Eddie took a ragged breath, chucking the crumpled paper at the overflowing trash bin in the corner. It bounced dejectedly off the wall and onto the dirty tile. With a deadpan glare, he left it where it lay. Hands barely dry, he felt for the flask in his pocket. Screwing the tiny cap and flicking it open, he tipped it back. Eddie welcomed the burn. It chased down his throat and settled in his stomach with a warmth that radiated, instantly numbing his nerves.

Meeting his own eyes in the tiny, smudged mirror, he gave himself a final glance over. His curls were holding; fresh and clean from this morning, fluffed by the icy wind in the trips from van to stage.

Here, in the dingy confines of The Hideout, words like freak and loser lost their stick. Words he could shake like a dog at the door. He’d fashioned them like armor in the daytime; a shield in hallways and in lunch lines. What was stickier were feelings. The feelings that came with chewed pens and answers left blank. The feeling of lectures slipping like a sieve through his brain. The feeling of stares and stifled laughter, of staring numbly at the board, of filling the silence with bullshit instead of an answer.

Microphone feedback squeaked outside. The dull, heavy walk of a bassline. Laughter. Cymbals. That kick drum again. Eddie took another swig, searing the flutters in his stomach.

He wanted to be good for you. Seen under stage lights instead of fluorescents.

Good like an answer he knew.

You saw the sign first, peeking from behind the trees — simple, effective, and yellowed with time. The Hideout: a hole in the woods. Tucked around the bend you now braced against, it sat like a neon beacon. The chipped, grey exterior faded into the shadows, leaving only the holy glow of Budweiser and Miller Lite signs to guide you to the promised land.

Pulling into a spot along the narrow parking strip, you faced off with your destination. Looming and real. Frozen as reality stared back at you in the glare of your blinding headlights, you gripped the steering wheel and looked around. There were a few other cars beside you, but none of them Janet’s. Around the left of the building there appeared to be more parking, and the stout silhouette of a two-tone van you did know the owner of. Pinballs hammered in your chest.

When you arrange a time to meet someone, you are always punctual. Perhaps a life organized by bells on timers trained you to be this way, but the thought of entering alone filled you with dread, and part of you wondered whether you should wait out here for her. Your hands were starting to shake, and not from the cold.

The list of crazy things you had done in your life was a laughably short one, but this made the top by a long shot. As you turned the radio down and sat in the wake of your rumbling engine, the questions grew louder. Serious questions about where you thought this night would go, about where you wanted it to go and if you would truly go there.

Suddenly your headlights felt too bright, like a beacon drawing eyes from the woods, or even more terrifying, eyes from the building. You promptly flicked them off and waited, staring dead ahead at the chipped grey siding. It was fine. You were fine. At least you could no longer see your breath. You could hide here as long as you wanted.

“Alright man, it’s doob o’clock,” Dave said with a satisfied stretch as he took in the stage setup.

Eddie ripped another frantically scribbled setlist out of his spiral notebook and shoved it at him. “No it’s eight fifteen and we still need to do soundcheck,” Eddie scathed, glancing at the door. “You can start by plugging your mic in, Jesus Christ.”

Dave huffed annoyedly through his nose, squatting down to find the cord with exaggerated difficulty. “Yes sir,” he mocked. Eddie shot back a testing glare. “Dude, what’s up with you tonight? You’ve been on one since Gareth’s.”

“Yeah, you ok man?” asked Jeff.

The knots tightened in his stomach as the attention of all three of them closed in around him. “Just—let’s just get our shit together…please,” he deflected.

Glancing around frantically, you wondered, for the hundredth time, where the hell Janet was. You couldn’t be that surprised that a woman with two small children was late, but your exhaust was making a smokescreen of the parking strip, and you wondered if anyone inside had noticed, if anyone could hear the low rumble of your engine and questioned why this strange woman was idling. With an irritated sigh, you turned the key, leaving you in deafening silence and leeching cold. You could hear your breathing now, your pounding heart, the squeaking of leather as you shifted in your seat. What one of the kids got sick? What if she called after you left?

What if she isn’t coming?

Eddie’s eyes lingered at the door as he clicked the pedals with his feet, plucking a soft, testing melody into the mic. His watch glared under the stage lights, confidence fleeting with every minute that ticked by. Gareth snapped his foot petal with a deep thud. Dave walked out a bassline before squealing feedback made the whole bar flinch.

The strum of a chord made you jump. Booming and electric, you heard it through the walls. They were starting. They were starting and you weren’t there. Gripping the steering wheel, you tossed your head back in an anguished sigh. You sure as hell weren’t going to stand him up. As you glanced around the parking lot one last desperate time, the bitter conclusion rose like bile — you may have to do this alone. Seatbelt clicking under your gloved thumb, you steeled yourself for the cold, for the eyes of strangers in a strange new place. With a decided pull of the handle, the door opened to the frigid night air, and you emerged from the heat into the unknown.

You met your reflection in the glass of the entrance as your hand gripped the weathered knob. Pinballs fired off at lightning speed — a jackpot multi-ball bonanza. Checking your hair one last time with eyes locked on your own, you turned the handle with a determined sigh.

A bell dinged above your head, and winter’s chill gusted in on your heels.

The whole room turned at once — at you. You, from the front of the classroom. You, from behind the big desk. You, in the doorway of The Hideout. Across a dark sea of scattered tables, poised on an altar of sound and light, Eddie Munson smiled at you — brighter than all of it.

The door fell shut behind you. Hot under the gaze of what seemed like the entire bar, it suddenly felt like you were the one on stage. Standing there like a deer in headlights in your long wool coat and clean black boots, you surely must have looked as out of place as you felt. Shoulders rolling back to counter your thrumming nerves, your boots left the rug and found the tacky linoleum as you approached the bar that lined the left wall.

Eddie busied his shaking hands with tapping another test melody into his mic, pausing when he heard a voice over his right shoulder.

“Is that…?” Jeff pointed toward the back of your head.

Gareth’s eyes lit up in recognition. Dave peered over with a shit-eating grin. “Did you invite her?” he mouthed.

Eddie’s face betrayed him, burning like it did under the fluorescents. Burning to greet you at the bar, for the liberty to patronize it, to offer you something more than his aching gaze.

“No,” Eddie lied, “but I may have told her we play here on Tuesdays.” He struck the strings with the weight of his frustration, drowning out any further questions with the opening chords to the first song on the setlist. The others took their cue with chuckles and shaking heads. Heart pounding like the kick drum behind him, Eddie’s fingers found the frets, tugging a muscle memory from deep within as his eyes stayed fixed on you.

There was an older man in a sweatshirt behind the bar. The owner, you figured, by the way he was standing — arms crossed, stance wide, unafraid to take up space. By the way he was looking at you, like he wondered what would drive a new face to his establishment on a random Tuesday night in December. From the glances the others passed between them, the feeling seemed unanimous.

“How can I help you?” he half shouted against the chugging chords, leaning against the bar with a curious smile.

You braced with your brightest grin, placing your gloved hands down flat on the waxy bar. “Hi! Yes—um,” you scanned the selection under the neon lights, the liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes reflected in the dirty mirror behind them. The bar back was tightly cluttered with old stickers and hand-written notes taped behind the cash register, with half-empty bottles of bitters and bobble heads nodding to the palpable vibration. Having no interest in standing there awkwardly while he fixed you a cocktail, you selected a bottle of Coors.

He nodded and ducked to open the steel, magnet-plastered fridge beneath the cash register.

Your gaze, like a magnet, drew back to the stage. It was all you could do just to watch him — the way his curls fell gently at his cheek, the way they bounced with every strum. There was a tension lingering just under the curve of his lashes. The music was fast and loud, purely instrumental. You recognized nothing about it but the genre. Head dipped in concentration as his left hand tapped a frantic melody into the frets, he raised his eyes bravely to meet yours.

He wasn’t the only man staring. It was hard to ignore; the man in the baseball cap to your right as you stared right through his line of sight. You pinched off your gloves and shoved them in your pockets to occupy your hands.

A bottle cap plinked against the bar top. “Two bucks,” the owner stated, slinging a towel over his shoulder.

You fished through your purse, feeling those eyes on you as you opened your wallet, as you slid the bills right under his gaze across the waxy counter. You snatched the cold bottle and raised it to your lips. Turning over your shoulder, your eyes clung to Eddie on stage, to his tendons as they flexed to pick a rhythm at the strings. His was gaze a soft and yearning thing, a contrast to the sharp and punchy chords that left his fingers.

“You know these guys?” the man in the cap asked finally, pointing to the stage. Your eyes shot toward him in surprise, lips still pursed at the bottle. He had that working man sort of look. Average features, subtle crows feet, a whisper of sandy stubble across his strong jaw. His grey-blue eyes were gentle, but brimming with a heated curiosity.

You used the much needed swig to buy yourself a second. Did you? The cold, bready fizz sparkled down your throat. You supposed you didn’t have to specify how you were acquainted. “Yeah,” you answered simply, plugging your mouth with the bottle like a dam.

A bell rattled behind you. Grateful for any disruption, you whipped around quickly to break the connection. Janet lit up as soon as she saw you, a mixture of relief and apology playing out on her face as she strode across the room. Tight blonde curls emerged from her lowering leopard print hood. “Oh my god I’m so sorry,” she lamented, arms opening to embrace you.

Relief washed through you like a warm buzz. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it!” you said as your nose took a dive in her soft, perfumed curls.

“Sarah would not stop crying, it took forever for me to finally get her to sleep. I swear babies have a sixth sense, they always know when you have fun plans,” she said through a laugh. Her lashes were long and thick with mascara, eyeshadow a solid sky blue so vibrant that it popped even in the dim neon glow.

Janet ordered a margarita. There was nothing new to speak of, really, over the electric roar of the band, but you tried to listen. Intently, you tried to listen to the new words her son was saying, to offer some lukewarm update about how work was going, but your eyes had their own agenda.

The rolled cuffs of Eddie’s tight, acid-washed jeans bunched against the pull tabs of his boots as he tapped the rhythm with his heel. There was no jacket for him to strain against, no flannel to constrict him, no sleeves on his T-shirt in December. It was more than you’d seen of him yet. Ink flexed with each generous swell of his bicep, and with every attack, he would flash you his ribs through the hand-hacked holes.

“Mmm,” Janet mumbled, sipping off the top of the very full, salt-rimmed rocks glass. “Come on, let’s get cozy,” she said with a wink and gestured toward the tables. The air was thick with smoke wafting from the bikers at the bar. Eddie tapped out another lick and peered through a few stray curls as you followed her across the room to a high top, back and center.

You wanted to be closer. Close enough to see the umber of his eyes, the ridges of his knuckles as they plucked the strings. There were a few shorter tables down in front, back about five feet from the stage. But as the beams of light bounced off the glossy wood and over the seats in blinding white, you were grateful for the shadows ten feet would afford you.

Janet stripped off her coat to reveal a tight black dress with long sleeves and sequined, padded shoulders. It hugged just above the knees of her sheer hose, punctuated with sharp ankle boots.

“Look at you all dressed up! You look stunning.” You meant it, she really did.

Janet’s smile was a shy deflection, but hiding just beneath it, a glimmer of belief. “Thanks, this thing’s been sitting in my closet for like a year now. Can you believe it? I just felt like, you know, if I’m going out I’m gonna dress up goddamn it,” she laughed, punctuating with a slap against the table. “We coulda gone to Benny’s, I still woulda worn it.”

You laughed, for the first time since you’d talked to her that morning. Unbuttoning your coat, you let it drape over the metal back of the stool behind you.

“You’re not looking too shabby yourself,” Janet said with a wink before taking a sip.

“Honestly I’ll take any excuse I can get to dress down,” you said with a sheepish huff, propping your elbows on the sticky table before bringing the bottle to your lips.

A nervous crackle wound its way through Eddie’s stomach at the vision of you. You, perched on a stool in a dive bar. You, in jeans and a t-shirt. You, arching forward just enough to grace him with a sliver of your back. It was real — you, here. He soured a note, and those words he shook off came creeping back in as he fumbled through the next lick. But you didn’t seem to notice. You propped your cheek against your knuckles and let the warmth of your eyes usher his doubts away.

When the song came to a ringing conclusion, Janet’s cheer was uninhibited, clapping her hands above her head. It drew eyes from the couple seated at one of the lower tables, from the bikers at the bar, from the band. Your applause was more demure, but you couldn’t mask the brilliance of your smile.

“Thank you, thank you,” Eddie said into the microphone. “Looks like we really have a crowd tonight. Seven drunks.”

The room erupted with hollers and cheers.

The bassist muttered something to the other guitarist and the two shared a laugh, casting their eyes towards you. Suddenly your face grew very hot. Of course they recognized you, Jeff was in your second period class. You anticipated this, and yet it was the realness of it all that shook you — the hard stool beneath you, the stares you could feel as your finger idly traced the cold condensation on the glass. Pinballs fired off at rapid speed. You drowned them with a tip of the bottle.

Eddie shifted, clicking the pedals with his foot. “Ok, so this next one is uh, definitely not an original.” He breathed a laugh into the microphone, glancing up at you — at your shoulders, hunched in shy defense, at your worried brow and downcast gaze. He wished he could reach across the room, lift your chin with his words and draw you from your shell. “Anyway, you’ll uh, probably recognize this one,” he said, to you.

Eddie nodded to the band, counting off silently before they struck a chord together — a low, droning thing, gritty and slow as the bass walked steadily over the foundation. Eddie swayed back and forth, rocking in time with the beat like a march, resting his heavy-lidded gaze on you. Across the divide of scattered seats, you — at the small table, saw him — on the big stage. His nimble fingers struck the chords with an ardent conviction, and the ice in you began to thaw.

Suddenly the beat changed pace. Gareth smacked his drum sticks together to count off, and the first two chords sparked instant recognition. A smile rose up in you — a wild and thrumming thing, radiant and rising until it cracked through.

You knew what was coming. Two chords, quiet taps for a count of sixteen, and then those two chords again, like a one-two punch, booming and building with anticipation. Again, and again, as the energy rose in the room. You caught the wicked glint in his eyes as his hands—those hands that fidgeted and fumbled with dog-eared pages and chewed up pens—wielded power. A surge of electricity swirled through your stomach, crackled because you knew what was next.

Eddie took a deep breath, and opened his mouth.

Generals gathered in their masses

Colors. Warm and bright, tingling like a shockwave from your chest down to your seat.

Just like witches at black masses

In your secret daydreams, you often wondered what his voice sounded like in song.

Evil minds that plot destruction

Tried to guess from his deep hums and brilliant laughter.

Sorcerers of death’s construction

Now, it suspended in the air like a battle cry, reaching out across the chasm of tables and chairs.

In the fields the bodies burning

Surging like a wildfire.

As the war machine keeps turning

Swirling through the darkness like a strange magic.

Death and hatred to mankind

Reaching out like it wanted to touch you.

Poisoning their brainwashed minds

And so you let it.

Oh lord, yeah!

The music rocked and swelled. Like a balm reverberating through the air, it softened the hunch of your shoulders. Like an antidote, it dissolved the knot in your stomach. Like an arrow, it pierced the shell of you.

Janet took a generous sip of her margarita and bobbed her head to the rhythm. You caught her gaze from across the table and shared a laugh, a mutual knowing through squinted eyes and shaking heads that this was, in fact, a Tuesday night in December, and the two of you were here.

As the cold drink warmed your limbs, you became acquainted with the hard curve of the stool beneath you, with the of rings left behind on the glossy table, with the crowded ashtray. Acquainted with the smoke that wafted through the air and the darkness that enveloped you like a blanket. The music settled over the room, and as you settled into that heavy buzz, you started to get the feeling you might actually enjoy yourself tonight.

Janet needed no convincing. Her first margarita went down easy, leaving nothing but the ice and her hot pink lipstick on the rim before they finished their fourth song. When she returned from the bar with one in each hand, she placed the extra in front of you. Her treat, convinced they were better than Pal Joey’s, insisting that you try it even with a few sips still lingering in your bottle.

It surprised you — the balance of lime, and liquor, and something else you couldn’t quite place. It surprised you how it easy it melted the tension in your stomach, how it encouraged you to lean in a little more, to let your shoulders drop.

Eddie noticed it, peeking out from under the coyly dipping collar of your shirt; bare and soft as you leaned against the table — your shoulder. He missed a note. Cursing silently, he glanced down at his fingers and tapped into that deep, subconscious part of his brain again where they knew just where to go. But when he closed his eyes to find it, the image remained painted to his lids — a ripened fruit, tempting but too far to taste. Across it, a stripe of black hazard tape, a trail he itched to follow.

There was a hunger in you, stirring more with every song, with every decadent flash of his pale ribs. He was good. Stadium good. Those nimble fingers tapped the frets, making them sing in a way that made you wish you were wire and wood, looking at you in a way that made you think he wished the same. He stroked the neck of his instrument with a reverent touch, attacked the strings with a holy power, like a wingless angel with a spotlight halo. You whispered a silent prayer, venerating him from your faraway pew in the only way you could — with your eyes.

The animal stirred in its icy den, roused by the warmth of his voice as it stretched across the bar. It stirred in that place you rarely acknowledged, rarely indulged as you considered what other talents his hands might have. You considered the shades of those sighs and swallows he took before painting the air, considered what they might sound like if he showed you. It settled and throbbed in that low, blooming place, and you smothered the feeling with a cross of your legs.

Busying yourself with what remained of your beer, you shifted your shoulders to face him directly, leaning your free arm against the metal back of the stool with an ease that Eddie considered looked almost as good on you as the shirt did. Your lips lingered on the rim of the bottle before parting with a soft pop. He swallowed.

There was a gap between you; a sea of scattered tables and wide open ears and eyes amongst them. What could he possibly say from his position? From a microphone on stage? A thousand words ached on the tip of his tongue and he swallowed them with a sloppy chug of water as the applause bought him a moment to consider.

The white lettering across your chest jumped out at him from the shadows like a bright idea. Eddie swiped droplets from his mouth and turned to his bandmates, bringing them into a huddle as the noise drowned out what he was saying. Whatever it was, after some deliberation, they seemed in agreement about it.

You hadn’t seen Janet like this since the summer between your junior and senior year of college. She was always a happy drunk; talkative and bubbly, spilling over with laughter and the sort of wild enthusiasm that a child at a carnival might have.

“I wanna dance,” she said longingly, glancing toward the stage as she slumped in her seat.

“Maybe we can go to a club next time,” you joked as you downed the remainder of your sweating drink.

The band assumed their positions again. Eddie tapped the pedals with his feet and rolled his shoulders back with a deep, collecting breath. His eyes found yours across the room, brimming with such a longing you wondered anyone else could sense it too. After the longest second, he snapped his head over his shoulder with a steely conviction and nodded off a count before making his attack — the opening riff to Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love”.

Your hands shot to your face.

Suddenly Janet perked up, inspired by the catchy rhythm and her own suggestion. “We should dance! Will you dance with me?”

You balked, shrinking down. “There’s like… six people here! I don’t think it’s really that kind of—”

“Oh come on, please? What’s there to lose, huh?”

Oh, only my last remaining shred of dignity in front of my students. But you couldn’t say that. “Janet,” you hissed. “We are not—I can’t—”

Her three margaritas had a different opinion. They reached across the table and grabbed your hand. “Come on, live a little! That’s what we came here to do, right?”

You buried your face in your other. The truth was you wanted to. You wanted a closeup of that smart smirk, of the sweat beading down his temple as he strummed the punchy chords he hand-picked just for you. You wanted the fantasy, the memory, the experience. It was convincing — her pouting pink lips and pleading eyes, almost as convincing as the tequila coursing through your veins. The truth was you left your better judgement at home on the coffee table. To her giddy satisfaction, you surrendered. Dragging you from your seat, she led you to the front of the stage.

Eddie’s smile could have blinded you, even through the shy web of your fingers. Cheers erupted from the bar, from the whole band, as Janet shimmied her sequined shoulders to the beat.

Eddie opened his mouth again, this time with an ardor you could feel in your bones.

You need cooling, baby I’m not fooling

He crouched down to level with your eyes. I’m gonna send ya back to schooling

You lowered your hand to mask the girlish grin that cracked across your face.

Way down inside, honey you need it

They were breathtaking up close — his eyes. Sparkling with an energy you’d never seen before. Rich umber alight with something you couldn’t quite place, too mesmerized by the promise his tongue wove through the air.

I’m gonna give you my love

I’m gonna give you my love… oh!

He straightened with a backward toss of his head, and you found the word you were looking for in the droplets that flung from his curls. Power.

Wanna whole lotta love?

Janet—having an absolute field day over the spectacle—offered you her hand like she wanted to tango. Freeing your face with a brave sigh, you accepted with a slap of your palm in hers. She tugged with a childish delight, and you took your cue — spinning into her waiting arm and shooting back out with a flourish dredged up from some long forgotten place. The room became a blur of sound and light, of cheers from the bar and the stage. You stilled to find your footing, landing on his eyes.

You’ve been learning, and baby I’ve been yearning

He dipped down again. All them good times baby, baby, I’ve been lear-er-nin’, he punctuated with a shake of his head. He could see the whole vision of you, bright and clear under the stage lights. A wildness lingering just behind your eyes, a fragment unseen until now. It pounded at the cage of your chest, rose up in the shallow breaths you caught before Janet snatched you away again. He swore—silently on a deep inhale—that he would do everything in his power to coax it out of you.

Way, way down inside, oh honey you need it

I’m gonna give you my love

You couldn’t remember the last time you really danced. The last time you felt a rhythm with your body and followed its blind inspiration. No rhyme or reason, no plans or choreography. It felt awkward at first, like trying on skin fresh from the wash. Feeling your feet shuffle against the tacky linoleum, finding the rhythm of yourself with a room full of strangers as witness.

Somewhere between the beams of light and the wink of Eddie’s rings beneath them, you found it. Like a memory rising up, sweeping through you like a current. Visions of a stadium, roaring as a lion struts the stage with his golden mane, as he commands a sea of thousands with his voice. There was an animal in you too, wild and careless.

It grew wilder when the music dropped to nothing but percussion. When the room fell away to nothing but the heat from Eddie’s eyes, sparkling with play. It made your hips want to sway a little more, your legs want to dip a little deeper to match his wildness with your own. Imbued with a sudden, potent energy, he struck his wicked instrument as the rhythm and melody unraveled.

Janet took it in stride, leading you in a rocking shimmy as you swayed to the change in tempo. Light danced on her sequined shoulders as she tipped her head back in a blissful cackle. You followed her lead, eyes fixed on her with a surging power in the knowing of whose eyes were fixed on you.

The air was a cool kiss against the sliver of skin where your shirt left off, daring you to show a little more. With a twist of your arms toward the spotlights, you blessed him with the dip of your back — the alluring shadow of your spine that trailed into the high waist of your jeans. He panged with the urge to follow it, fell to his knees and wailed through his fingertips.

You broke from Janet’s pull to face him, eye-to-eye level, watching reverently as the sweat glistened in his clavicles, as his pelvis jutted into his weapon to eke out his solo. Howling for you with each stroke of its neck, each bend in its strings as you matched his rhythm with your hips. A secret world, just you and him, the rest fading out into nothing. He swore, like a spell in each note that he wove through the air, that somehow he would make it last.

From his knees, Eddie grabbed the mic off the stand, and with a wordless nod earned by years of friendship, Jeff took over the melody. To the delight of the crowd, he stripped himself of the weight of his instrument, setting it carefully off to the side.

You’ve been cooling, baby, I’ve been drooling, he crooned as he crawled forward.

All the good times, baby, I’ve been misusing

You played with him there. With your shoulders, with your eyes locked no more than a foot from his. Desperate to touch him, you worshiped every bead of sweat that fell from his temple, every wet curl that strayed from the nape of his neck and hugged the strong angle of his jaw. What left his lips next dripped with such fervent intention you that you couldn’t keep your hand from your face.

Way, way down inside

I’m gonna give you my love

I’m gonna give you every inch of my love

I’m gonna give you my love

He was pure energy; raw and manic. Free in the way that wild things are. He snatched your breath away, dragged it to his den and had his way with it as he queried the chorus to you. There was wildness all around; in glinting sequins and megawatt smiles. In the flashes of limbs under the lights. In the rhythm you carried with your whole body now, moving in a way that was both so foreign and natural all at once.

You wondered how it looked from the outside; you and him. From the bar it might have looked like drunk spontaneity. From the stage it might have looked like a stint of support for the arts. You wondered, with a twinge of fear, if the others could feel the longing too or if you had masked it well enough as a performance.

The music dropped out to make way for the final lyrics.

Way down inside, he belted into the silence, punctuating with a deep inhale. Woman, he shouted, locking eyes with you for a pregnant second as the world came to a halt, you need… he drew a deep breath in the space the two chords allowed him before wailing the final word at the ceiling — loooooooove!

You felt it with every cell of your body in one suspended moment. Felt—for the first time since you could vividly remember—truly and completely alive. With a crash of cymbals and an electric instrumental boom, the rhythm—and the world—reconstituted around you, swirling with a vibrant energy that swept you away.

His dark eyes opened with a wicked glint, and his next breath left his chest as a command.

Shake for me, girl. I wanna be your backdoor man!

You obeyed with a shimmy of your shoulders and the room went wild.

______

Janet left you with a tight, perfumed hug. A gentle reassurance that yes, she was fine to drive home. She left you in the vacuum of slamming guitar cases and distant voices as the jukebox picked up where the band left off. Left you to sober up to how idle and awkward you felt sitting at the table you once shared with her, picking at the peeling label on the wet, empty bottle.

When you heard footsteps approaching, a part of you was grateful for the prospect of someone—anyone—to talk to, though it wasn’t who you hoped. Instead, it was the man in the cap from the bar.

“Hey, love the shirt,” he remarked, glance lingering a little too long over the text across your chest.

“Thanks,” you said shyly, gaze drifting back to the bottle.

He stepped closer, setting his can on the table. “I take it you went to that concert?”

“I did, it was really last minute actually.” You told him the story. You told him with your words and gestures, twisting in the tall stool to face him, but it was Eddie that drew your eyes. Crouched down with one knee bent beneath him and the other straining against denim slits, he collected his pedals into a tiny, vintage suitcase. There were words coming out of your mouth, but faced with the rigid angles of his thighs, you were helpless but to stumble over some of them.

It was then that you noticed he had already been staring, though not at you, at Bill — with a simmer behind his eyes.

“Man, I woulda killed to go to that show. I was working a double when tickets went on sale and a buddy of mine said he was gonna camp overnight for us. Well, he ended up getting into a fight with his girlfriend and flaked out. ‘Course they were sold out and closed by the time I left work.”

You expressed your genuine sympathy.

“Boy I was pissed at him then, but even more pissed after Bonham died. Like damn, that was my last shot, man!”

“I’m sorry you had to miss it. It was quite the show.” You told him what you could remember. The setlist, the stage, what they wore.

Eddie watched closely, carefully darting between you amidst the gathering of cables and closing of metal latches. He watched your hands come to life like he loved so much, like you always did when you were explaining something with fond enthusiasm. Helplessly, he watched the way Bill leaned closer, the way his hand and forearm made themselves at home on your table. The simmer hissed and bubbled behind his eyes.

“Anyways, it’s good to see such a lovely new face around here. One with great taste, I might add. Made my night.”

The simmer kicked up to a full, licking flame.

“Oh, well thanks. I don’t get out much,” you said with an awkward chuckle.

Bill stepped closer, as if his next point was something he had to lean in for. “By the way, and I hope this isn’t too forward, but… you’re a great dancer.”

Eddie watched your hand dive behind your neck, your face contort into a feeble smile, your shoulders hunch, your eyes glance down. He could hear the distress in your beautiful laugh and he boiled so hot he could have seared a hole into the back of Bill’s head.

He extended his hand. “I’m Bill, by the way.”

Eddie wrapped the cable in hasty circles around his forearm. Heat rose behind behind his tight lips and exited in short fumes.

“Hey man, have you seen the drum key anywhere?” Gareth called from behind him.

It barely registered. The world was a fragment now. A red-hot, narrowing tunnel reduced to a singularity — Bill’s hand.

Bill’s hand; hovering like a salacious invitation, too close to the soft swell of your belly. That open, rugged palm — weathered, experienced, and free. Free to reach into his wallet, to reach across the bar, to hand you a drink, to wander all sorts of places where Eddie could not.

You, ever polite and always accommodating, reached back.

He touched you.

Eddie’s vision narrowed red. Helplessly, he watched Bill’s fingers snake around the back of your hand and squeeze, linger at your palm as they released. A coil wound through his body. It rose up like bile — up through his spine, into his shoulders that rolled forward and back with a deep, seething breath. Up, up, into that primitive space at the base of his skull where words and civil manners had no place.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Eddie dropped the cable.

The world blurred in the wake of his target and in five swift steps he was at your side. “Hey, Bill. Uh—” his senses ebbed back to him with a curious look from the man he’d shared countless drinks with. A man he would call his friend had he not breeched a sacred distance, a contract he knew nothing of. His vision was clouded, the coil tight and hot.

“She’s um,” he continued quietly, a murmur he had to lean in for. An urge seized his hand. The urge to claim, to slip across the divot of your back and pull you close where you belonged, to but the noise from the stage and the eyes that followed forced his hand deep into his pocket. He swallowed his frustration, hoping the simmer in his eyes would be enough to convey what he meant. “She’s with me, man.”

A throb from that low, blooming place, rose up in a full body yes. In the arch of your back, in the dip of your eyes as you caught the desperate heat from his.

Bill blinked in honest surprise. “Wait, you mean,” he pointed between the two of you, eyes darting back and forth with a confusion that only deepened the insecurity of everyone involved, “you’re—”

“Yes,” Eddie hotly interrupted. The coil in him released slightly, a low rumble replaced by a surge that settled in his cheeks at the trembling, nervous laughter in your voice.

Flutters roared through you all at once, spinning the room well beyond the scope of the liquor that lingered in your veins, heightening your senses to the warmth radiating from the aching nearness of his body to yours.

“Well, hey man, we were just talking—”

“Yeah—well,” he glanced at you, an apology playing out in the widening of his eyes as the coil cooled to sobering embarrassment. He wished he could bury himself, open a trapdoor and take you with him. A parade of stomping feet and slamming cases trudged on behind him from the stage. He prayed the din was enough to mask the conversation.

“It’s ok!” you nervously exclaimed to both of them. “Really. Besides, I—I need to sober up anyway before I go home, so… it’s really ok,” you soothed to Eddie specifically.

Eddie’s pulse thrummed in his hears, his body a livewire of stress and embarrassment. “Ok. Well, I just, um… thought I’d let you know,” he concluded to Bill, desperate to string together some semblance of dignity. He dipped his head toward you until his voice hummed lowly in your hear. “It’ll just be a few more minutes. I gotta get the rest of this shit cleaned up, and then we can, um—” his eyes darted back and forth between yours in wordless exasperation.

“Yeah,” your body whispered, overriding any protest of your noble mind. To what you were agreeing to was unimportant. Whatever he wanted.

Eddie nodded and pivoted toward the stage in a swift exit.

In the wake of his absence was an awkward pause, a space Bill was quick to fill with words. “Well, um, it was nice to meet you,” he said with an awkward dip of his head.

“Yeah, you as well,” you said, a feeble anchor to the spinning room. Bill’s gaze hesitated with a flash of disappointment before returning to the bar. It was all you could do to just stand there a moment, heart pounding in stunned realization as the space whirled with the clammer of footsteps, the thud of equipment, the clinking of glasses. Suddenly the weight of your aloneness in the middle of it all was crushing. You retreated to the down the short hallway and ducked into the bathroom.

She’s with me.

In the muffled quiet of the dimly lit reprieve, the words echoed louder than ever. You were almost afraid to check your reflection, to look yourself in the eyes and face the person who ached to hear them repeated, but you did, and she surprised you. Something about the way your lipstick feathered clean in the center from the kiss of the bottle, the way your mascara settled at your lower lashes in the delicate lines beneath. It was oddly flattering, like the shadow of a good time.

You liked who you saw, and perhaps that scared you most.

Jeff’s laughter echoed down the hallway and the pinball trigger snapped again. What the fuck am I doing?

You would ask yourself this question as you pressed the tip of your boot to the dirty toilet handle, as the cold water woke your skin, as it dripped onto the salt-stained tile, as you dropped the soggy remains of the last two paper towels into the overflowing trashcan.

When the clammer of footsteps and slamming of the back door faded to nothing more than distant murmurs from the bar, you slowly cracked the door and peered into the empty hallway. Your boots clicked tentatively against the tacky linoleum, emerging from the shadows as you drew a steady breath. The stage was dark, the men perched on stools had their backs to you, all roaming eyes cast down over drinks — all except one.

Eddie stood in the middle of it all; hands on hips, damp curls clinging to his neck, chest still heaving from movement and stress. He locked eyes with you, and you could feel relief in his sigh from the apron of the hallway.

Your smile was a shy, timid thing, blooming to a helpless grin as the softness of his features heightened into focus with each progressive step. As the distance between you closed to less than a foot.

“Hey,” he breathed like a soft apology.

“Hey,” you answered, like you always did. A nervous crackle of anticipation wound through your gut.

“I um,” Eddie wrung a hand behind his neck, flashing a dark tuft of hair that made the animal in you stir. “I need to cool down,” he admitted with a raw, candid urgency. He patted his pockets. “I’m gonna step out for a cigarette… if you… wanna…” he nodded toward the back hall.

Yes. Anything, the animal growled. You simply nodded and went to grab your coat.

Eddie snatched the heap of leather from the railing by the stage and draped it over his arm. He ushered you forward with a sweep of his palm through the air, catching your eyes with a softness that threatened the strength of your knees. A giggle escaped you — honest, uncontrollable, automatic. Clutching your arm with a coyness that surprised even yourself, you shuffled in front of him, the towering presence of his closeness like a tingle at your back, a safety in the thud of heavy boots behind you.

The night air was a cold refreshment, a sobering reprieve from the hot, smoke-dense air of The Hideout. Your lungs helped themselves, filling to the brim, releasing just a little of the tension that was mounting before you arrived. It left you in a thick fog, drifting out into the empty patio, catching the glow from the singular bulb posted by the door. Eddie pulled it shut with a soft thud and shrugged on his coat in a rattle of zippers and chains.

Silence. A howl of the wind through naked limbs. A sigh that left both of you at once.

Eddie dipped his head in subtle reverence as he crossed in front of you, placing his hands on the short, wooden fence to your right. He paused a second, drawing a deep breath before spinning around to face you, hands splayed in an open plead. “I am so fucking sorry.”

Your mouth hung open. “A-about what?”

He ran a hand through his hair with a ragged sigh. “About Bill, about how I acted, a-about…” he swallowed, “what I said…”

An O trembled on your lips but never made it out. “It’s fine, really—”

“It’s…it’s not. It’s just that,” he huffed, “Bill was hitting on you a-and you just looked so uncomfortable and…” it drove him fucking crazy. It lit his blood on fire. It made him want to grab a man who’d bought him countless drinks by the collar and ram him into the wall.

You stepped closer, close enough to see the whites of his eyes in the darkness, the shadow of his pinching brow. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t stir something in you. Hearing those words. Hearing the ones he said now in profuse apology. “Eddie,” you soothed.

He closed his eyes; a split-second relish of his name on your lips. “It—” he sighed. “It wasn’t cool, to say that…” he shook his head before meeting your eyes in soft earnestness, “in public.”

The breath froze in your lungs. Out here the world fell away to the rustle of trees, to a darkness that cloaked you like a blanket. You were alone. Truly alone. A question tugged at your heart, twinged on the tip of your tongue but felt still too bold to leave it. What would he say, then, in private?

It played out like a tape behind his eyes — the curl of Bill’s fingers around your hand. It was such a simple gesture, benign outside of context. Yet there was something deeper, something that wound like a serpent through his gut. It struck, and stung, that in one fell swoop, Bill had touched as much of you as he had. That Bill could do as much in public as he could only manage beneath a shadow.

“Anyway, now that… that’s out of the way,” Eddie shook his head as he fumbled with the zipper of his pocket, curls feathering his delicate cheekbone, gaze cast down in weakly hidden shame. He procured a box of cigarettes, thumb flipping it open with an ease earned by years of habit. Popping one into his mouth, he paused before snapping it shut. “Y-you want one?” he mumbled. It seemed rude not to ask, but the question felt dumber by the second as it hung in the air. You were good. Good like 6 AM coffee, like the early morning sun. Good like the buttons on a crisp, white blouse. Yet here he stood, hand extended, offering what little he could — an experience.

Goodness was a mantle. A weight that kept your shoulders back, your lips pressed tight, your head cast down, your feet in slippers, your curtains drawn. Eddie Munson stood beside you, rugged and regal like a dark knight, arm outstretched in humble offering. With hesitance, you eyed the invitation.

Out here you could be anything — a vagabond, a runaway, a princess escaped from her castle. A woman who spends Tuesday nights at dive bars and smokes cigarettes with men in leather jackets. Anything you wanted.

You wanted to taste it. You wanted the flame, and the smoke, and the raw, ragged air that wound through your lungs and left like a beacon that soared toward the sky.

You wanted to be bad for him, and so you accepted.

The cigarette almost dropped from Eddie’s mouth in shock. He fumbled another from the box before tucking it into his back pocket. With a flourish, bending in its presentation as if it were a single rose, he offered it to you.

Never in a million years could you have imagined it. You, in a position like this. Him, in a position like that. Least of all that it would be so wildly romantic.

You accepted with the tips of your fingers, your index and middle, brushing ridges of his knuckles with feather-light indulgence. They closed around the offering, pausing for an aching second before drawing away with it.

Eddie closed his eyes, so quickly he could have masked it as a blink, but you caught it. The sigh, the swallow, the batting open with a burning hunger as he relished in the barest fulfillment of what he’d been craving since he saw you this morning — to touch you.

The cold nipped at your knuckles as you took in the foreign sensation between them, admiring it like a sinful adornment under the moonlight.

With a flick of his thumb, the parentheses of his mouth lit up in a warm glow. He took a few quick puffs, smoke billowing from his nose and the corners of his lips before taking a long drag. Satisfaction exited his lungs in a deep sigh, a billow that rose toward the twinkling sky. He turned his attention back to you. “Here,” he offered gently, beckoning you closer with a gentle come hither motion, readying his lighter.

You held your hand out gingerly, willing the trembling of your fingers to cease with little success.

Eddie closed in, bringing a finger to his lips as a gentle suggestion. “Put it in your mouth,” he said, unable to suppress the boyish grin that surfaced from the words.

You did as he told you, held it in your smirk, searched for your next instruction in the depth of his eyes but found only delight. Delight in the whole sight of you; the way it dimpled the swell of your lips, in the attention of those dutiful shoulders, like you wanted to be good at misbehaving. Delight in the fact he was teaching you something.

Eddie leaned closer. “Like this,” he instructed softly, framing his own with his long, ruddy digits before taking a quick drag. Obediently, you mirrored him, like a natural smoker would, like they did in the movies and inside the bar.

The flame ignited between you, flickering in the wild wind. Eddie cupped it with his other hand, forming a shield with the curve of his knuckles — gentle and protective. The fire caught the tip of the slender roll, but his palm was far more captivating. Inches from your face, you could study it closer than ever, plush and glowing — the broad heart line, the soft meat of its heel.

A deep inhale had smoke ghosting over your tongue. Eddie pulled away to reveal the ember and you took your cue. The drag you took, long and determined, left you coughing.

Eddie couldn’t suppress his chuckle, couldn’t mask the crinkle of his eyes as you—from behind the big desk and before the big board—were swallowed in a clumsy cloud of smoke.

“Are you laughing at me?” you asked through a giggle of your own.

Like oxygen to a flame, his laughter only brightened. “I’m sorry, you’re just… so…”

“So…what?” You gave him a look, trying to suck your dignity back through the end of the cigarette.

A million words ached on the tip of his tongue. The wind ripped across the small, frozen field, shyly disappearing in the treeline. Out here there were no bells, no footsteps, no concrete walls to listen. Eddie watched those fingers of yours pull away from your lips, blow a billow toward the open sky, and one in a million came tumbling out.

“Beautiful.”

A puff retreated back through your lips, froze in your lungs. The truth hung like smoke in the cold night air, rolled around in your chest, warmed your body from head to toe. Eddie plugged his mouth with another draw to prevent more from slipping out.

There was space for the truth out here. Space like a vacuum, vast and quiet. A shyly muttered “Thank you,” was all you could manage to fill it with.

Eddie raked his fingers through the damp curls at the nape of his neck, cheeks pinking visibly, even in the dim glow of the single light on the other side of the patio. He leaned against the fence and met your eyes again, nervous breath rolling over his plush lips.

His movement, like a magnet, drew your feet across the pavement. Deeper into the shadows with the gentle pull of his eyes. The tobacco settled in your body with a comfortable heaviness as you drank him in, and you suddenly grasped the appeal.

Out here he seemed even taller, shoulders stacked over slender hips as he leaned into the fence, an ease that washed over him with each generous draw, like the stress was rolling off into the shadows. Out here he took on a different posture, different than the one under fluorescent lights. Different than the one in the small chair next to you, the one with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes.

You tapped the ash of the cigarette off with your finger, like a natural smoker would. He smirked at the gesture, and you caught the twinge of pride in it this time.

Out here he could be anything. He could be clever and daring; a roguish enchanter. A man who casts spells with his fingers and charms with his words. Anything he wanted.

He wanted to make your eyes light up.

Eddie took another drag, hollowing his cheeks before sending out smoke in deliberate puffs with his tongue. It left his mouth in rings, hovering in the gap between you before drifting across the patio.

He got what he wanted. A gasp left your lips, eyes twinkling brighter than the stars. “What?! I didn’t know people could actually do that!” You exclaimed, delighted like a child on Christmas.

Eddie blew the rest off to the side and returned a blinding smile. It was more satisfying than the cigarette — the fact that he could do it, make your face light up. The fact that he had the power.

“How do you do that?” you asked, ever inquisitive.

His instructions were simple; take a big drag, hollow your cheeks, make the shape with your mouth, and push the smoke out with your tongue. Simple enough, from the sound of it.

Your first attempt failed, miserably. Uproariously.

“The shape is critical,” he reminded through a chuckle, “it’s gotta be like, a perfect O, not an oval.” His eyes lingered over your lips as you tried his suggestion, struggling to will his mind away from the gutter.

Your smile made it hard to maintain. “Wait—wait, hold on I think I got it.” You tried again with great focus, sending out puffs with your tongue that looked nothing like rings. It was worth it though. Worth making a fool of yourself for the amusement that colored his face, for the bright laughter it earned you. “Ok, fine. Maybe not.”

It looked good on him, just like it did on stage. This knowing that drew his shoulders back, made him lean with a powerful ease. The knowing that he was really good at something, that he could show you.

“It’s a bit advanced,” he said with a wink before taking another deep drag. He puffed a ring and cast it forward with a push of his hand, like a spell through the air. It broke on your nose and you relished in the soft sensation of his life-force ghosting over your face.

It was all you could do just to look at him — rugged and regal in the way that only he could be. It was dangerous and thrilling; how alone you were right now. His aura pulled you closer, eyes tugging at those burning questions, serious questions at war with your lingering buzz. You broke the silence with the truth; soft and sincere. “You’re insanely talented, I hope you know that.”

The curve of his lashes dipped shyly with a little puff through his nose. They raised with a sparkle that cut through the darkness. “Thanks, it uh… comes a lot easier to me than chemistry.” He tapped off his ash on the pavement.

You tucked your free hand into your pocket with a bashful shuffle of your feet. “Well, good thing rockstars don’t need to know chemistry then.”

Eddie scoffed and gave his eyes a quick roll, unsuccessful at hiding the brilliance of his smile. Heat crept up his neck, and he soothed it with a wring of his hand.

There was a gap between you; a space you were too scared to breach. The two of you filled it with shy chatter as your cigarettes dwindled to nubs. It was easy, to talk to him. About music, about anything. Easy because you gave each other turns to take it; the space. It almost made it easy to forget who you were to each other before you came out here, who you would go back to being tomorrow.

The cold was wicked and relentless; biting at your knuckles as you tapped the last ash. Even the tobacco’s heavy warmth sinking to your feet couldn’t stave it off. It was a Tuesday night in December, and the wind made sure to remind you.

Eddie followed your eyes toward the door. “It’s ok,” he reassured. “Nobody comes out here. We’re safe.”

His words sparked a tingle in your chest, a pulse of heat; low and thrumming. Neither could halt the shiver that seized your limbs.

“You ok?” he asked gently, stepping close enough to almost feel the heat from him.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You blew on your hands, rubbing them together feebly to fight the cold. You were stubborn to surrender, determined not to end your stolen moment by succumbing.

It was all he could do just to look at you. You, shaking like a leaf in the wind. You, with longing eyes and trembling lips. You, with your soft skin and softer soul. His fingers burned, wrestled with the silence, and the distance, and the howl of the wind through the trees. They warred with the ticking clock, with the chill against his precious moment, with the threat of it winning. Suddenly his fingers—bolder than they’ve ever been in his life—twitched to animation. They toyed with the cold metal zipper at his neck, and in one decided tug, he opened up for you. “Here,” he offered.

You froze, more than the cold could ever manage, as you eyed the invitation — the warm leather cave, the exposure of his heaving chest. Your lips parted but words would not come. You wanted it — the heat, the tight embrace, to be wrapped in his aura, to feel his laughter with your palms.

Your noble mind as it cast its disapproval like a shadow toward your heart, but your hands and feet were deaf to it. Boots shuffling boldly against the rough pavement, they filled the gap between his. You accepted with the tips of your fingers, delicate and tentative, like his skin was a hot iron and yours at risk to burn. You watched them disappear into the darkness, felt the soft cotton warmth as it enveloped you. With trembling slowness, you traced the divots of his ribcage, settled into them like grooves, felt him gasp into your palms when the ice that you’d become found the velvet, heated skin under his arms.

“Sorry—”

“Hah—hmm—no-no it’s ok,” he grimaced, pinning your hands beneath his arms to stop your recoil, as if the pain of the freeze hurt less than the pain of its absence. “I—ah—I asked for this.” His chuckle was a warm vibration, a flutter as the cage which housed his heart contracted.

A shiver racked your body as you thawed. Whether it was nerves, or fear, or the chill that had settled deep in your bones long before you stepped foot outside, you were helpless to control it.

“Come ‘ere,” he breathed with equal care and need.

You submitted, tracing his contours as he pulled you closer — head against his solid shoulder, into the soft pillow of his hair, into the source of his scent: leather and tobacco and the sweet, salty musk of his skin. You closed your eyes and basked in it, nose buried in his curls, drawing in deeply to steady your rattling chest.

Broad palms splayed across the fabric of your coat, pulling you deep into the comfort of his heat, tracing your waist to settle in a place they burned to be — your lower back. “It’s ok, you’re ok,” he murmured into your hair, bracing you tightly as your whole body shook.

You could have died here, buried yourself in his arms and made him your tomb. They would find you in the morning; frozen like a sculpture. Left out for all of Hawkins to see, to point and say terrible things. It wouldn’t matter. You would have died happy.

His heart was pounding with disbelief. You, here, in his arms. You could feel it through your coat, hammering against your chest, into your palms at his back. Eddie felt your breathing slow, your body soften and relax. He crooked his forearm firmly to your back, to the place where it belonged, fingers curling like a cage around your waist. Out here he could be anything — strong and stable, a haven for your tired bones to rest. Anything, for you.

In the dark leather cave there was a landscape for your hands to study. The satin liner grazed your knuckles as your hands explored the angles of his shoulder blades with tentative slowness — down along the muscles of his back, the dip of his spine, the birdcage of his ribs; expanding and contracting, deep and steady.

He was real, here, in your arms. Two swelling lungs. One beating heart. Two hands that clutched the wool barrier between you. One solid shield of a chest. One humming column at your cheek. Eddie Munson; wildfire. Close enough to thaw you. Close enough to burn you to the ground.

Your hands settled at the slim taper of his waist. Pliant and yielding under soft cotton, swelling with each ocean breath. His cage around you tightened, and you breathed him in, felt him swallow, felt his hips slot against the groove of yours with sensed belonging.

The animal in you keened with curiosity, emboldened by the dark. Your hands wouldn’t dare beyond the roadblock of his belt, but they would move in slow strokes up and down his back. A gentle comfort, a mask for your indulgence.

A quiet moan rose up in him, one he couldn’t swallow. The best he could do was cloak it in a sigh. It hummed against your ear; your cheek so close to the crook of his neck you could almost taste it. You breathed him in again, lips pressed to his soft curls against tough leather as the smoke, and musk, and crisp night air filled your lungs.

His hands were less patient; dipping toward the slope of your hips, pawing at thick wool, thumbs drawing aching circles there. It earned an arch from your back, a grasp from your hands at the soft cotton barrier.

There was an animal in him too, preening at the cant of your hips, at the rub of your neck against his. With a dip of his chin he could sink his teeth in, but his noble mind willed it away, settled for the scent of you instead — soft like powder, warm and inviting. The heels of your palms drifted toward his belly, and the animal threatened to rear below his belt.

“Ah,” it leapt out his throat.

Hands freezing before reaching the healthy swell, you drew back from his shoulder, checking in. Your lids hung with visible weight, pupils blown by more than just the lack of light, dizzy from his touch. He could do that with his hands, he thought; a split-second revel before concern sobered your features.

His disappointment was palpable, like he’d burst some great bubble. “Mm—no, it’s fine, please—” please don’t stop. His arms around you tightened, eyes pleading with words he wasn’t bold enough to utter, even in the darkness.

A shadow of guilt fell across your face. Guilt for your greedy hands, for your lost control, for your bad behavior. It was a pitiful sight; worse than the one he saw yesterday. Worse because it was here. Worse because he was closer than he’d ever been before.

There was a gap between you; space for the cold to seep between your hearts. Space for the fear that he’d broken the spell. That you didn’t see him anymore, but your student instead.

You thumbed his soft cotton shirt, buried in the shelter of his coat. Eddie Munson — frenetic and compelling. Beautiful in the way that wild things are. Breathing life into your numb hands with each ragged swell. You studied him closely; his soft cupid’s bow, his pink, plush pout, the angles of his worried jaw, the pining in his eyes.

Want. A wild, elusive thing. A summer wind. An admission at a cost. Want didn’t budge. Want looked you dead in the eyes and tightened its grip.

Eddie knew what he wanted, burning like a question on his tongue. He knew he had to be the one to ask. He was terrified — of the question, of the asking, of the fact that he may never get another chance. Your hands grappled with it, clung like they feared he would vanish. He felt the ache in them, the want, the fear, the frustration. It opened up a narrow passage, and he entered with the boldest thing he had ever done.

He asked you with his forehead first. A gentle nod forward; the softest collision. A tickle of curls. A rock back and forth of his strong, sturdy brow. A smile even you couldn’t hide. Your hands released, settled at the dip of his back in quiet permission.

He asked you with the bridge of his nose. A delicate slope. A tender nuzzle. Rigid bone under soft flesh. Cold, round tip. Roaming the map of yours with heated intention as he swayed like a dance in the moonlight. You closed your eyes, surrendered to the fantasy. Felt the heat of his cheek, the pang of his palm at your back as he pulled you closer.

He asked you with a tilt of his chin, and brought time to a halt.

There was a gap between you. A fractional distance bridged by the ghost of his breath. Within it; every party that you never went to, every basement you were never led away from, every page you never shared, every experience you never had. Goodness was a mantle, heavy from a lifetime on your shoulders.

What did freedom taste like? The question brushed across your lips like a warm invitation. You were desperate for the answer. Wanted it more than anything, ever, in your whole entire life. Wanted it for you, for only you. For once.

Eddie asked the question. You closed the gap.

A sigh left both of you at once. One you could taste this time, humming against the plush cradle of his lips. Freedom could have melted you. It threatened the strength of your knees, but his arms were stronger. Locked against each other in the shadows you borrowed, your lips began to explore, to express every secret wish the two of you had dreamt apart.

Freedom tasted tentative at first. A slow drag of his lips, a languid slip that rippled to the dormant parts of you. Catching like tinder as they grazed over yours, hot with an ache you could taste. It was sinfully exquisite; tasting the curve of his smile, the hyper-real rasp of his stubble as those lips—the ones that shot you smirks from down the hall and spilled over with song—found a rhythm with yours. Broad palms clutched the wool at your waist like you’d slip through a crack if he didn’t hold on.

Freedom was slick. It tasted like cigarettes, like a thousand unsaid words ushered past the border of your mouth. You could taste every one on his tongue, soothed them with the slickness of yours. Every aching word, dripping in each soft caress. Diving like a dance, echoed in the soft, wet smacks when you parted. You devoured them like you were starving. Every sigh, every hum, every color that left his lungs slipped eagerly down your throat.

The wool at your back was a nuisance. Eddie pawed at it, desperate to feel the shape of you through the fabric, to store it in the vault of his mind, to play with it later in private. He halted his hands at your hips, willed them decent, rationed with the small working part of his brain that your lips would have to be enough. He relished in the way you accepted him. The way you spread for him, parting eagerly for his tongue. The way your lips closed around him, rocking as he prodded like you’d done it before. Like you wanted to elsewhere.

The spell was broken. The line, miles away. There was a hunger in you, sudden and surprising, roused by the very first taste. Eddie palmed your hips with an urgency that stirred you. Like a bear in the spring, thawed by the heat of his touch, you devoured him. Devoured him with the wholeness of your splayed hands, tracing up his pounding ribs, dragging across the expanse of his broad chest. It heaved under your touch; solid muscle under soft cotton. You devoured his moan; a hot, strangled thing that escaped his plush lips. Like a match to the strip your tongue, you ignited.

His hands lost their patience. Breaking from your waist, they dove behind your ears to cradle your face. Your face. Your jaw, your delicate cheeks he caressed with the rough pads of his thumbs, as if the swell of them—the rigid bones under soft skin, the absolute realness of you in his arms—could wake him from the dream he was surely having. He was tasting you, tasting the want on your tongue. More satisfying than a four course meal, more satisfying than anything he’d ever tasted in his life. You wanted him. More than that, you savored him; the taste of his hot, eager tongue as it slipped against yours.

Freedom was delicious. Bold and complex, acrid and rich. Full bodied. A smooth, sweet finish. You could have drowned in it. Drowned in the angles of his hands, in his tender strokes, in the sopping heat of his mouth. Drowned in his eager sighs, in his scent. Drowned completely if he hadn’t held your head above the surging waves.

Eddie was good like a midnight snack. Good like a wide open road. He was good at this. Good at knowing how to ask and answer. Good at at finding the rhythm of you.

You broke for air, stilling against the bridge of his nose, afraid to look him in the eyes just yet, to break away from the safety his shadow provided. Safe from the world, safe from consequences, safe from the thoughts that battered at the door of your mind. Safety was fragile and fleeting. You knew it, he knew it. Your breath mingled in hot bursts as you steadied your spinning world for a quiet moment together. You felt him smile—heard it—big and bright as it cracked across his face. The air stung your cheeks when he took his hands away. Leaning back against the fence, he tugged you closer, further into the safety of the shadows, enveloping you in the crook of his heat.

It was good like this — the angles of you and the angles of him, fitting like they always belonged. It felt safe to explore them, to paint his pounding chest, down the soft swell of his belly, stopping at his hips. With a thick bob of his Adam’s apple, he closed the gap again. It was chaste this time, peppering your lips with space to breathe between each kiss. They were slow and savory, steady and sure. They lingered long enough for you to get another taste, to capture that plush Cupid’s bow and let it melt across yours, to flick your tongue over his soft bottom lip and taste him there too.

You could taste his need when he greeted your tongue with his own. It was safe to show it here. Safe to let the animal inside him bare its teeth. Safe to let the animal in you do the same. It growled when he nipped at you, hooked its claws through his belt loops and tugged. It was a quick, testing thing, and your sound let him know that he passed. He lapped it up hungrily, soothed it before inflicting another.

It ached in a frightening way, in that deep, low place. Throbbed awake with each delicious bite. It scared you how quickly the path was veering south, but the pooling warmth encouraged his travels, let him go wherever he wanted. When his lips strayed far enough to track your jaw, a shrinking voice shrieked danger, but the rest of you simply submitted.

Claws braced denim and leather, offering yourself with a tip of your head. Reverently, he accepted, setting his pace with a dizzying slowness. He worshiped you with every latch, every press, every lingering smack, darting his tongue out to taste the forbidden angles of your jaw. It was greedy but good. To him, to you. Letting go this much. Letting him go this far. The trail cooled in the night air, and he settled at the precipice of your neck.

His breath alone was enough to melt you; heavy with the weight of his new position. Heavy with desire, with the weight of thousand fantasies he never thought would come to pass. He drank in the cocktail of your scent; concentrated, warm, deliciously real. In the throws of your own heaving chest, sobered just barely by the pregnant pause, you awoke to your position: open, vulnerable, completely at his mercy.

He tasted your swallow, felt your breath hitch when his warm, wet tongue found your pulse. Lathing there a moment, lingering and slow, he savored you. Savored the ridges of your neck, the way your head lolled to the side, like a feast laid out for him. He stored the image in his mind, packaged it carefully for when he would surely be starving again. His lips soothed where his tongue left off, over and over until your strangled sound stirred a fiending hunger. He bared his teeth, and you shattered.

Freedom was falling apart in his arms. Crumbling into pieces and letting him grapple you whole. Letting him capture you in his maw and lap up your ruin. Letting him, letting him. His teeth dragged dull and slow, tingling every waking cell, turning you to putty completely. He dragged a moan out of you. A full one, loud and clear. He tucked it away, buried it deep alongside your squirms and your touch.

The door opened.

Cold air shocked your lungs. Head snapping over your shoulder, you broke his latch and Eddie hissed a curse at the separation. With daggers, you both assessed the intruder.

The silhouette of his cap gave him away. He might have even kept on walking but the gasps and the shuffling feet made him turn. “Oh shit,” Bill flinched back in surprise. “Sorry man I thought you left.”

Eddie’s arm tightened instinctively, pulling you as close as he wanted to earlier. Reflexively, you pushed away. It was a strange tug of war — his pride and your fear. “Yeah—no we’re still here,” he snapped.

You swallowed your pounding heart, sobering completely under Bill’s gaze. Suddenly your claws retracted, your hands felt wrong where they rested, shame bit at your neck along the cooling trail he left behind.

Even in the backlit glow of the singular light, you saw it painted clearly on his features — the judgement, the disbelief, the questions rising up but not daring to come out. “Well um, sorry to interrupt. Have a good night,” Bill said with an awkward raise of his hand before making quickly for the parking lot.

Footsteps faded over gravel and left a silence in their wake, thicker than the stillness from before.

Eddie breathed a sharp sigh through his nostrils, brows lowered as he seethed toward the parking lot. The cold was setting in again. Your nose, and ears, and fingers stung with it. The rest of you stung worse; chest numbing, caving like a can under the weight of what you’d just done.

When the flick of distant headlights made you brave enough to face him, frustration painted his features. He pawed at your coat, desperate to salvage what he could of his precious moment. “Anyway, where were we?” he muttered, eyeing your neck with a tilt of his head like he was about to dive in again.

Your hand at his chest stopped him, and the look in his eyes was wounding. “Eddie,” you warned softly. A slow, heavy sigh left his nose, one you could feel with your palm. “I need to go.”

Crestfallen after a desperate, hesitant second, his arms went slack. Your hand dropped, leaving a fierce chill behind. One more, his lips begged, but struggled to release. Please.

It hurt, to crumble like this after all you had built. With the roar of Bill’s engine, the fantasy shattered around you. The carriage became a pumpkin, your gown turned into rags. Shrill bells rang out in the distance, coming surely as the sun would rise. Pinballs thundered as that sweet oval face—the one from the back of the room and the chair next to yours—pouted with lips still swollen from where you had broken your contract.

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed.

Gathering himself with a deep breath, he straightened to a dignified height, conviction filling the cracks in his composure. “I’m not.”

It was terrifying — the prospect, the consequences. What it meant for you, for him, for the world you’d have to face tomorrow.

Most terrifying of all was how good it felt to hear him say.

______

A/N: Thank you all for your patience on this one. It took me nearly all summer to finish but I'm really proud of how it turned out. Please let me know what you think! I've missed hearing from and connecting with all of you. Next one won't take nearly as long, I promise. 💕

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @loveshotzz @storiesbyrhi @cursedyuta @trashmouth-richie @carolmunson @keeponquinning @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @big-ope-vibes @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @barbiedragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes @ajkamins

______

MASTERLIST ⎮ AO3 ⎮ KO-FI

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson older reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x teacher!reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #don't stand so close to me

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spencerlj · 1 year

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Emergency Black Label Duane Peters Jaks

Width: 9.5" Length: 32.75" Wheelbase: 16" I bought this deck used to restore the original image. I used Posca Paint pens and tried to recover the image back to the original as close as I could. In the posted pictures, the first image is where the deck graphic has been repainted. The second image is how I purchased it.

#Emergency Black Label #Emergency #Black Label #Duane Peters #Jaks #Skateboard

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hd-junglebook · 3 months

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Falling For It

Part 1

word count - 2,081

Humming under her breath, y/n waltzed to her last round of the night with a smile. The pediatric ward was finally quiet as the young patients slept. After the nonstop buzz of activity from the emergency rooms and worried families, y/n was ready for a breather.

As she passed the nurses station, her friend Destiney looked up from updating charts on the computer.

"Last hour, huh? Well, aren't you just flying through it?" she said with a smirk. She was well aware of y/n’s eagerness to go home.

“Smooth sailing from here,” y/n agreed, giving Destiney a grin. One more hour and her long awaited couch potato plans could begin.

She was planning a weekend of clubbing with her girlfriends at the bar downtown tomorrow night. Music, getting pretty and fruity cocktails awaited her outside of these cold walls.

y/n checked the time - only 30 minutes left in her shift. Just one more patient to check on before she could call it a night. Grabbing fresh gloves and vitals equipment, she made her way to the last room on her rotation.

Knocking gently before entering, she stepped inside. “Good evening Mr. Hughes, I’m y/n, the CNA on duty,” she introduced herself warmly to the young man sitting up in bed. “I just need to get your vitals and a blood sample if that’s alright.”

The brown-haired patient flashed her a charming smile. "Well Y/N. Lucky you," he said, a self-assured chuckle punctuating his words.

"Meeting someone like me doesn't happen every day," he quipped, his soft blue eyes meeting hers as he extended his arm, waiting for her to wrap the blood pressure cuff around it.

Y/N arched an eyebrow at Jack's confident demeanor, but she couldn't deny the charm that seemed to ooze from every pore of the young man. She nodded, playing along with his game.

"I'll try not to swoon, Mr. Hughes," she replied wryly, deftly velcroing the blood pressure cuff around his sculpted bicep. She couldn't help but notice how fit and strong he looked.

As the cuff inflated and she watched the gauge, y/n added casually, "So how's your pain by the way? Any headaches, dizziness, nausea? Or just a hard head keeping you comfortable?" Her no nonsense tone made it clear she wasn't here to get swept away by his antics.

"Oh there's no pain with you around to ease it," Jack replied smoothly, his voice like velvet. He ran a hand through his artfully mussed black hair. "But maybe a four outta ten. This hard head of mine has taken worse bumps on the ice and kept going."

Y/n maintained her professional composure, ignoring the way Jack's dark brown eyes seemed to gaze right through her. Clearing her throat, Y/n jotted a quick note, acutely aware of his eyes following her every move. The sharp antiseptic scent of the hospital couldn't mask his woodsy cologne.

"Well those other concussions must have rattled some sense into you then," she said. Clearly this patient was accustomed to wrapping girls around his finger with that smooth confidence of his.

Y/n made more small talk with Jack as she worked, carefully noting down his oxygen levels, temperature, pulse rate and blood pressure in his chart. Then she swiftly drew several vials of blood, applying a cottonball over the needle mark on his vein afterwards.

“All done, you did great, Mr. Hughes,” Y/N said with a smile, labeling the blood samples neatly to send to the lab. “Buzz if you need anything else tonight.” As she turned to leave, Jack called out to her.

"Hey, Y/N," he said, a playful glint in his eye. "You know, I wouldn't mind some company tonight. How about you and I grab a drink sometime?"

"While I'm flattered by the offer, I'll have to politely decline drinks, Mr. Hughes," she responded with a quirk of her lips. "Wouldn't want to jeopardize my sterling employee record over a date with a charmer like yourself. Now focus on healing that hard head of yours."

"Will do, gorgeous," Jack replied, "But when I get discharged from this joint, drinks are still on me if you change your mind."

"Goodnight, Mr. Hughes," Y/N said with an exaggerated eye roll, unable to keep a smile from her face as she exited. That man's persistence was almost enough to make her regret having to let him down.

Almost. With a last fond head shake at his antics, she headed to finish her charts, the image of his grinning face lingering in her mind.

…

Y/n headed home from the hospital. Jersey roads were packed to the brim but finally she made it home. The smell of caramel and pumpkins filled her nose as she kicked off her shoes by the front door before turning on the lights.

Light meows flowed through the hallways bringing a bug smile to her face. The brown tabby cat padded up to the entrance purring and rubbing against y/n’s legs.

After her long shift, y/n was relieved to finally pull into the driveway of her home. The narrow Jersey streets had been jammed as usual for this time of evening, but she didn't mind too much.

The sight of her house with its cheerful fall decorations by the front steps was welcome after a day on her feet at the hospital.

Pushing open the door, y/n breathed deep, enjoying the warm blend of caramel and pumpkin. The aroma made her smile. Fall was her favorite time of year.

Y/n kicked off her shoes, meows filled the hallway as her brown tabby cat came padding over to wind figure eights around her ankles. "Hey sweet boy," y/n murmured, reaching down to scritch under his chin. Hugo rumbled happily, nudging his head against her hand.

After providing Hugo with a fresh scoop of food, y/n poured herself a mug of hot chocolate and sank onto the living room sofa with a content sigh. The house was quiet except for the cat crunching his kibble and the occasional passing car outside.

Y/n was halfway through an episode of Game of Thrones when her phone suddenly vibrated with an incoming text. Then another. And another. With a soft groan, she grabbed the phone to check the influx of messages.

As expected, it was the group chat with her girlfriends blowing up. They always got extra excited leading up to one of their girls night.

"Just booked our table, bitches!" Angie had texted. "Meet at my place no later than 10:30, and yes y/n I mean you" Heather added. Lexi followed up insistently, "y/n don't forget the black top I wanted to borrow!" She quickly typed out a reassurance she hadn't forgotten about tonight or the black top she knew she wasn’t getting back.

…

As Y/N and her friends approached the club, the frigid air gnawed at their exposed skin, sending shivers down their spines. The lines outside stretched around the building, a testament to the club's popularity on a chilly night like this.

With each step, Y/N felt the chill seeping into her bones, the biting wind tugging at her clothing as they navigated the crowded streets.

"Come on, guys, just a little farther," Ang called out, her voice buoyant despite the cold as she navigated through the throng of people with ease. "We're almost there!"

Finally reaching the promoter line, Y/N watched as Ang worked her magic, effortlessly securing their entry into the club. As the bouncer scanned their IDs, she couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement coursing through her veins, the cold all but forgotten.

They were ushered in one by one, the bouncer's practiced eye scanning each of them before granting entry.

Y/N hurried inside, grateful to escape the biting cold that nipped at her legs, her breath forming puffs of vapor in the chilly air. As she stepped into the warmth of the club, the pulsating beat of the music washed over her, drowning out the winter chill and setting the stage for a night of excitement and adventure.

She made a beeline for the bar while her friends headed to the table, eager to start the night off with a buzz. A group of guys already occupied the bar, their boisterous laughter filling the air as they bantered back and forth.

Squeezing in next to them, Y/N caught the bartender's attention and ordered a lemon drop martini, her go-to choice for starting the night off right. As she waited for her drink, she couldn't help but eavesdrop on the conversation happening beside her.

The guys were deep in discussion about hockey, Y/N watched with interest as the bartender expertly prepared her drink, her eyes flicking between the group and the skilled mixologist behind the bar. Y/N raised her glass in a silent toast to the night ahead.

With a satisfied smile, she took a sip, letting the sweet tang of the cocktail wash over her palate as she settled in to enjoy the lively atmosphere of the club.

"So, you like hockey?” The guy at the bar turned towards Y/N with a wide grin. She was caught off guard by his sudden question. "Oh, uh, well, I don't really have a favorite team," she admitted with a sheepish laugh. "I mean, I enjoy watching games sometimes, but I'm not really die-hard about it."

The guy nodded, his smile widening. "That's cool, that's cool," he said, leaning casually against the bar. "I'm a player. I play in Canada, but my friends are on the Jersey devils."

Just then, Lexi bounded up beside Y/N, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she twirled her hair flirtatiously. "Hey there," she said, flashing the guy a dazzling smile. "I couldn't help but overhear you talking about hockey. I'm Lexi, by the way."

The guy's eyes lit up as he turned his attention to Lexi, his grin widening. "Hey, Lexi," he replied, extending his hand. "I'm Quinn. Nice to meet you." They exchanged pleasantries, Y/N couldn't help but chuckle at Lexi's boldness, grateful for the distraction from her own thoughts.

Lexi's sudden interjection caught Y/N off guard, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise at her friend's audacity. "Um, yeah, we have a table," she added, her tone a bit too eager as she subtly placed her hand on the guy's bicep.

Y/N couldn't help but roll her eyes at Lexi's not-so-subtle attempt at flirting. It was classic Lexi, always boy-crazy and never one to shy away from making her intentions known.

The guy, Quinn, seemed taken aback by Lexi's forwardness but recovered quickly, a charming smile spreading across his face. "That sounds great," he replied, his gaze flicking between Y/N and Lexi. "We'd love to join you."

Y/N sighed inwardly, resigned to the fact that her night was about to get a lot more interesting with Lexi's antics in full swing. As they made their way back to the table, she couldn't help but shake her head at her friend's boldness.

…

The night wore on and the drinks flowed freely, Y/N felt the effects of the alcohol hit her harder than she expected. With the group of boys that had joined them, drinks were poured endlessly, laughter filling the air as they exchanged stories and shared jokes.

Quinn suggested that they all come to a Devils game next week while he was in Jersey. The other boys nodded in agreement, meanwhile, the girls exchanged knowing giggles.

When the venue lights eventually flickered on to signal the end of the evening, Quinn turned to Lexi "Hey, we should exchange numbers, for the game and all.” He asked a bit shyly, Lexi grinned before nodding eagerly as she fished her phone out of her purse, exchanging numbers with Quinn

Quinn and the guys said their farewells to Y/N and her friends. Amid plenty of smiles all around, plans were set for the upcoming hockey game. The girls excitedly piled into their Uber, eager chat filling the car. "Oh my gosh, Quinn was so cute!" Lexi gushed. "Right?" the others chorused, laughter and smiles all around.

"That Jesper was a total sweetheart.," Ang added. Y/N grinned, shaking her head affectionately at her lovestruck friends. Their lively banter continued as they reminisced over the fun night.

Y/N certainly enjoyed meeting Quinn's upbeat group, but her thoughts did stray for a moment to Jack from the hospital. Sprinkled with cheerful squeals whenever their favorite hockey team's recent match came up, the girls' bubbly conversation flowed freely the whole ride back.

…

Send ya girl some feedback. I feel like this part was so bad, hopefully you like it tho 😃

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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genderkoolaid · 3 months

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Hello! Non binary here. I'm trying to genuinely understand how saying bi lesbians are a thing are not harmful to the trans, lesbian and bi community. I saw some of the bi lesbians history and this label seems to be something they used to say to identify that they felt mostly attraction to women but could eventually like a man / people that liked men in the past but now go as lesbians. On the first example, Isn't it just bisexuality with a preference to women? and in the second, lesbians with comphet. I understand the need to use those labels in the past, but now it seems harmful to use bi lesbian because lesbians are not attracted men and bisexuals are not lesbians. I have also seen that the use of bi lesbian was a reactionary push to the TERF movement of excluding men from queer spaces as in a way to "purify" women

While someone in either of the groups you described might identify as a bi lesbian, that is certainly not the extent of bi lesbianism.

I think the problem emerges for many people because they are viewing the definitions of queer terms as objective descriptions we discovered. From this perspective, people used to use lesbian in a more expansive sense essentially because they didn't know any better. But I dislike that; our foreparents were not identifying how they did because they didn't know better, their constructions of gender and sexuality are just as valid. And it's important to understand why those definitions formed instead of going “well it's different now so stop it.”

I'm not sure if you are saying you've heard TERFs came up with the term bi lesbian. I wouldn't be surprised, since it's a fairly common rumor. But it's very wrong. To give a very general history, “bi lesbian” came about to describe people who identified with lesbianism– in the sense that they identified with being queer, having some personal relationship with womanhood and loved or desired women– who also were multisexual in some way. “Lesbian” emphasized your love/desire for women as an important part of your identity, and “bisexual” gave nuance to that, creating visibility for bi people within the community. The outrage against bi lesbians came from the same source as the hatred for trans lesbians (of all kinds): radical feminist beliefs in political lesbianism, the insistence that being a lesbian is a political choice to end all personal relationships with men & manhood.

The idea that “lesbians, universally, aren't attracted to men” largely comes out of this shift. You cannot separate the idea that “bi lesbians” don't/shouldn't exist and the legacy of transphobic radical feminism which encourage black-and-white thinking and hostility towards Bad Queers who dared to love or desire men, be men, dress like men, or fuck like men (anything from BDSM to using a strap-on). This divide is artificial and we do not need to just accept it. Bi lesbians are not the source of harm, the ideology that insists on their exclusion is. On top of this, in many physical queer communities bi lesbians & other people with complicated identities are very easily accepted; the idea that it's somehow impossible for these identities to be safely normalized is just queer conservatism.

There are many reasons someone might enjoy the bi lesbian label: personally, I'm multigender and using a single sexuality label doesn't accurately express my sexuality. A lot of times I see people who counter reasons for bi lesbian identity by saying “but that's just being a lesbian/bisexual!” which is another product of this black-and-white thinking. The idea that someone else with a similar experience using a different label than you– or someone with a different experience using the same label– is somehow a threat to your identity is very reminiscent of the way radical feminism relies on patriarchal ideas that everyone in a gender group must self-police that group to ensure homogeneity. Someone with a totally “normal” bisexual experience may still identify as a bi lesbian, or use both bisexual and lesbian in varying contexts, because they feel it accurately expresses their personal sexuality & relationship to queer communities.

There's famously an Alison Bechdel strip about a character being a bi lesbian, but I think my favorite piece of bi lesbian art is this poem by Dajenya. It's a very defiant and wholehearted response to anti-bi-lesbian sentiment and how it harms people within the community far more than bi lesbian identity does. this site is a collection of primary resources on bi lesbianism, including a few interviews from bi lesbians which might be helpful for you.

#m.#ask box

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 3 months

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Roommate Blues

Pairing: Dean Winchester x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: Reader is a grad student in college trying to work hard for her degree while maintaining a long distance relationship with Dean Winchester. But what happens when Dean isn't there? This is part two of my "Before You Go" series, but it can be read as a stand alone fic. (I'm so bad at summaries, please forgive me!)

Part One

Tropes: Angst, Fluff, Age Difference, (Reader is early to mid-20's and Dean is probably early 30's), Protective Dean, Established Relationship

Word Count: 7K (I have an addiction don't judge me)

Warnings: I'm going to label this 18+ just to be sure, because this fic contains attempted sexual assault/ dude being super creepy and sleazy. There is some swearing, mentions of sex (not explicit, but it's there), references to past sex, Dean might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Masterlist

****************************************************

You dragged yourself through the front door of your apartment shaking rain from Dean’s oversized green coat that was wrapped around your shoulders and stomping your black rain boots on the welcome mat. He left it the last time he came to see you, a welcome surprise, given that it still smelled like him, but it made you miss him even more.

He hadn’t been by in a month, not for lack of trying. It seemed that every time he got ready to make the six hour drive from the bunker to your apartment, there would be an emergency, but you tried not to be disappointed. You understood that what he did was equally important if not more that what you were trying to accomplish at Med School. And at least Dean made an effort to keep your long distance relationship afloat. You remember before you got serious with him, when he wouldn’t call or text, just show up out of the blue and leave after a few days, breaking your heart every time. You were thankful those days were over.

Those days had been hard, when each day you hoped he would show up only to be disappointed, when you turned down dates from others because there was only one person in particular you were waiting for, when each time he showed up you felt your heart warm, and when each time he left you felt it sink in dismay. You hadn’t expected Dean to give in to an exclusive relationship when you gave him an ultimatum, but now 3 months in you were happier than you’d ever been.

Even if it was just long distance.

The late night phone calls, flirty texts, and the occasional picture kept you both in touch. Of course none of that could replace how you felt when Dean was with you. You missed waking up with him, watching a movie in bed, going out for pie, driving around in Baby and all the other wonderful things that you did with Dean.

But this was the deal you made when you started dating, a fact that you had to remind yourself of often. You wouldn’t make Dean feel bad about his job and you would finish school. When you graduated you could think about moving closer to him, but until then you were stuck. And missing Dean.

“Hey y/n!” Your roommate, Suze, crows from the couch as you enter the living room.

Something animated plays on the tv, bathing the room in brilliant white and blue light, but when you raise your eyes from the mat to look at her, you’re surprised to see that she’s not alone, her boyfriend Cooper sits next to her, his arm thrown around her shoulders.

You try to not look disappointed. Cooper and Suze had been dating on and off for a few months, and you always tried your best to either stay in your room or out of the apartment when he was there. It wasn’t that he was mean to you, it was that sometimes he made you uncomfortable. Like the time he “accidentally” walked into your room while you were getting changed and proclaimed that he didn’t know where the bathroom was, as if finding it in a two bedroom apartment required a masters degree, or like the time Suze left early for work and Cooper asked you to go to dinner with him or like right now when he traced his brown eyes up and down you form as if trying to see through your clothes.

You shudder into the jacket, thankful that it was bulky enough to cover your body.

“Hey Suze. Cooper.” Your smile is more tight lipped than you want it to be. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

You hadn’t told Suze. Yes you were roommates, but sometimes it felt more convenience than friendship. You both didn’t go out of your way to spend time together. Another reason why you were looking forward to moving out after graduation to start your residency.

“Well I didn’t want to stay away from my girl for too long.” His hand raises from her bicep to rest directly between her collar bones, closer than you would have liked to her chest.

The urge to vomit rises in the back of your throat.

I mean, Dean is handsy sometimes, but not in a creepy way. At least he doesn’t make eye contact with someone else when his hands drift. Dean's usually looking at me. You think to yourself with a frown.

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m just gonna go-uh- study.” You lie.

“Didn’t you have a test today?” Suze leans further into his touch making you even more uncomfortable.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to get behind, plus Dean is coming this weekend and I don’t want to have to study the whole time he's here-"

“Hasn’t he cancelled on you the last few times?” Cooper asks.

You blink. Why did he remember that?

“Yeah. Family emergency.” It was the excuse you always used when someone asked you why Dean couldn't make it.

“What is it this time? His mom has a cold or something?" Cooper chuckles at his joke. "Kinda sounds like he’s with someone else and he doesn’t want to be here with you.” He shrugs. “Maybe you should break it off with him, consider your other options." Cooper's smirk turns into more of a sideways grin that makes your stomach turn in knots.

“I'm good.” You say as monotone as possible, lips pulling down into a frown.

You turn and walk down the dark hallway, thankful that Dean's jacket is big enough to hide your figure.

As soon as the lock on your bedroom door clicks, you fall onto the bed face first with a loud groan, dropping your backpack along the way.

Your room was small, smaller when Dean stayed, but you always welcomed that. When he was here it felt more like home and less like a way station. The mediocre study-sleep-eat-work cycle was becoming a mantra and it seemed that the only time you were actually in your apartment was to sleep or change

There was that one time when I camped out in the library. You think to yourself remembering exam week.

It was 24/7 and you stayed after your shift to study for exams but nodded off. Dean had been mad about that though, upset that you slept in a public space where anyone or anything could have walked in. You thought that it was hypocritical for him to condemn your sleep schedule when you knew for a fact he went days without sleep.

Plus it was easier to sleep in the library instead of making the trek in the morning.

You sit up to look around the room. It was small, just big enough to fit a full-sized bed in, the thought made you smile. Dean barely fit in the bed, he was too tall and broad, and each time he would groan about how Baby’s backseat was ten times bigger and that you both might as well go sleep in there. However, you knew he secretly liked how small the bed was. The small size of the bed meant that you had to practically sleep on top of him, and Dean was not one to complain about cuddling. He often coaxed you into bed to study instead of at your cluttered desk because it meant you used him as a pillow while he watched tv and you tried to understand Metabolic Pathways and commit anatomical structures to heart.

Of course Dean always made the joke that he could help you study anatomy more than a dusty old textbook could. Your cheeks redden thinking about the last time he helped you “study.” It had been beneficial, but you didn’t need to have the memory of what you did to study distract you from the test questions. But what a wonderful distraction it was. The proctor of the exam had asked if you were okay because you looked a little flushed. Dean of course thought it was hilarious when you told him after he picked you up.

The room served its purpose. It had a small desk in the corner covered in textbooks and papers, a small closet, a cassette tape player that Dean bought you so you could listen to mixtapes he made, the ones he brought whenever he’d come visit with ridiculous names scribbled over the label and the ones you’d listen to when you missed him the most, and a dresser that was spilling clothes out of the drawers with a small T.V sitting on top. A purchase that happened after you started dating because it meant that Dean and you did not have to sit in the living room on the couch to enjoy a movie together.

You turn over on your back and fish your cellphone out of the deep pockets of the jacket, before calling Dean.

"Hey Sweetheart, how was the big test?" Dean’s voice washes away any sour feelings you have from interacting with Cooper.

“Harrowing.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“It was 156 questions.”

“Shit.”

"It’s okay, but my brain feels like mush." You groan pressing your fingers to your temple.

“Don’t joke about that. Sam knew a guy that died from mushy brain syndrome.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“Oh I’m pretty sure it’s like Mad Cow-“

“I haven’t ingested human flesh recently so the possibility of me having that is low.“

“If you ever do let me know, because that could be any number of things.”

“I don’t know. I think if I told you I’d suddenly developed a craving for human flesh, you’d shoot me. I’d rather just keep it under wraps and hope that I didn’t eat you by accident.”

“I’m sure I’d be delicious.”

“Dean!” You snort.

“What? You were thinking it.” You can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “I also wouldn’t shoot you.” He laughs.

The laugh is enough to make your heart jump and buckle in your chest followed by a wave of loneliness.

I miss him. You think to yourself as you burrow further into the jacket with a sigh, and reach for a pillow to hold against your chest, wishing that it was him. “Oh right, you’d make Sam do it.”

“No. I’d lock you up and have Cas deal with it. Work some of that angel magic shit or whatever.”

“How are they?”

You had met Sam a few times and Cas only once. Learning that he was an angel was a bit of a shock. Despite listening to Dean's stories, sometimes you wished he was kidding about there being another world of dangerous supernatural creatures.

But you thought that Cas was sweet.

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment remembering the first time you met Cas, when Dean was undressing you in his bedroom and Cas teleported in because he forgot about normal things like knocking. Dean couldn’t stop laughing at you when you fell off the bed with a squeal at Cas’s appearance.

Of course he laughed. He wasn’t the one who was naked. And he wasn’t the one who had to have the awkward conversation with Cas later about the importance of knocking.

“Sam’s geeking out as usual, and Cas is-“ Dean pauses. “I don’t actually know where he is.”

“Did you lose him?” You laugh into the phone.

“No I think he said he had something he had to take care of. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You really have to work on those listening skills babe. So, what’s the monster of the day?”

“Sam thinks Vampires.”

“Well he’s usually right.”

“Don’t tell him that. It’ll go to his head.”

You hear a metallic clink in the background and imagine Dean standing at the back of Baby, sorting through the arsenal of weapons.

There are so many red flags that I choose to ignore about this man. You think to yourself. The trunk of Dean's car was probably the biggest red flag, or it would be if you didn't know what Dean did for a living.

“I’m sure Sam already knows but let me text him real quick.”

“Y/n.”

“Please be careful.” You sigh tightening your grip on the phone. Trying not to worry about Dean was hard given the family history and his stories about what had happened to him already. The thought of one day getting a call from Sam to tell you that Dean was dead haunted you.

"I'm always-" Dean begins to say.

"No. No you're not."

"I am."

"Dean."

"I'm careful enough."

At least it’s only vampires. You reason to yourself with a sigh. I can't believe that's something I've ever thought.

You hated it when Dean told you about some of the worse creatures out there, hated everything that he had been through over the years. But vampires were easier, you guessed, or at least he never seemed to be too worried about vampires.

He will be fine. He's with Sam. Sam knows what he's doing, Cas will probably show up and help.

The sound of your roommate and her boyfriend watching T.V bleeds through the thin walls. Cooper mumbles something to Suze that makes her giggle.

Why can’t they just leave?

"I can hear your frown on the phone. What's wrong?" Dean asks.

“Um." You bite the inside of your cheek to avoid saying what's on your mind. You and Dean had never talked about Cooper before. Dean knew that Suze was "dating" someone, but he had never met him.

"Y/n? You still there doll?"

"Well, my roommate's boyfriend is here and there are thin walls." You begin slowly.

"Oh so you get a front row seat to all the reunion sex." Dean laughs. “Probably payback for whenever I stay with you.”

He thinks he’s so clever.

Your cheeks flush bright red. "Well yes, but at least we try to be quiet. They’re really loud." You press your lips together in a tight line, briefly wondering where your noise canceling headphones are. "But, it’s not funny. He's kinda creepy-"

"What?" Dean's tone changes from flirty to serious. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know he's-" You shrug as if he can see it. "He's okay."

"You're gonna need to give me more detail that that sweetheart,"

Dean's silver ring warms between your thumb and forefinger as you bite your lip. You had begun wearing it around your neck on a chain. It was comforting, a reminder of the promise he made to you 3 months ago that he hadn't broken.

"Well, the last time he was here I kinda thought he was coming on to me." You confess.

"What?"

"I mean, Suze had just left for work and he asked me if I wanted to get something to eat. But it kinda felt like he was asking me out. And then there was this other time when he walked in while I was changing-" You shut yout eyes, waiting for Dean's response.

“He came into your room while you were changing?” You can hear the clench of Dean’s jaw in his voice.

Dean was always fiercely protective of you, a trait that you had never found attractive until you met him. It made you unafraid when you went out late to a bar together or when he sat with you in the library in the middle of the night, or when you went on a pizza run at 2 am. Knowing that Dean was there made you fearless in the best way.

“He made a mistake and he apologized.” You wave a hand in front of you as if trying to brush away the thought. “Plus he’ll be gone in a few days and then you’ll be here. You are still coming this weekend right?"

You think about the sneer and the taunt Cooper gave you when you got home about Dean blowing you off. You knew that Dean wasn’t cheating. Sure he was flirty, but you trusted him. If anything Dean probably worried more about you cheating, but you wouldn’t do that to him, couldn’t do that to him, not after everything he’d been through. You couldn’t imagine yourself with anyone else, didn’t want to. Perhaps that scared you a little, how much you needed him. You’d never needed anybody else before.

"Yes. I’m only two states away and I promise I’m going to make it this time.” The plea for understanding is clear in his voice. “I’m sorry about last time-“

“You don’t have to apologize, I understand. I really miss you though. I wore your jacket today but it doesn’t smell enough like you anymore.”

“You’re weird.”

“You love it.”

“Yes I do.” His voice is softer when he says it, sending pins and needles across your skin. “Did you eat today?” Dean's voice is tinged with worry.

He knew your tendency to forget something like that, especially when you were studying or stressed about a test. Whenever he’d visit, Dean always showed up with food and a bag of snacks that he shoved into your room by your desk so you would remember to eat something when he wasn’t there. It was the question he always asked you because he knew that no matter how intrenched you were in studying it would be enough to pull out of the hole and send you into the kitchen.

“Not yet.”

“Doll-“

“I know. I’ll go out and get something in a bit.” You fiddle with the ring.

“I’d feel better if you ate something now.” Dean says.

“It’s okay I just forgot-“

“Y/n.” He sighs your name, but you still love the way it sounds.

“I know. I’ll wait until Cooper and Suze leave, they’re still watching T.V. I don’t really want to walk out there again.” You press your lips together in a tight line remembering his eyes on you and what he said about considering your options.

Yeah, not going to mention THAT to Dean.

Dean doesn’t say anything for a second. “Who is this guy again?”

“Someone she met at a frat party forever ago. Basically on and off fuck buddy until something better comes around. At least for him anyway.” You remember the last time they broke up and what a mess Suze was. It had made you feel guilty enough to sit with her one night and watch a few rom coms and hold a box of tissues.

No one should go through a break up alone.

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t know he’s just kinda creepy. Sometimes I think he’s staring at me or whatever. Maybe I’m paranoid.”

“You should go to the bunker for a few days-“ Dean begins to say.

“I’ve got class- plus it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Y/n, I don’t want you staying there with him.”

“Come on it was you that taught me a few maneuvers to get someone to back off.” Your smile turns more into a smirk. “I actually remember you teaching me a few other things too, but I don’t remember those being used to push someone away. I remember those things being better when you’re really close to someone. Might need a refresh when you get here, as I recall I was a good student, very eager to learn.”

“Don’t tease me right now. I really miss you. It’s been too long.” Dean groans into the phone.

“I know. I miss you too. But you’ll be here in a few days and my brain will no longer be mushy and I’ll be all yours.”

“Can’t wait.”

"Be careful."

"I will."

"Tell Sam and Cas I say hi."

"Okay. Text me when you go to bed and please get something to eat.”

"Okay. I will."

"Bye Sweetheart."

"Bye Dean."

When you hang up you feel the weight settle in the pit of your stomach again.

All I have to do is last til the weekend. 3 days, more like 2 1/2 because Dean will be here on Friday. You think to yourself with a sigh.

You lay on your back for a minute thinking about what you planned for the weekend. There was a vintage car show happening only an hour away and knew that Dean would not want to miss that, especially if it meant showing off Baby and spending time with you. When you first started dating officially, Dean had taken you to one a few states over, and had been surprised when he realized you knew almost as much about cars as he did. Your dad’s obsession with them lead to a childhood of car shows and junkyards and meant you had a healthy dose of car knowledge. You probably would have been a mechanical engineer if you hadn’t liked medicine more.

But then that meant you never would have met Dean. You wouldn’t have been living at the apartment where he collapsed in the hallway with jagged scratches up his chest and a bite mark on his shoulder. That meant that you wouldn’t have dragged a complete stranger inside and treated his wounds while he complained like a baby and lied about how he got them.

Dean never got better at lying to you. You smile at the memory that's quickly followed by the one of when he chose you. However, you didn’t know that he had chosen you the day that a complete stranger pulled him into their apartment and began to take care of him better than anyone ever had.

The sound of Cooper and Suze laughing pulls you out of your head for a second and brings the weight back down on your stomach.

You just had to survive to the weekend. How hard could it be?

****************************************

The next two days trickle by. Another test rears it's ugly head, a pop quiz darkens your doorstep, and an overnight shift at the library causes you to drag your feet all over campus. But you welcome it. It meant that you weren't in the apartment long enough to be around Cooper. A welcome bonus to having a busy week, because you couldn't find your noise cancelling headphones and one night was enough.

Dean hadn't been able to call, only text you to let you know that he was still coming and that he was alive. It wasn't the same as hearing his voice.

But you made it to Thursday night, that meant that you would be seeing Dean in less than 24 hours and the anticipation was killing you. You could hardly wait to see him, wished that you could sleep through the next few hours and wake up with Dean.

The apartment is quiet when you creep into the kitchen for a late-night snack, quiet enough that you figured Suze and Cooper had gone to bed a while ago. You couldn't figure out why he was still here. He did not often sleep over, usually Cooper would stay for a few hours and then high tail it to whatever rock he crawled out from under.

The kitchen was small, divided from the living room by a large bar bolted to the ground that ran from one wall and jutted out into the beginning of the hallway that led to your room. It meant that there was only one way in and out of the kitchen, past the refrigerator. Suze's room was directly across from the living room and the front door while yours was further back in the apartment down the dark hallway that also held the bathroom.

You stand up on your toes to reach into the cabinet for the peanut butter. Suze was taller than you and often forgot to leave it on a lower shelf, despite all the times you reminded her.

Come on. Your hand finally closes around the jar-

"Hey." A voice says behind you.

You jump up and hit your head on the cabinet door. "Ow." You groan turning around with the peanut butter jar in your hand, and rubbing the bump with your other one.

Cooper is leaning against the refrigerator door shirtless, wearing a pair of dark boxers that are slung low on his hips. His appearance makes the warm feeling of excitement that you have over seeing Dean so soon fizzle up and die.

I don't have time for this right now.

"Cooper. I didn’t see you. Um- where’s Suze?" You keep your voice even as you look away to get a butter knife in the drawer to your left.

Maybe he'll just go away. You hoped, but honestly you knew it was wishful thinking.

"She’s asleep." Cooper runs a hand through his reddish hair to push it back from his face.

"Oh. Did you need something?" You continue to act like you don't care that he's there, when it's taking all your willpower not to go back to your room. You don't like how dark it is in the kitchen, or the way that his eyes keep tracing your frame. It wasn't that you were wearing anything revealing, you were wearing one of Dean's soft t-shirts that hung past your waist and a pair of gray sweatpants.

But under his gaze you felt, naked.

"I just thought that I’d come talk to you." He sounds casual, nonchalant.

"Why?" You spread peanut butter over the piece of bread before moving it back towards the jar.

"Well, I thought we should talk about us."

Your knife stops halfway in its path. "Us?"

"Come on. It’s obvious that you’re into me."

"What?" You look up at him, face scrunching in confusion.

What the hell is he talking about? You think about all the times you left the room immediately when he walked in, and think about whenever he tried to start a conversation and you smiled tightly and nodded before coming up with an excuse to leave. When have I ever acted like I was into him? If anything I've made it painfully obvious that I don't like him.

Cooper is watching you with the same smirk he had two days ago when he asked you to consider your options. "You’ve been avoiding me because you can’t stand to see Suze and me together."

"No I haven't."

"You have." He smirks wider. "But it's okay. I get it."

"Get what?"

"I get why you're into me. Everyone is."

"I'm not." Your mouth turns downward into a frown.

You don’t have to pretend.” He traces his eyes up and down your body once more, causing a shudder to travel down your spine. “Because I’m into you too.”

“Cooper-“ You breathe, hand tightening on the knife in your hand that is still frozen in the air in front of you.

The temperature in the room seems to have dropped fifty degrees.

“Don’t try to deny it. You always get that cute little flush in your cheeks when you see me.”

“I don’t.”

How many times do I have to say no to this idiot? Is he really that stupid? You wonder to yourself.

“Sure you do. It’s adorable.” Cooper rolls off the refrigerator to take a step into the kitchen. “And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Sorry that guy Dean is jerking you around. I’d never do something like that.” His eyes flash in the dim light coming from one of the lamps in the living room.

“He’s not jerking me around-“

“He keeps disappointing you. Let me make you feel better.” Cooper puts his hand on the edge of the bar. He’s still a good 4 feet away, but it’s enough to block you in.

If you wanted to leave the kitchen, you’d have to push past him. And the thought of you touching him or him touching you sends another shiver down your spine.

“Look Cooper. I’m not into you. And as for Dean, our relationship is none of your business-“

“Some relationship. He comes up with those stupid family emergency excuses and ditches you. Do you have any idea what I’d do to you if you were all mine? I’d never leave you ever-“

His confession makes the disgust come roaring back through your chest, followed by the sour taste of bile when you think about what's going to have to happen if he doesn't move out of your way.

You take in a deep breath, standing tall to face him. "But I’m not yours, and I don't want to be yours ever. I’m saying no. No to whatever warped reality you’ve come up with in your head. No to you and me doing anything further. No to me being into you." Your eyes narrow. "And that means two things can happen: one, you go back in that room with your girlfriend or two, we’re going to have a problem. Honestly, I hope you pick door number one because I’m really tired.” Your hand tightens on the knife.

The truth was you weren’t afraid, more disgusted. If you screamed loud enough Suze would hear you and you also still had a knife in your hand hovering between the two of you. It was more the principle of what was happening that was disturbing, his inability to listen to you, to hear you say no.

“Well I think a know a few ways to wake you up baby.”

"I'm not your baby." You snap.

"You could be-"

"Hard pass."

"Aww come on don’t be like that. We both know you want me." Cooper moves forward a step dragging his hand along the counter.

You back up so that the drawers are biting into your back, knife covered in peanut butter clutched in your hand.

Just because you had taken an oath to heal people didn’t mean you were going to let him walk all over you.

"How many times do I have to say no?” You shout, not caring if you wake up Suze, not caring if you wake up the whole damn apartment building.

"Come on it’s been a while for you hasn’t it? That guy Dean’s been stringing you along, hasn’t been taking care of you. I bet he's selfish, doesn’t take care of your needs. You’re saying no to me for him? I guarantee even a few minutes with me will be well worth it. I bet you I can make you feel things that guy can’t.” He takes another step forward so that you’re almost chest to chest. “So why don’t we go back to your room and I’ll-“

Cooper’s body is yanked backward through the air so fast you get whiplash, cutting off his next words.

What the-

Someone is standing there, hand on Cooper’s throat, pinning him to the black refrigerator so tight against the metal that you’re sure it'll leave a dent. The magnets scatter at the feet of the two men, clattering against the floor sharply.

“She said no asshole.” Dean’s low growl vibrates through his chest and you realize the figure towering over Cooper is your boyfriend.

Your wonderful, sweet boyfriend, who told you he was going to be here in the morning, but wanted to surprise you. Relief courses through your veins at his appearance and you let out a shaky breath to compose yourself.

Dean towers over Cooper, who isn’t tall enough to look over his broad shoulders, let alone be as intimidating as Dean. Cooper's gangly frame and short stature made him look like a hobbit compared to Dean's muscular and tall body.

The heat of Dean’s anger burns through the air of the small kitchen as his eyes narrow, staring Cooper down with pure hatred.

“What the hell? Who are you?” Cooper sputters, clawing at Dean’s grip, but Dean doesn’t move. Scarier still is the fact that Dean is acting like Cooper weighs nothing at all, holding him a foot in the air so he can look into Dean's rage filled gaze.

"Cooper, this is Dean, my boyfriend." You say, finding your voice. "The guy that you said has been 'jerking me around.'" You form air quotes around the words. "Maybe you'd like to discuss our relationship with us, since you have so many interesting suggestions."

Cooper's eyes widen when he realizes who Dean is. "Whoa wait a minute I didn't do anything!"

You'd only seen Dean lose it once before, when you were at a bar late and a guy shoved you out of the way to get a drink at the bar. Dean broke his pinky on the guy's face, but he had looked so good doing it. You told him so as you set his pinky later.

Cooper gasps. "I didn't touch her-"

“What you did was enough.” Dean's face is contorted in fury.

“Wait a minute, come on. She’s acting like a fucking tease! You’re never here, she’s always prancing around in these little outfits-“ Cooper lies, grasping at whatever he can to save his own skin.

“Not her style.”

"Please I didn't know you were here-" Cooper twists his body with his plea, but Dean doesn't let go.

"Even if I wasn't, it doesn't give you the right to touch her." Dean spits.

“Cooper?” You turn your head towards the voice and notice Suze standing in the doorway of her bedroom with wide eyes. Her gaze traces over Dean. “What happened?”

“Hey baby.” Cooper smiles at her, his eyes still wide. “We just had a little disagreement that’s all-“ His hands find purchase against the front of Dean's red flannel shirt.

“A little disagreement?” Dean seethes. “Your asshole of a boyfriend was coming on to my girl.” His hand tightens on Cooper’s neck.

“What?” Suze looks Cooper wide eyed before looking at you. "Is that true?"

"Yes." You say gesturing with the peanut butter knife that you forgot was in your hand, before you place it down on the counter, no longer needing it.

Dean's got this.

"Baby come on." Cooper looks at Suze. "Do you think I would do something like that?"

Suze stands there for a minute looking from Dean, to Cooper, to me. "I don’t know.”

“You know me-“ Cooper smiles despite the situation, hoping that she can get Dean to back off. “You know I love you. You think I would throw you away just because a slut like her comes on to me-“

It’s enough for Dean. The sharp crack of Cooper’s nose breaking beneath Dean’s fist fills you with an ungodly amount of pleasure.

Suze's scream pierces the air as she watches the blood begin to flow down Cooper’s chin and onto his bare chest.

“If you ever talk to her, look at her, or try to touch her again,” Deans voice is a growl. “I’ll break more than just your nose.” He drops Cooper, who slides to the floor holding his broken nose.

Dean then grabs your arm and hauls you through the kitchen and into your bedroom, ignoring the string of curses that pour from Cooper’s mouth.

As soon as the door of your bedroom closes behind you, Dean pulls you against him. You can’t help but melt into his warm embrace, the disgusting feeling that rose with Cooper’s attempts to get you in bed fading away.

"Are you okay?" Dean's voice is tight with the force of his anger, but one of his hands moves up and down your back in a soothing motion.

"Yeah." You breathe, cuddling further into his chest.

The smell of leather, metal, and something spicy that you ascribe to your boyfriend makes the hole that opened in you while he was away close. It soothes whatever residual anxiety you had over what almost happened in the kitchen. You rub your face against his warm flannel with a smile, but when you turn your gaze upwards, you realize that Dean isn’t staring down at you like you thought he would be, he’s staring at the door. You can hear Suze and Cooper shouting at one another and it's quickly followed by the slam of the front door that you hope means that Cooper is gone and wouldn't come back ever.

“Dean?” You whisper.

“I should go out there and tear his fucking head off." Dean growls, tightening his grip on your waist.

"Hey. It's okay-"

"No it's not." Dean spits looking down at you. "Nothing that just happened is okay."

"I know." You soothe. "But it's okay. You handled it. I'm pretty sure that Cooper is never going to bother me again-"

"If he ever shows up here. I don't care if you have classes or a test, you call me immediately and come to the bunker. I don't want you here with him." Dean says, his green eyes piercing. "Promise me."

Dean knew better than anyone that you never broke your promises, no matter how big they seemed.

"I promise."

"Okay." Dean's jaw is still tight, but the tension in his shoulders loosens for a second when he looks at you, until finally he sighs. "I missed you." Dean's thumb brushes against your cheek.

"I missed you too. It was such a nice surprise for you to come early." You smile at him, before arching upwards to kiss him, but as soon as your lips meet, Dean winces, his right hand tightening subconsciously on your waist.

"Ow." He hisses, face scrunching up.

"Dean what's wrong?" Your eyes widen with worry. You reach up to cup his cheek, but Dean makes a face leaning away from your touch.

"Vampire got a few lucky hits in." Dean groans.

"What?" You turn on the lamp on your bedside table.

Both the kitchen and your room had been dark enough to hide the discoloration and swelling of Dean's face, but now that he was in the light you understood why he moved away from your touch. As soon as you turn back to look at him, your mouth drops open noting the split lip, the ugly purple bruise that circles his right eye, and the swelling of his jaw. "Dean!"

"I'm okay sweetheart." He tries to smile, but his lip twitches.

"Where else does it hurt?" You ask him gently touching his face where the skin is bruised.

"Just my ribs-"

You immediately grab the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up and off him with a gasp when you see what's underneath.

"Little eager aren't you doll?" Dean tries to laugh, but winces with the movement.

Black and blue marks mar the muscular skin of his abdomen and curve around the right side of his rib cage in a sickening pattern.

"Oh Dean." You whisper, heart breaking for him when you imagine how much this must have hurt.

"I'm okay baby." He says again, thumb stroking against your waist. "You just gotta be gentle with me tonight."

"You might have a broken rib or a perforated lung-"

"Y/n." Dean sighs. "I'm okay."

"This is more than a few lucky hits." You pull yourself reluctantly from his grasp and walk around him to see his back, following the black and blue trail with your gaze. "THAT’S A BOOT PRINT!"

"Don't shout-"

"What happened to being careful?" You whisper yell looking up into his eyes.

"I was. They ambushed us." He shrugs, but winces again.

"Is Sam okay? Cas?"

If Dean looks this bad what about the others?

"I got the worst of it." Dean half-smiles, but you don't like the way his lip twitches when he does.

You wonder how much pain he was in when he pinned Cooper to the fridge, how much of it he was willing to ignore because you were in danger. The thought warms your heart. He was willing to endure the pain if it meant protecting you.

“Stay here. I’m going to get you some ice-“ You turn towards the bedroom door, but Dean blocks your exit.

“You’re not going back out there.”

“You need ice.”

“Don’t care.”

“Dean-“

“I promise it doesn’t hurt that bad.” His hands find your waist again. “I missed you.” Dean says again.

"I missed you too." You can’t help but smile back moving to hug him, but you stop when he winces. “Dean-“

“I’m fine.” He leans down to kiss you but groans in pain as soon as your lips brush against his. Dean sighs, pressing his forehead against yours. “This is not how I wanted tonight to go."

“And how exactly did you want it to go?” You smirk up at him.

“Well for starters I didn’t want it to begin with that asshole trying to-“ Dean’s jaw clenches so tight together that you’re afraid he’s going to hurt himself. His eyes darken with anger, as he remembers what almost happened in the kitchen.

“Dean I’m okay.” You whisper again. "But thank you. It means more to me to know that you were hurt and yet you were still in there protecting me." Your hand traces over his chest as soft as you can without hurting him.

"I'll always protect you." Dean presses his forehead against yours. "I didn't like the way you sounded on the phone the other day and I wanted to come see you early, didn't want to leave you with him alone."

"Thank you. I'm glad you came when you did." You kiss him on the neck, because it's the only place that you can without hurting him.

Dean sighs. "I can't believe those damn vampires jumped me. I've really missed you." He puts his head on your shoulder, crumbling into you with a sigh.

You sink into the warmth that comes from his body, dragging your hands through his hair while he tightens his arms around your waist with a groan.

"Baby is it okay if we just go to bed? I know that you wanted to-" Dean trails off, mumbling into your shirt.

"Yes it's okay if we just go to bed." You laugh. "I care more about you having broken ribs or a concussion than having sex with you."

"Really? Because we could try-"

“No. I don't want to hurt you, plus I'm also kind of tired. I had a long few days." You soothe. Your hands continue to slip through his hair. "But if you're not going to let me get you some ice, please at least take some Tylenol.”

"Fine." Dean grumbles into your shoulder.

When he falls asleep, you stay up and watch the gentle way his breath moves through his chest and watch how the wear fades from his face leaving him years younger. Worry still tugs at your heart as you examine the bruises and discoloration of his face and you stop yourself from dragging a fingertip over his features for fear of hurting him. Instead, you tuck the covers up around him, settling against him. His arm tightens around your waist in his sleep, pulling you tighter against his bare chest with a sigh. And as you curl into his chest you forget the events of the night and allow yourself to be lost in feel of his heartbeat against your hand and the soft sound of Dean's breath.

*******************************************************

Thank you so much for reading!

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Taglist: @daisy-the-quake

#spn #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #dean winchester x you #spnfandom #supernatural fandom #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural #spn fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean x you #supernatural fanfic series

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undead-supernova · 5 months

Text

High Tolerance

Part 1 / Part 2

Masterlist

warnings: weed consumption, sickly sweet pining

pairings: bestfriend!bisexual!modern!eddie x bisexual!fem!reader

plot: you and Eddie are besties and like to get high. and maybe you are yearning for one another. just maybe. juuuuust a little bit.

wc: 3.6k

I'm so proud of this, I hope people enjoy it!

Part 1: Strawberry Syrup

You and Eddie mirrored each other, your elbows resting on the glass counter as you rested your chins on one hand, listening intently to the clearly stoned woman talk about the promising high of the day.

The bottle she’d taken down from the shelf looked like a tiny juice box, with pink liquid sloshing inside and a green label with a cannabis leaf, because of course.

“Look,” she said, pointing at a thin layer of film at the top. “That thin layer right there? That's the THC.”

You looked over at Eddie, his expression matching yours in wonder at how products like these existed. He was nearly grinning, mouth twisted to the side in awe. She continued to explain the process to you—this was Delta-9 THC syrup. Strawberry flavored. Your instructions were clear: mix it into a drink, preferably soda, and have fun.

When the two of you emerged from the smoke shop, you took a sharp pivot across the street to the gas station to get sodas. The southern July heat was starting to show its unwelcome presence, beating hard on you within the two minutes it took to walk over to the Exxon.

Eddie never truly got the memo for the sun, even when you told him how hot it was going to be outside. He donned a black t-shirt with one of his friend’s band logos on the front and a simple silver chain around his neck. He still wore his leather jacket and navy jeans, denying how hot he was when you called him out for being sweaty.

“Woah! Rude!” Eddie exclaimed as you walked through the automatic doors, putting a hand on his chest. There was even sweat running down his knuckles from his rings. “I am perfectly content. Maybe I like a little sweat.”

You gestured to your own sweaty body, clad in a black crop top with red lining along the low bustline and black jeans. And you quickly realized that you were also wearing jeans in eighty degree weather.

“I’m afraid I made the same mistake and I am a hypocrite,” you empathized, catching him off guard. “My apologies.”

“Yeah, I guess you did, huh?” he said softly.

He glanced down at your outfit and you suddenly felt nervous at the exposure. You paused, realizing you’d both stopped walking. Holding his stare, you looked up at him with a slight smirk. Was Eddie checking you out? Did he really do that? And were you teasing him back? Was that what this was?

No. You were getting ahead of yourself. You were always making up shit like this.

You pivoted, skipping over to the refrigerated drinks, Eddie following in tow. “I’m excited to try this. I’ve seen it in there so many times, but I couldn’t figure out the right time to try it.”

“And you’d never do it without your bestest friend of all best friends, right?” Eddie asked, a playful smile settling on his lips as you flitted around him.

“That is correct.”

Eddie settled on a Sprite while you decided to grab a strawberries and cream Dr. Pepper—despite the sound of disgust leaving Eddie’s lips.

“That,” he pointed to your drink, “is nasty,” he said before dramatically shooing you away. “Get it away from my face. You've failed me, sweetheart.”

Letting out an exaggerated gasp, you replied, “Excuse me, but it’s already strawberry flavored. Wouldn’t that logically help it taste better?”

“No. Nope.” He pointed to the bottle again. “That is what’s killing the children. Dr. Pepper having a strawberries and cream flavor? We’re truly failing as a society.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving his arm lightly and pointing towards the checkout counter. “Let’s get going. I wanna try it out.”

When you got into Eddie’s van, he quickly put your drinks in his half-broken cupholders. Your fault, three months ago. Talk about greening out when you kept trying to shove a drink in and repeatedly hit the plastic until half of it snapped off. The van was pretty clean today, surprising Eddie. He’d tried to clean it out the best he could this morning, getting up way too early to do so. Maybe it was to impress you. Who knew. He certainly didn’t. Not at all.

You twisted off the caps as Eddie pulled the strawberry syrup out of his pocket.

“Half for you, you sick fuck,” he said as he carefully poured the pink liquid into your Dr. Pepper. You let out a hearty laugh as he let the rest drip into his own. “Half for me.”

You put the caps back on your drinks before carefully mixing them together, teetering them back and forth to reduce the likelihood of an explosion. Eddie grinned at you and you couldn’t help but smile back, tapping his bottle with yours.

Before either of you could take your first sip, Eddie said, “Hey, don’t shotgun it.”

You feigned offense. “What? Me? Why would you dare accuse me of being so irresponsible?”

But you knew why. You knew precisely why. There was something about trying stuff with Eddie, from his fresh edibles to the slushies on tap at the hemp store, Jailbait Hemp. (The name was absolutely cringe worthy but you and Eddie swore it was the best place in the city.) Then there were the pre-rolls, the dabs, the potent gummies. You didn’t want to get Eddie started on how many chocolate bars you’d scarfed down before getting a stomach ache and needing to lie down and watch three movies. It wasn’t necessarily unlike you to get ahead of yourself, downing whatever was given to you immediately, especially ones with high doses. Just to see what would happen. Just to have the experience.

Eddie both loved and hated that about you. You’d never thrown up or done something stupid because of it, (other than the tragic cup holder incident), always a little quieter depending on the level of inebriation you were operating on. He loved it the most when the two of you got high in public, like today. Neither one of you were ever loud or obvious about it, usually giggling with one another in hushed whispers. It was actually quite nice.

But, most of all, he loved getting high with you in public because you held his hand. Anywhere you went, whether it be to walk around Hobby Lobby or taking in nature at a nearby park, you held onto him as tightly as you could. You’d told him once, in a haze of one of those blue raspberry Delta-9 slushies, that you felt safe by his side, knowing no one could hurt you when he was there. His mere presence left you feeling more relaxed than at any other point of the day. Even when you were sober.

He’d looked at you after you said that, stunned by your admission. You’d said it simply, as if it was just a well-known fact that he should’ve known already. Even when you’d looked away from him to gaze back out over the Chattahoochee River, surrounded by loud families and barking dogs, he couldn’t help but soften around the edges. Water had collected in his eyes, nearly slipping out and over his rosy cheeks. But he’d forced himself to look away, to fight the urge to confess that you made him feel the same way. (And then some.)

Eddie only hoped he’d see the day where you took his hand without the THC in your system.

“Yes, you, Weirdo.” Eddie shook his head. “Do you not remember when we made that beer cheese with that Delta-Whatever shit your sister got us for your birthday and then you took half of the cheese and—”

As he spoke, you quickly tipped the bottle into your mouth and began to chug.

Eddie said your name with an exasperated sigh. “You’re literally the stupidest person I’ve ever met.”

Unable to respond verbally, you winked at him and threw up a middle finger, letting the seamless mixture of Dr. Pepper and artificial strawberry flavoring slide down your throat. Usually there was an aftertaste of THC in different products. But you couldn’t even taste the syrup. It was like there was nothing else in the drink. Brilliant.

Eddie only shook his head with a smile, knocking back nearly half of his drink just to give in to your antics. Why not? It was a lazy Thursday, anyways.

This was one of those rare occasions when you and Eddie had the same day off of work. It usually happened once or twice a month, leading you both to take the opportunity to go by Jailbait Hemp, find something new to try, split the cost, and see what happens.

As the bottle left your lips with a small pop, you couldn’t help but let a loud burp ripple through the air, smiling proudly. Eddie squinted his eyes with a serious expression on his face, pretending to listen intently like he was interpreting art.

“That might’ve been my best one,” you admitted, your face a bit smug as you slammed the empty bottle back into the pitiful cup holder.

Eddie shrugged. “That was about a six, Weirdo.”

“A six?” you asked incredulously. “Are you joking? I don’t think I’ve ever reached that octave before.”

“Sweetheart, you forget that you have the world champion in front of you.”

“Prove it!” you exclaimed, leaning in and scrunching your nose at him. Taunting him further, you added, “You won’t.”

Eddie mirrored your expression, the two of you looking at each other like mischievous little kids. The kind of misbehavior that would get you sent to the office in middle school with a threat of suspension and mud smeared over your clothes like a 1st Place ribbon.

“Fine,” he said before beginning to down his Sprite. Before you could compliment him on his shotgunning abilities, his burp rang through the van, loud and deep, clearly ten times better than anything you could muster.

Even in your obvious defeat, you had to suppress a laugh, trying as hard as you could to continue the bit. “That was obviously a two,” you said. “They should’ve crowned someone else.”

Eddie swatted your arm and you did the same. “You’re an absolute menace, you know that? And a liar.” Before you could offer a witty retort, he said, “Now, come on. This’ll hit soon and I don’t wanna be driving when it does. We got shit to do.”

“What’re we doing at the aquarium?” you asked as Eddie pulled into the parking garage. There was a banner above it, fading from a penguin swimming in the ocean to three more resting on rocks. You’d always found it adorable, filling you with excitement.

“Uh, well, uh,” he stumbled as he stretched through his window and grabbed a parking voucher. “Yeah,” he continued as he set it on the console and drove through. “I just thought that the syrup would go well with the fish, you know? And it’s deserted right now, being Thursday and all. Also, don’t worry about a ticket. I got you covered.”

You gawked at him. As Eddie parked and reached for the seatbelt latch, you placed a hand on his shoulder. His eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

“Eddie, it’s, like, fifty dollars to get in. Let me get my own,” you pleaded. “Or we could go somewhere else. I know money’s tight for both of us as it is.”

Eddie shook his head, his smile beginning to falter. “You like to come at least once every summer,” he murmured, looking down to fiddle with the seatbelt still in place. “I wanted to do something nice for you, you know? You’re my best friend.”

Your heart ached a bit at the way he said “best friend.” It sounded removed, like a placeholder for something else, something more. He looked up to meet your eyes again and you felt some part of you wince as a wave of emotion bubbled inside your chest.

Because that was just the thing, wasn't it? He wasn’t just your best friend. He was the one you spent most of your time with, the person you swapped places with for a sleepover almost weekly. The person you went on mindless adventures with to explore Atlanta, window shopping all of the mansions out in Buckhead for when Eddie would become a rockstar and (jokingly) leave you a tiny guest house in the back.

The person who had remembered an insignificant detail about you and decided to give you a present.

All you wanted was to lean over, to lightly brush your lips over his, slowly leaving remnants of a soft Thank you. But you couldn’t. No matter how much you suspected Eddie’s affections, you couldn’t attempt to make a move.

So you opted to slowly headbutt his arm and get out of the car.

“You’re so weird,” he teased as you walked around the side of the van.

“So-rry that I’m showing my best friend affection,” you joked back. “We don’t always have to hate each other.”

Eddie snorted, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “Ah, yep. Definitely. We hate each other so fucking much.” He stopped suddenly. You raised an eyebrow as he turned to you, jumping into a fighter’s stance before waving an imaginary sword in your direction. “I am here to avenge my father’s death!” he exclaimed, mimicking a warrior’s bellow. “You will pay, scoundrel.”

You jumped into a similar position, moving your imaginary sword closer to his chest. He moved with you, as if to block your approach. “Thee foul fiend,” you started with a British accent. “I will vanquish thou and feed you to the dragons. Purge you in the fiery—uh—fires of the dungeon moats.”

Eddie couldn’t keep going, bursting into a fit of snorts. You broke too, your laughter making every passerby stare. He put his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer as you walked.

“‘Fiery fires’?” he asked. “That has to be the funniest shit I’ve ever heard.”

You laughed at your ridiculous word choice. “Yeah, I don’t know, man. I panicked.”

“I think I’m starting to feel it because I seriously haven’t laughed that hard in a while.”

You could be wrong. That’s what you reasoned with yourself. You had a possibility of being wrong, so you did nothing. After that first time you accidentally held his hand on sheer impulse due to the half cup of Delta-8 beer cheese you chugged, you kept doing it. He thought it was funny. He also said it was cute. Something you did was cute to him. So, whenever you were inebriated, you disguised the action and made the most of it. He always let you hold it, let you cling to him wherever you went. He never even commented on it, just accepting it when you made the contact.

And you could’ve been wrong, but Eddie was looking at you like you were the most beautiful girl in the world and he was looking at your mouth and not your eyes and there was something verging on romantic about this moment.

But there was that chance, that tiny glimpse of doubt that led you to believe you were destined for the wrong timeline. The one where it wasn’t true. You were the delusional girl in the film that would never get the love interest at the end. The one left behind.

So you held his hand tighter and looked away.

You were like a little kid when you went to the aquarium, nearly running around to each pane of glass. Looking at the different plaques, you’d search for each individual species listed, tapping on the glass each time. And that hadn’t changed. You just so happened to be a little bit more amazed by the beauty of sea life from the high.

How wonderful it was to be surrounded by a different existence! Something that humans could never truly fathom living. They moved differently than us. They felt different. Saw colors differently. They even breathed differently. Life was much bigger than just you, despite it always feeling like you and Eddie were the only ones left in the world.

For some reason, Eddie seemed a little more reserved today. He wasn’t bouncing off the walls like you were. Instead, he took his time. He responded when you spoke, of course. When you asked if it was okay to run ahead, he promised it was. He’d always catch up with you eventually, pointing out fish you hadn’t spotted yet. But he always made the time to stand back with his hands in his pockets and stare, like he was just as captivated as you were, maybe just in a different way.

Eddie didn’t tell you that he’d put aside that $100 to use once he asked you out on a date. But he’d desperately wanted to see this look on your face, your slightly red eyes wide and your mouth hanging open in awe as you witnessed the beauty surrounding you. You were nearing the end of the moving tunnel, surrounded by fish on all sides. There were even a few divers waving at the glass. The blue lighting made you something to marvel at, the ebbing water spreading dappled light over you. He knew this look, the one where you were somewhere else, in a deep appreciation of the world around you. It was when you were keenly aware of the meaning of life. He’d know it anywhere.

And it was him you were holding through it all. For some astonishing reason, you’d let him in to witness the rawest emotions overcoming you. The ones that others couldn’t be privy to, wouldn’t be. When you turned to look at him with tears in your eyes, your lips stretched across your face.

You smiled that smile, the one that told him something was hiding there, like there were words written on your lips that couldn’t be shared. While everything else was his to know, this one smile was not on the list.

Because, every time you smiled like that, Eddie asked, “What? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Like it was a challenge. Like he wanted to push you to say what you were thinking, even if it was just out of spite.

And you’d look away, waving your hand around, saying, “What? Nothing. I’m not looking at you like anything.”

And he’d respond, “Yeah, okay, sure.”

So, like every other time, Eddie asked, “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

But this time you shrugged, holding his eye contact. “I just, uh,” you stumbled, your smile only growing. “I just really love, um…”

Eddie’s eyes began to widen at the implication of something more, something brilliant. His back straightened, the haze of the high nearly intensifying the moment. Everything was perfect. This moment was perfect and this was going to be it. You were going to finally say something.

“I just really love what you did for me,” you finished. “I appreciate it a lot.”

And just like that, Eddie was cracking under the disappointment. The high settled back underneath his skin and dragged him down. Of course you didn’t say anything. Why would you? He’d only gotten his hopes up based off of a wild theory he had. One that he knew he’d made up just so he could live in some fantasy where you were together and in love. He just wanted to project how he felt onto you. It was as simple as that.

But he couldn’t help being disappointed by it.

He only hoped that you didn’t see him deflate.

“Yeah, sure,” he responded finally, turning to look back at the fish as you stepped off the moving track. “Don’t mention it.”

You didn’t drop his hand, but as he looked away from you to keep walking, nausea began to pool in your stomach. The tank was starting to slosh you around its current and you moving along with it was making it worse.

You immediately excused yourself to go find the bathroom. When you found it, you proceeded to throw up in the trash can. Luckily no one was in there, but you still felt awful. It was an utterly embarrassing feeling, knowing that you’d just thrown up in a public space because of sea sickness that you’d never had before today from being blasted on THC syrup. Oh, and you’d almost just told your best friend that you loved him. While holding his hand. While he was also blasted from THC syrup.

God dammit.

You didn’t mention throwing up to Eddie. In fact, you’d managed to collect yourself for the rest of the day, walking through the aquarium for another hour and a half before Eddie was sober enough to drive back to your apartment. You ended up cooking enchiladas and watching two movies (The Proposal and The Invisible) before Eddie was snoring next to you, stretched out across the couch with his legs in your lap. When you realized he was asleep, you quietly turned the TV off and moved his legs carefully to rest on the couch. You draped a blanket over him and lifted his head to make sure the pillow was positioned at the right angle so his neck wouldn’t ache in the morning.

And here you were, staring up at the ceiling and recounting the errors you’d made. How you’d almost confessed your undying love for him. How you spent the rest of the day inching towards him despite feeling humiliated. How you couldn’t help but lean further in as if he was the only one who could provide you comfort from fucking up so bad.

And when Eddie found you puking from the stress at four in the morning, you knew that this was bad. It was getting harder to keep it in. This was going to boil over and it was going to be soon.

Fuck.

#Eddie munson #Eddie Munson x you #Eddie munson fluff #Eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x reader #best friend!eddie #modern!eddie munson #modern!eddie x reader #best friend!Eddie x reader #eeeeep I'm actually posting something yay

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cozzzynook · 7 months

Text

bumblebee was born with door wings.

It was known throughout Autobot territory that having anything relative to something deemed decepticon labeled you an automatic target. Sparkling or not, Autobots were not as kind as the history archives liked to preach and Bumblebee knew this first hand. Discrimination was a factor Bumblebee was far too familiar with seeing as he was born with door wings though he could not fly and had a ground alt mode. His alt mode was that of a car built for speed, he was no Blurr but he could rival him with how fast he could go. His driving was practically like flying once his wheels hit the pavement.

Not to mention his slender frame rivaled that of a seeker, he wasn’t bulky like a grounder something that put him at a disadvantage. He was not tall either, making him a prime target for bullying inside sparkling centers where all the other bitlets were not only bigger but stronger.

The overseers of the center always turned a blind optic to his bruises and dents. Not sparing him much energon since they didn’t like looking at his bright yellow painting even when his black paint came in albeit late since his frame was never given the proper nutrients to grow.

Bumblebee spent his early protoform days in a sparkling center since his creators were offlined when he was only days old after his emergence. His creators were not lucky. It was a high act of treason for an autobot or grounder to bond with a decepticon and seeker even if the war had ended, Autobots did not take lightly to such unions.

They were hurrying to get to neutral territory when they were caught and offlined. He was left to rust in his carriers gray arms before being found by a traveling bot who dumped him into a sparkling center out of pity for his fresh young spark.

Sometimes, on the nights his stomach rumbled and his door wings were once again scratched and painfully bent he wished the traveler had left him to gray. His young processor saw things weren’t going to get better at the sparkling center what with how all the others were adopted and he was sneered at.

So one night he snuck into the energon storage with a pouch and grabbed as much as he could before leaving. Life on the streets weren’t truly different for him save he was beaten less but he did have to hide more. Many bots gave him looks that made his tanks turn and he did his best to steer clear of them.

He knew to be weary of decepticons and autobots alike seeing first hand how cruel autobots could be all because he was born wrong and he knew from listening to the overseers how cruel decepticons could be. He wasn’t one to care for reading history or reading much in general but he did put it to use after teaching himself to read that decepticons had a point in their early cause. Even his young processor knew the counsel should’ve listened to their demands and reached an agreement. That could’ve spared so many pointless deaths including his creators.

He knew never to speak on his thoughts of course because Autobots spoke of being the side dedicated to peace while showing they had a pretty messed up definition of what peace actually was.

“Hey! Get lost!”

Scurrying without looking back Bumblebee was off.

His time running from bullies showed him he was fast and life on the streets taught him he could be even faster. Taking energon when absolutely necessary, speeding off with anti virus medicine that no bot would waste on him, dodging Elite guards who tried to take him into custody so he could be placed in a sparkling center. Yes, Bumblebee learned he was fast and he was good at utilizing it well into early adulthood when he would dodge servo happy mechs who wanted to touch him.

He wasn’t blind he knew his frame was desirable. He was small, lithe, and curvy in all the right places that left mechs and even a few femme’s glancing his way. At first it annoyed him. Being looked at meant trouble and as much as he wanted the attention, any attention when the days were crushingly lonely, he didn’t want to be damaged because someone thought they’d be doing him a favor ripping his door wings off again.

The first time it happened he was still a sparkling in the center. An overseer thought they’d be helping both of them by removing the ugly nuisance from his back. His memory file painfully kept the scene of him screaming energon murder as he laid in a puddle leaking his life away. The looks other overseers gave him after they were reattached made his circuits and mesh quiver even to this day.

“Look out!”

He turned his helm away from the mech sizing him up like a fresh cup of energon in the sunrise with his arms covering his chest plates when his optics met sight of large ship hovering in the sky before missile fire rained down on them.

He’d never run so fast in his life, transforming mid jump over a graying frame that laid on the ground before high tailing it. There was no stopping, no corner unfazed by the many mechs and femme’s running to safety and no where to go where the screams of innocent mechs and femmes alike were cut off only to be replaced as the process repeated over and over.

He was exhausted by the time the ship left. The autobot insignia was hidden but word later got out that it was an Autobot elite guard ship hunting down two notorious decepticons who were hiding in their area. They hadn’t managed to capture them so the group decided to take them by surprise and ambush them.

No apologies were given to the mechs and femmes permanently disabled by the elite guards reckless decision. Those that died were labeled a “tragic loss” and were used to encourage bots across Cybertron to join the Autobot forces to help snuff out any more decepticons so another incident like this would not be repeated.

Bumblebee remembers feeling an array of emotions when he heard the broadcast. He remembers seeing the poster with Ultra Magnus not long after covering the area and bots believing the nonsense. He seemed to be one of the only few bots who saw something wrong with all this besides those permanently disabled. Neither he nor they said anything though. It would be disastrous for them, the outcasts and undesirables, to speak out against it. They were already hated by their people for being different Bumblebee knew the mechs and femmes who were permanently damaged would no longer live the same life. They’d be just like him.

Tossed to the side.

Bumblebee suddenly felt like his body was covered in the life energon that splattered on him as he raced to survive the onslaught. He felt his optics sting and the late night break in to a “communal” cleaner did little to wash away the long gone life energon.

‘How can they live with themselves?’

Bumblebee asked himself this question countless times as he took what energon he could find before leaving the half destroyed town. It wouldn’t do him any good staying there not when bots were looking for another to take their anger out on. Many of those bots were joining the military and hoping to become Elite guards themselves. Bee figured it was misplaced hope and a need for safety.

He got it, he really did.

If he could blend in he would but sadly he can’t. He never could. Not with his yellow paint, door wings and femme like frame. He wasn’t proud of the way he learned to use these things to his advantage. It wasn’t always a guarantee he could scrounge up some energon without getting caught and since he was no longer a sparkling but a young grown mech, he needed to be careful not to get caught. He didn’t want to end up in a detention center.

It was hard at first. Truth be told it was still hard. Going to half decent but mostly seedy bars working for his keep to have a place to rest his head and keep energon in his tank. He wasn’t stupid. He knew this arrangement was not only dangerous but temporary. Eventually his luck would run out within twelve cycles and he’d be asked to accompany the bar owner to a more..private room. He always left immediately after saying he would meet them down there.

It led to him traveling a lot more than he originally planned but he eventually found some semblance of settling when he entered a camp full of seekers. There were a few grounders like himself, most likely mated to some of the seekers. He stayed clear of them seeing them just made him think of his creators and his processor just wandered to trying to remember what they looked like. So he tried to keep to himself no matter how lonely he was. He wanted to chat and get close with others, by nature he was a friendly mech and loved talking but he couldn’t risk doing so. Not here.

Not when he was always at risk of being hurt or…used.

“You know you don’t have to be so distant. It’s different here,” a grounder spoke, “a lot of seekers here just want to online peacefully and us grounders just want our sparklings and mates safe.”

The mech tried to put a servo on his shoulder but he flinched away, standing straight a moment later he looked anywhere but the mech and scurried off. His circuits were nervous for cycles after that encounter. Other grounders started coming to him trying to talk and soothe him as if he was a sparkling in distress and not a grown mech himself.

He didn’t need them trying to creator him, he was fine on his own and had been all his life cycle. They could frag off snd creator their own sparklings. It made him so irrationally angry every time they tried to take care of him he wasn’t some bitlet that needed consoling he was a grown mech that entered carrier heats alone when he was just a youngling living in a back alley. He was mech who survived the acid rains in the dumpsters or bots back garages in corners to not he seen. He’d kept himself from being interfaced by older bots all on his own.

He didn’t need them! He never needed a creator before when he was a lone sparkling and he doesn’t need one now as a grown mech.

“Aren’t jou a little young to be drinking jour sorrows away?”

“Aren’t you a little fragger for bothering someone in a corner who wants to be left alone?”

Okay so maybe he had a foul intake but he was justified, he wanted some peace to wallow in a bar he wouldn’t be asked to interface for shelter in for once he wanted to relax not this.

“Quite ze mouth on jou little one. Careful. Jou don’t seem ze type to be good in a mech on mech brawl,” the mech laughed in his foreign accent. He blamed the high grade in his systems for making him think it was attractive as well as warming his pleasure sensors.

“Yeah well you don’t know what kind of mech I am so frag off and leave me alone,” okay maybe he sounded bratty but he just wanted the mech to go away.

“Suite jourself,” the mech said with a slag eating grin in his vox. It made Bumblebee look up from his glass he was going to give this mech a piece of his processor until he looked at the mech. He was tall, really tall. Arms thicker than Bumblebee’s frame with a beautiful jawline that could offline. His face plate was a shade of blue he could never grow tired of seeing with the most beautiful red optics he’s ever seen. In the back of his processor he knew that meant this was a decepticon mech former or not he wasn’t sure. All he knew in that moment looking at the beige and purple painted mech was that he was beautiful, stunning, a sight he was truly gifted to behold.

His intake was left partially open as he swayed on unstable pedes before grabbing the counter to balance himself. His high grade filled helm was hard at work rushing energon south as his private plating grew hot. He could feel his valve growing wet with sticky energon slick and he knew he had to get out of there.

His seal was still in tact thankfully but with how attractive the mech before him was he wasn’t sure how much longer that would be the case.

“Oooh? Nothing to say hummel?”

Bumblebee made a face at the name worry tinting his blurred optics as he gazed at the mech but the small part of his processor that was logic won out and he stumbled away from the mech. Forcing himself to be silent as he left the bar. He didn’t have a place to call his yet but the archive building always had a room they let mechs and femmes stay in who had no hab suite. Here in the camps shanix wasn’t as big a need like in the capital and their surrounding cities and towns. He still had less than the average bot but he had enough for fuel and thats all he really cared about.

He was just at the archive back-way when he stumbled and lost his peding. The rush of cold air didn’t turn to concrete and vaguely he could feel two warm servo’s on his hips before being lifted into cool arms. The bot that helped him was a mech and a muscular yet lean one at that. They were quite large with how far from the he was but he didn’t feel in danger. He couldn’t identify what he felt if he was honest.

Warmth. Comfort. Soft. His body wasn’t on edge for the first time he knew of. He almost missed the word he’d been unfortunate to experience until now.

Safe.

The mech holding him managed to make him feel safe when he didn’t even know them.

“Jou shouldn’t get so full on high grade especially since jou aren’t a regular size for that kind of high grade.”

‘Oh great, this mech again,’ he would’ve rolled his optics if he didn’t have such a helm ache.

“Put me down,” his vox was half static as he tried to get feeling into his frame. His servo’s wouldn’t listen to his circuits telling them to move and his digits just hung limp against the mech’s chest plates. They were thick, made for flight and battle. Oh how his private plating pulsed with life at the mere thought.

‘Why did I have to like em big?’

“And vhere vould jou go hmm? Do jou live here? In this little hole?”

Bumblebee had enough energy to get upset at the incredulous tone but not much else. He wanted to helm butt the nosey mech but he didn’t have the energy to.

“Not your business, put me down,” his venting wasn’t even and his frame was getting hot from all the high grade and his valve’s pulsing. He hoped the bot couldn’t smell his arousal, he really wanted to frag the mech but at the same time he didn’t want to risk getting sparked or a virus.

“Are jou sure jou want me to put jou down? Jou could barely stand on those little stabilizers just a moment ago. Jou think jou can make it inside?”

“Why do you care? Just let me figure it out on my own and go away!”

He was starting to lose his temper and his valve was starting to leak with every passing word from that thick accent. He wanted the mech and he wanted to feel his spike breaching his valve and breaking his seal but there would be consequences to that and the mech was most likely a decepticon. He didn’t get a good look at his chassis to see the insignia but Bumblebee knew he had one.

“Feisty little mech hmm?”

“I’m not that little,” with a sudden burst of energy Bumblebee managed to catch the mech off guard as he twisted in his arms. Lifting a servo to try pushing the mech away he was restrained faster than he knew possible.

“Interesting, jou have quite ze speed I’ll give jou that hummel,” the mech smirked unfazed, “but i’m faster,” he said leaning in face plate to face plate.

“What do you want from me?”

“Jou are interesting.”

“I’m not a pleasurebot,” Bumblebee glared, servo transforming to a stinger canon. He has never offlined another bot in his life cycle but he was willing to blue screen one on their aft if he needed to.

“I never saw jou that way little one. I simply think jour interesting. I’ve never seen a bot with yellow paint or wings as beautiful as jours especially since jour a grounder.”

That made Bumblebee freeze.

No bot had ever called him interesting, let alone beautiful. And his door wings? Well, they were betraying his vulnerability full throttle as they flicked and postured nervously. A tint of eagerness in how they didn’t pull away from the mech’s direction. Vents stalling for a nanoclick as his optics focus on honesty and want in the red optics bewitching him.

“you..you think i’m…”

He couldn’t get the words out his vox couldn’t form a single sentence and his optics betrayed him by blurring with leaking fluid.

“i..don’t..,” that ache in his spark coiled something fierce vice grip holding him immobile in the mech’s arms. Those red optics didn’t pity him, didn’t judge him, understood him.

“I vant to, hummel,” the soft blow of air from his derma’s cooled the heat clouding Bumblebee’s fave plate, he wanted more, so much more. “I vant to touch jou, show jou just how beautiful jou are, hummel.”

His derma’s wisp the tip of his audial and brush against the mesh under his optic. Bumblebee could feel his horns flicking with excitement, with need, reacting to the mech’s touch. He wanted more. Needed more.

His own dermas inched forward, soft vent brushing blue mesh as his optic lids fluttered, chest plates pushing out slightly to touch the mech more. He could feel his breast mesh beneath his plating grow aroused perking to rub uncomfortably, begging to be set free. He wanted this mech to touch him, caress him, feel him.

He needed him.

Needed to be more than just a no bot fading to the background for safety. Hiding away from bots who wanted to lend him a helping servo, never staying in one place for long out of fear. His overseers still had him listed as a criminal for running away with a lot of energon and the seedy bar owners and patrons he served high grade to wanted his valve and seal for their own disgusting servos. He dodged plenty elite guards who identified him as a survivor to the raid on the small town he once inhabited.

Turns out they not only used it to make the towns people enlist and join the autobot ranks, they down played the damage truly dealt. Hid how many sparks were snuffed out and how many bots were permanently damaged because of their horrible decision. He had an idea of what they would do to convince him to keep it under wraps and he wanted no parts in that.

All the running, always watching his back, never able to trust another bot or simply talk the way he wished he could. He wanted nothing more than to be a normal bot.

His derma’s touch the beige helm before he realizes, thats all it takes for the mech holding him. He’s being carried somewhere, their entering the deepest parts of the seeker district where some of the more dangerous mechs cohabit. They come to a building he recognizes as a seekers home. Its built for a lone mech instead of a trine and Bumblebee feels his nerves jumble as they enter inside.

His optics wander the room as he notes paintings hanging from the walls beautiful and perfection in every sense of the word. Molding clay in a corner with stone and hammers opposite of them. Paint lies in a cupboard far too high for him to reach but perfect for the mech that shifts to cradle him.

A servo brushes so gently across the side of his helm holding his jaw to tilt making him look up. Red optics are warm to him now. A color he thinks he’ll forever find comfort in so long as its this bot before him.

He’s shy now, blue coating his cheeks as he feels the heavy thrum of the mechs spark pulsing through his thick armor. He’s a war build seeker that much he’s sure of, his gaze wanders to purple wings and his own flutter at the sight. He can’t help it. They’re so big, much bigger than his own and they could fly. He wished his could fly.

“Jour wings are beautiful,” the mech whispers, olfactory sensor rubbing his, asking for permission that Bumblebee grants him.

The kiss is slow, searching, fluid, curious.

They both want to get a feel on one another, servos tightening around his waist, his arms hooking behind the beige helm, stabilizers hooking beneath the large chassis. Digits digging into the armor when he feels dermas press harder onto his own. The mesh is soft, so soft he almost thinks the mech freshly glossed them just for him. He feels the cool shift in the mechs frame grow warmer, the shift in metallic wings fluttering. He’s vaguely aware of the bot taking him to the berth. High grade heightening his sensor nets while lowering his fire walls and the logic in his processor.

He feels his private plating heat unbearably, his vavle spasming as his back hits the soft sheets. His wings fan out in a desirable display and his hips rut against the mechs strong upper thigh that rests between his legs sinking into the berth. Their dermas part and Bumblebee flicks his optics open their hazy drunk on pleasure he knows will only grow. He’s faintly aware of the room growing in heat from their warming frames, the windows begin to fog and his olfactory senses pick up the scent of energon slick and transfluid, it makes him look down.

The mech on top of him has his private plating retracted he has no valve that much Bumblebee realizes as he feels his own private plating tremble in anticipation. But the sheer size of the mechs pink and blue energon transfluid dripping from his engorged black spike with bioluminescent purple and blue lines in an attractive pattern he wants has glossa to lick and trace, has Bumblebees private plating snap open.

He looks away in shame as his pathetic spike shows itself. It was small even for someone his size he wouldn’t dare compare it to the large spike about to penetrate him. He’s sniffling upset already thinking he’ll bd mocked, wings insecure as they shift awkwardly. But the beige and purple mech doesn’t allow him to wallow. Those purple wings flare to capture his attention and the icy digit lifts his head to look at him. Warmth enraptures those beautiful red optics and he’s left starstruck.

Subconsciously he’s aware of his servos lowering to hold both sides of the mechs face plate, feeling the seductive jawline move as the mech spoke. Words uncharacteristically gentle aimed his way has his chassis quivering and his optics warming in leaking fluid as he whimpers a pitiful whine at the mechs words.

“You’re a carrier,” the words are understanding, careful, sweet even, “I’m a sire mech, hummel,” Bumblebee didn’t really know much about sire mechs he only knew they couldn’t carry like he couldn’t sire. He had to know all that being a carrier entailed since he was one but he never bothered to learn much on sire mechs. He knew regular bots could spark bond and have a piece of their sparks enter-twine before going into a protoform. That was the norm of how their species reproduced.

And then there was mechs like him and the mech above him, the rarities who carry in tanks and sired through transfluid and spark energy. A carrier mech could end up sparked through either just like a sire mech could spark a mech using their chamber or transfluid. Usually the two types only stuck to each other simply because they were not only made for each other but because it was easier that way since a regular bot would have complications with either types and regular bots didn’t like their types.

“I’m sorry,” it felt right to say for some reason. He didn’t live a life he wished for others to experience and so he assumed the other mech may not have as well.

“No need to apologize hummel, jou did nothing vrong. Especially since i get to have jou here,” the mech said lowering himself. That thick spike dragging up his thigh plate made his hips rut and a smirk pulled at blue dermas that leaned back down to kiss him. His servo’s moved on their own, holding the mech’s chassis and shoulder optics fluttering as his neck moved back, wings spread out in invitation across the sheets. Hips lifting to rub his vavle along the thick pulsing spike that dripped transfluid onto his seal. He felt his valve squeeze on nothing and his grip tightened as he whimpered. He wanted the mech, this mech right here who showed him kindness he often ran from and rejected.

With him it felt different.

Maybe it was the high grade working in his systems, maybe it was the unparalleled beauty he saw in the mech that left him wanting more or maybe it was the growing heat that curled and coiled in his tanks with each touch the mech provided him. He didn’t know and he didn’t bother to care.

He just knew one thing.

“Spike..please,” he moaned as their dermas disconnected with a trail of liquid connecting them. His shinning optics took in the purple tint of the mechs cheeks and he felt his cheeks warm. This large mech was blushing at the sight of him, spike pulsing and hard because of him. Dripping the most delicious smelling transfluid onto his valve, all because of him.

“Hummel, are jou sure?”

“Yes, please,” Bumblebee pleaded, “break my seal, claim me as yours, mecha.”

There was a softness, a vulnerability that was partially guarded as the mechs red optics glossed slightly. A cool vent that left Bumblebee reaching up to pull the other closer as his wings lowered to stretch then spread in invitation. A shy invitation with shy confidence on Bumblebee’s part as he initiated a soft tender shaky kiss. Feeling the mech return it, servo holding the space between his door wings as he tightened his stabilizers around the mechs waist.

Digits slide to his valve and wait, he pushes his valve closer to them and the mech answers his welcoming. Sliding the first clawed digit inside breaking his seal. He gasps in pure pleasure, the mech inhaling his air sliding another inside. Twirling his digits slowly, working the fresh folds open careful to stretch them as slick pink fluid coated black clawed servos.

The dermas kissing his neck cables nipped at them, those sharp denta sent a shiver down his spine. Oh how he wanted the mech to open his chassis and bite his teat glands. He knew he couldn’t lactate but he wanted the mech to have the fun of trying.

‘Maybe I really do have carrier protocols that can be activated.’ That in itself was a surprise since he swore to himself he would never have a sparkling let alone take care of one.

The sudden pulse from his valve had his optics clouding for a nanoclick. The mech holding him had slipped two more digits inside him, he was impossibly tender and completely thorough in his stroking. He felt that sudden spike in heat wracking his frame his vents were starting to have trouble cooling him down and the mech bit a little harder when he felt the small bot in his arms gasp in pleasure.

“Jou like that? Hmm? Have I found jour bundle of nerves?”

Those skilled claws lightly rubbed the bundle of nerves and he felt his interior node spasm at the soft touch. His helm fell back at the sudden rush of slick fluid that spilled into the mechs servo. He felt his legs lock tighter and his hips rutting in tune with the mechs digits his own digits dug deep into the mechs shoulders scrapping his paint. And before Bumblebee could apologize he saw the mechs wings twitch in appreciation.

“M..mecha..your wings..so..ahhhh so beautiful,” he moaned. He wanted to touch them but he knew he didn’t like others touching his door wings so he was sure a full seeker wouldn’t want a mixed bot touching his own and Bumblebee didn’t think he’d be granted permission.

“Blitzwing.”

“H-huh?”

“My name, mein designation is Blitzwing,” the mech now known as Blitzwing, soothed to him pressing his helm against Bumblebees.

“Blitzwing,” the name felt like honey and riches on his tongue. He found himself repeating the designation over and over again as his valve pumped out slick fluid into the mechs servo. He felt so good all over, his frame may be hot and his tank felt like it would burst at any moment spilling out of his valve but he could care less. He chased that feeling, the unwinding bundle that threatened to swallow him whole as he bucked his hips keeping pace with the beautiful mech before him.

With the beautiful mech named Blitzwing that his optics just couldn’t get enough of.

“Hummel,” his groan was delicious to his audials but when Blitzwing pulled his servo back he whined like he was struck with pain.

“I vant to be inside jou, mein hummel, please,” Blitzwing moaned lining his spike to Bumblebee’s valve, “can I?”

When Bumblebee didn’t say anything Blitzwing pulled back ready to comfort him but Bumblebee’s stabilizers pushing him forward so the head of his spike could slip inside him, well it made them both groan.

Bumblebee’s valve was hot and soft to the touch, sucking Blitzwings spike in like a bot starved of the most delectable energon known in bot history. Blitzwing almost overloaded from just being inside the yellow minibot alone. He tried inching in slowly, allow the yellow mini time to adjust to his impressive thick spike but the yellow bug kept squirming and wiggling trying to lower himself onto his spike that he bit his lower derma to keep from thrusting in all the way.

“Careful zere hummel. Jou may rip something,” Blitzwing groaned as he almost bottomed out, servo curling around the yellow mini’s curvy mesh waist while the other held the back of his helm, Blitzwing watched the curve of his spike imprint the mechs tank. He felt his spike twitch spurting hot transfluid inside the soft meshy organ. Oh it felt so good to be fully sheathed inside the mech nestled in his arms.

His beautiful face plate was overwhelmed with pleasure, chassis heaving heavy vent after heavy vent in an attempt to cool his frame. His hips were twitching on his spike, he could see how full the mech was, so full of him that he almost slipped and overloaded inside him.

He didn’t want to hurt the neutral bot especially since he just broke his seal but he did want to make this experience last as long as possible. He wanted the mech in his servo’s to be ruined for anybot else. He didn’t want the yellow beauty to find comfort or solace in another mech or femme like this that wasn’t him.

He carefully cradled the mech closer pressing them chassis to chassis, covered spark plating to covered spark plating. Sucking what little air the mech had blowing cool air into his intake as he slid his glossa inside. Roaming every inch of the mechs intake when he felt servo’s hold his wings.

The sensation made him jolt in surprise.

This mechs touch, his small servo’s, his tiny digits, feeling along the expanse of his purple wings, feeling along the groves and long healed dents was the best feeling he’s ever had in his entire life cycle.

Blitzwing was so embarrassed his cheeks shaded complete purple as he moaned loudly, overloading inside the little mech who arched his back strut with impossible flexibility. Overloading slick fluid that sloshed and poured free from his valve mixing with the transfluid that dripped onto the sheets and down Blitzwings thigh plating and knee guards.

Blitzwing felt his wings fan out and stand at attention the same as the mech in his servo’s. He felt his processor crash for a moment, frame shaking making him thrust into the yellow mini’s interior node pushing him to overload once more. The sweet cries and moans coming from the bots leaking intake had his spike pulsing at attention and he couldn’t help himself.

Half crashed with his processor fritzing from overheat and excessive pleasure he kept thrusting. Their spark chambers thrumming at racing pace as they tried to connect through both the bots armor. Blitzwing had never been very vocal when interfacing save for some dirty talk but he couldn’t stop the moans and pleasurable grunts and growls as he soaked up all the attention his hummel was giving not just him but his wings as they interfaced.

He hadn’t touched the bots wings since one did not touch a carriers wings without permission. One didn’t touch a sire’s wings either but for this mini without question he made an exception.

“Ah, Hummel,” he felt his vox growl dangerously as another overload was building in his tank and circuits. Even with his ice powers blowing cool air on the air from his pistons it wasn’t enough. The windows were steaming, the berth was creaking as the metal frame slammed the wall making an ignored crack. The bot in his servo’s was trying to meet the rhythm of his thrusts his valve puffy and stretched out. Pink and blue energon surrounding it as their fluids mixed.

Blitzwing tried to stifle a particularly loud roar by biting so hard into his derma he spilled energon. His spike impaled the yellow mini’s interior node over and over until his little hummel overloaded with a loud cry of static before dragging his digits down Blitzwings wing plating then frizzing out into recharge. His frame spasmed in reaction to Blitzwing overloading inside him completely unaware of the large mech falling to his side and crashing into recharge after roaring loudly accidentally turning his thrusters on and firing his pistons. The last thing Blitzwing saw flashing across his hud before completely falling into recharge was that his processor had activated the protocol every seeker dreamed of.

His conjunx programming.

Neither mechs were in a rush to online their optics. Blitzwing was heading back into recharge when he felt his frame being moved and his arms lose the small warmth he’d held throughout the night cycle. His processor immediately took that as a threat making his optics shoot open and his pistons blare to life ready to shoot when a startled yelp rung in his processor and a flash of yellow dropped down.

He was quick to catch the little mech before he hit the floor boards, yanking him back into his arms as his optics searched for the threat. When he saw the berth room was empty save for the two of them he tilted his helm confused.

“Hummel, are jou okay?”

The mech in his arms was shocked and looked pretty shaken up though Blitzwing noted how he leaned into his touch instead of scurrying off.

“Hummel?”

“Stop calling me hummel. Thats not my designation.”

“Then what is jour designation? Jou never did tell me.”

“…”

The yellow mini looked down, face plate shifting to a hurt expression. His optics weren’t entirely clear but it couldn’t have been from the high grade. His scans showed the two worked it from his system during their first shared overload. His protocols were buzzing with worry something that didn’t show on his face plate but it did in his optics and closed off em field.

Deciding he would wait for an answer Blitzwing pulled the mech back onto the berth careful of sore stabilizers and his exposed puffy valve coated in dry transfluid and energon slick. He laid his back strut and wings comfortably against his pillows making sure the mech was comfortable against his frame. He could see the paint transfer on his thigh platings and he couldn’t stop the grin on his dermas. Em field motioning towards the mini he felt him jump slightly at the outside emotions.

“..b-127.”

His vox was low, it didn’t feel right to Blitzwing. The mech before him seemed so closed off, so closed in on himself Blitzwing was surprised he hadn’t split a circuit open. He knew the little mech had fire in him, that much was proven when he told him off at the bar. Sure he could be shy but that felt right. This. This didn’t feel right. And a designation like B-127? Thats not a real designation but he knows the yellow mech isn’t lying to him. So why was that his designation?

“B-127? Thats quite an odd designation for jour creators to give jou little one.”

“My creators offlined when I was few cycles old. Thats why I never got more than a sparkling center entrance number.”

The little mechs voice was cold and wavering as he spoke no matter how much he tried to stifle it Blitzwing could feel his em field howl with distrust, pain, longing, loneliness and sorrow at such a deep spark clenching grief. He was sure he could guess the type of life cycle the younger mech was tormented with. He knew well what the door wings on his back meant. The moved acted as wings a seeker would emerge with. He didn’t have the build of a grounder yet he knew the mech couldn’t fly. Sure he had a chassis like a grounder with no cockpit but that was it.

His plating was not build like that of a battling autobot but that of a civilian. He thankfully wasn’t framed like a pleasure bot but his natural frame was close. The yellow plating on his stabilizers went just above his mid thigh. His pedes had a small sharp strut to them and his hip plating wasn’t protective in the slightest. His tanks had no protective save for his back strut, the black plating blended well accentuating his curves that led to his yellow door wings with black opening handles just below the low window. His neck cables and upper chassis were exposed but his spark casing and tit glands were covered thankfully. His helm covering was yellow with black covering his audials, he had a strip of black on his forehead. That made Blitzwing get a good look at the antenna that drooped with his bots sad expression.

One he didn’t like.

“Jou didn’t vant to designste jourself?”

“Why should i? Not like anybots gonna call me by it.”

“It can be for jou, yellow one.”

“Yeah? And what if I don’t care about having a designation?”

‘Stubborn,’ Blitzwing smirked shaking his helm, “i think jou do but if jou prefer to be stubborn about ze subject.” Suddenly Bumblebee was pressed against the sheets. Blitzwing spike impaling him making the lingering transfluids sloshing inside of him slide back into his tank. His optics automatically began to haze as he felt some of the large mechs weight pressing him down. He never knew he would have a pleasure pressing kink, it was something he hoped the mech wouldn’t realize.

“Vhat if I told jou I wanted something to call jou other than the assigned numbers ze center gave jou. Hm?? Vhat if I vanted something better to moan during our bouts of interfacing? Hm? Ve seekers like spoiling our mates. Especially by calling their designations so every bot who hears us vill know who ve belong to.”

Blitzwing said the words as smooth as an icicle. They chilled him to his core in a way he felt heating his tanks just like the previous night cycle.

Bumblebee couldn’t stop his back strut from arching into Blitzwings middle plating. His valve slicking hot energon makes it so much easier for Blitzwing to pull his hips back, the tip of his spike keeping Bumblebee’s valve stretched as he made some excess transfluid and energon slick that was mixed together squelch out before it was roughly shoved back inside with a powerful thrust.

“Jou deserve a beautiful designation to be moaned in jour ear, hummel.”

Bumblebee felt his tank lurch and his gestation pouch pulse. His optics blew wide open at the assault on his interior node, lifting his helm to open his intake and defy the mech laying so comfortably on top of him. Ready to argue his words and the use of his magnificent spike that cured a loneliness he’d never known could be filled until Blitzwing slammed into his interior node again knocking his processor and vox off from their regulatory.

The mech was stroking him so deep with every pump of his spike he was sure that Blitzwing intended to hit the bundle of nerves on his interior node and even try slamming into his gestation pouch. The realization made his valve pour and he couldn’t stop his digits from digging into the sheets and as he arched perfectly into Blitzwings frame.

Blitzwing glued his frame to the mech below him and he decided his mating code picked a perfect mech to match him with. Sure he wished he could’ve gotten to know the mech better and know him for longer but if his sweet expressions were anything to go by. The parting of his dermas as static slipped free, his seductive arch, his tight little valve that went from relaxed to squeezing his spike like his spark depended on it. Every hum and whine and mewl the mech let out was far too great for Blitzwing not to bend down and steal for himself like the selfish decepticon he is.

“Nnnnnghhhhh,” those noises were music to his audial’s. He couldn’t help but open his optics as he kissed the yellow mech depely. Seeing up close for the first time just how beautiful the mech truly was. Smooth faceplate, glossy painted frame streaked with his colors with an incredible curvy femme like frame to pede. Not to mention his door wings.

Blitzwing wouldn’t ever admit it to any other mech besides himself and maybe his hummel but those wings. He watched those wings twitch with sad expression for literal joors as the yellow mini sat at the bar drinking high grade too high for his frame. He wouldn’t have really cared if it were another mech about to be taken advantage of. He knew what the bar tender wanted by giving the mech such expensive and tasteful energon. He hadn’t really cared until he saw just who the mech was.

He didn’t really know the yellow mini outside of seeing him in passing since the day he wandered into town. Expression blank in a way all too familiar to his own when he used to live in the slums of Vos and Kaon. He didn’t have a place to call his habsuite or home after his creators offlined. Surviving the cruel streets taught him to look as reserved and untouchable as possible. The same look he once adorned on his face plates was the same look the yellow mini possessed as he went about in town.

Many tried to chat with him and each bot was either rudely turned down or he shut them down before walking off. He intrigued Blitzwing at first, his first time seeing the mech up close he was in his alt mode. Seeming to be cruising to himself far from the other grounders who drove and raced together. Blitzwing admired the sleek form of his alt mode as he watched him from afar, vox stolen along with his helm and processor as he watched the yellow mini transformer into root mode and walk into the archive halls. Those wings were pressed flat on his backside, one that Blitzwing admired in its entirety as he took in the shapely aft and slender stabilizers that had small heel struts holding casual grace as they moved.

He was star speckled when he first saw the mini and ever since he kept his optic out for him. Engine almost purring at every chance he got to see his cute little aft bent over as his door wings bobbed in natural response. He never saw himself having a thing for grounders but seeing as the mech was half grounder half seeker he was more than happy to make an exception.

So seeing the little mech all alone at the bar with a cup of high grade had been a gift he was not willing to pass up. No he wasn’t intending to berth him but it had been a welcome surprise. One he wasn’t planning on letting him escape from. He was more than happy to show his hummel all the ways in which they were perfect together and if it meant starting in the berth room, well.

He was more than happy to get their odd courtship started.

“Ah! Ah! Bli-bLitzWing!”

“Go ahead, hummel,” Blitzwing moaned into his intake, glossa sliding inside for a quick taste before slipping out, “I vant to hear all of jou. Every whimper, every gasp, every whine. Go ahead. Don’t hold back on me. Mein hummel,” Blitzwing uttered against his derma, ever the secret romance bot, “Let me feel jour body tremble.”

With a loud optic leaking static cry Bumblebee felt Blitzwing intwine their digits together digging them further into the sheets. Spilling energon transfluid into his valve and gestation pouch as it burst from the round tip of his spike. Filling his tank quite noticeably as it swelled from not only his humungous spike imprint but the sparkling fluid drenching him with pure creation.

He couldn’t focus his helm circuits long enough to know the difference between opening his intake or his valve that greedily drank as if his life energon was at stake. His vox wouldn’t shut off no matter how many times he tried to shut his dermas and even the sheets he bit down onto wasn’t enough to stop the pleasured cry as he felt his spark chamber crack open.

The loud rumbling hum of a spark too big to be his own roared behind him. The life wisping energy of his untouched passionate bright orange spark began to mix in perfect harmony with Blitzwing’s mixed hues of orange and red life spark energy.

The two were in awe and amazed by the colors of each other’s spark. Blitzwing would never have guessed the yellow mini had orange in his spark or that a spark could even be pure white. Sure he’s heard rumors but thats all he thought they were rumors. He never believed they were real for a second but oh how wrong he was.

‘Orange and red? I’ve read about them but I never thought I’d see a bot with one! I never thought I’d see another bots spark at all to be fair…’

While Bumblebee and Blitzwing were awed at the sight of the other mechs spark and the beauty of the others essence, they completely forgot one important detail.

Their sparks were merging, becoming one, permanently.

The two mechs had just permanently sparkbonded becoming conjunx and hadn’t even realized until their energies permanently sat mixed within one another and their chassis closed.

Lingering specks of energy littered the air around them. Their digits were seemingly glued as their frames melted to each others. Bumblebee could feel a wave of warmth, confusion, anxiety and the ache of an overthinking helm in the pit of his tank and in the center of his spark. He reached his em field to touch it and the feelings burst to life with a static screech of his vox as he felt electricity burst from within.

His valve clenched tight around Blitzwing’s spike making the mech shake. The larger had been caught off guard by the sudden pleasure and discomfort around his spike after such an optic stopping moment as seeing a spark as ethereal as this. By Primus his spark put the stars in their galaxy to shame. He felt the symphony of the arts floating around his helm and the urge to paint his now bondeds spark on canvas to capture its immortal flawless core.

He needed to build. To craft such perfection and magnificence for him to behold in and out of the mechs presence. No not the mech presence, his mechs presence.

The yellow mini was not just a random bot anymore. This yellow mini who captured his attention without lifting a digit or batting an optic his way, was his.

And oh how he feared the clicks passing by as his affections and fascination grew.

“Hummel,” the mech groaned, digits clasping the mini’s tighter as he felt jolts of electricity stinging the core of his spark with fear and a warmth he’s never been granted past his creators.

“We bonded, oh frag we bonded!”

The panic settled in the form of his vox and vision glitching with fuzz and discolored sights in leaking optics that burned to his over working vents. He could not bring himself to release Blitzwing but he couldn’t bring himself to stop panicking.

“I just bonded with a mech I don’t even know! Oh frag I’m bonded to another mech! Frag, frag, frag!”

“Are jou telling me jou think jour on the femme attraction hummel?”

The raised taunting mesh above red optics annoyed Bumblebee especially when he could see the smugness in Blitzwing’s expression, though he refused to acknowledge his wanting to comfort the hidden fear in the mech he grasped tighter. Not because he cared and felt grounded by something as simple as touch but because he was running on high energy. He could delude himself for the moment he’s earned it.

“Shut up,” his cheek curves were blue with energon as he avoided that stiff smile, “its not that! I just don’t know you.”

“Vell ve are bonded now. Ve have all eternity to get to know ze other,” Blitzwing said accepting this a bit easier. Sure he was freaking out on the inside but the use of slightly taunting humor and the pretty mech still beneath him helped soothe him. That and he was still pumping transfluid inside the little mini and he was becoming fascinated with just how vast their size difference was. He was aware of his war frame being bigger than most bots but he was so used to being around other war frames and average sized bots, even heavy weight bots, that he forgot about mini bots.

Though now that he looks at the mech he didn’t exactly fit the form type of a mini bot. His protoform was far too…curvy and slim in all the right places to be a mini. They tended to be more round and husky, stout really. They were perfectly balanced in being heavy weight to make up for their short stature. But this mech didn’t seem to be stout he wasn’t even chunky. He was just curvy and little too slim.

‘Kind of like…oh..’

It would be best not to ask.

‘It vould be best to wait until ve’re more familiar vith each other to talk on our pasts..though I’m sure I know ze answer..’

“This isn’t funny! Do you have any idea what we’ve done?!”

“Jes.”

“And you’re just okay with that?!”

“Jes.”

“You don’t even know me!”

“I know enough. I can spot a good bot from a bad bot and jou hummel are a good bot.”

That seemed to catch his hummel’s attention. He was glad for it, he could feel a warmth grow within their new bond. A pulse of something thready beginning to form and a piece of his spark broke as he pin pointed the emotion.

Praise.

His hummel had never received praise or appreciation before.

‘Just how lonely a mech are jou?’

His mating protocols were kicking into gear. His instincts spurred him to drown his bonded in the affection he so desperately craved and needed. There was an abundance of emotions and needs both physical and mental that his hummel had never received. So many things were empty inside his hummels spark and the memories he barely touched were only of pain and basic mecha comforts. The care and affection he sent out through their bond was unrecognizable to the mini and as he heard sniffling and felt shoulder struts shake at the rush of overwhelm and confusion from below, he did his best to guide and comfort him through the torrent of unfamiliarity.

It took two joors to get his hummel to calm and by then the lunar and solar cycles events and lack of fuel had caught up to them. He wanted to get his hummel and himself fuel but the tiny servo resting on his spinal column had stopped him. He knew then he was weak for the pretty mecha as he curled around him drifting into recharge. Though the nights recharge was not helpful.

After bonding bots will share certain memories through the conjunx endurea bonding and it will be completely solidified. There would be no surgery or repairs capable of undoing their bond. Blitzwing had felt it necessary to share this information with his hummel who responded by loosely holding his larger servo between their chassis. He didn’t meet his optics but closing them and leaning close did more than words could.

Currently he was shifting an optic back at his hummel, he was sitting at the large table watching nothing but that was to he expected. Blitzwing knew a lot of memories of his life cycle were not at all pleasant. Sure he had moments where things were good but the horrors he committed in the great war. The painful experiment he went through granting him the ability and title Triple changer along with his long held curiosity and attraction to his hummel before meeting faceplate to faceplate.

Well, he was surprised his hummel was still sitting at the table let alone being in the same home as him.

Blitzwing attributed that to shock and his hummels own personal history of horrid memories one would like to leave behind. The care center, the casualties autobots often caused, the discrimination and hatred he faced on cycle to cycle basis. Coupled with having to survive on the streets while hiding carrier status at such a young age. Blitzwing stood no chance in shutting down his protective protocols the moment they onlined from recharge.

The yellow mech was finally able to escape his arms because his tank rumbled for fuel which is why they were in the fuel room. If his protocols deemed it safe Blitzwing would be carrying his mini mech around as he prepared them an early cycle fuel. He learned from the mini’s memories he never received a home fueling. Blitzwing was determined to change that no matter how much it tugged at his spark to think he could still taste his carriers home fueling while his mini mech has not.

“Here, jou need fuel and zis vill help jou feel better.”

“Thanks,” his vox was tired, empty, overwhelmed with his past and Blitzwings important memories through the ages he’s been functioning. They both were having a tough time seeing what the other had been put through. Neither were having any luck being separate for more than a nanoclick—another side effect of their newly formed bond.

Blitzwing hadn’t been making their morning fuel for a full eight clicks before both their frames grew cold from lack of touching the other. He was sitting beside his hummel before he’d realized he still needed to make his own morning fuel.

“Here,” he felt something warm press against his dermas, smooth liquid tickles the sensitive mesh filling his olfactory senses making his tanks growl. He opened his dermas allowing the energon blend to slide down his pharynx with a soft groan.

“No, jou must fuel,” Blitzwing took his own energon and held it to the smaller mechs dermas, “drink.”

The flush of blue to the minibots cheek plating was adorable. Blitzwing accidentally activated his internal cams taking in the slow rise and fall of his chassis watching his intake curl around the cup as he finished the last of his energon.

“Jou’re beautiful.” Blitzwing spoke without conscious, his words deepened the blue along his hummels cheeks to color his entire face plate. “I vill imagine this face in the midst of every battle, I vill gaze at jou every lunar cycle and every solar break. For I vant jou to be the ethereal that greets me every dawn und every dark that guide me through every trouble that aggrieves me.”

“You-you liquid tongued mecha! Stop it,” his hummel exclaimed covering his optics with black and yellow digits. “We aren’t in the heat of interfacing you don’t have to play smooth with your vox. I’ll frag with you again just not until I can walk properly on my stabilizers.”

Slowly inching his hummels digits away, Blitzwing locked optics with him, “I mean every word I say, whether in ze berth or not. Jou are mine now mini one und I make it a goal of mein to spoil that which is in mein possession.”

“Oh yeah? Well last I checked I’m my own bot conjunx or not so stop trying to velvet vox me,” the yellow mini spoke with fire that ignited Blitzwings spark.

“I hope to see jour fiery spirit more often, hummel.”

The curl of blue derma was enough for Bumblebee to try frowning at the larger mecha but the sound of their tanks growling made him look away with a huff.

“Let us properly fuel then ve can talk more, hm?”

“Fine,” his hummel said with defiance that turned liquid when Blitzwing pressed his dermas to soft grey mesh on his hummels forehelm.

The cute static and beep was much appreciated on Blitzwings part, though not so much on his hummels part who swatted him.

Halfway through the solar cycle and the freshly bonded conjunx were relaxing in each other’s arms. Content to feel the others spark thrum while talking things through.

It was obvious between the two Blitzwings home would be shared and the room Bumblebee was staying at would be given back. They spoke on Blitzwings status as a decepticon and what that meant for Bumblebee.

“Jou von’t be forced to join the ranks but jou vill be vith me if I am ever called for battle, should there be a battle. Jou von’t ever have to fight if jou don’t join but I vould feel better if I could train jou to defend jourself. Neutral or not, being vith me brings danger that I vill do anything to keep jou from.”

Bumblebee felt assured oddly enough. Sincerity flowed through their bond and he reached out in acceptance. He knew Blitzwing was high ranking from his shared memories and learning he’d been living in small towns like this for almost three million stellar cycles. After Megatron gave the call to hide Blitzwing did just that as he awaited for Megatron to call upon him once more.

“Truthfully I am not so sure I vant him to call me. I rather like living in peace especially since I have jou now, hummel.”

“What does that mean?”

A raised brow and Bumblebee specifies.

“Hummel. What does it mean? You keep calling me that so it has to mean something.”

“It is ze german vord for bumblebee. An insect found on certain planets. I once ventured on an insecticon ruled planet. Jou remind me of the few I witnessed fluttering about. Especially when jou bob jour wings.”

That made Bumblebee blush and as his optics grew wide. His intake fell when he felt the form of a memory tug at the back of his processor. He was confused on what it was until he felt Blitzwing smooth a digit over his servo and he looked into the large mechs optics.

He felt himself lean in and his processor opened allowing the image of a large insectibot with his colors bob and flutter around a gigantic organic planet before landing. He had to admit Blitzwing was correct in the resemblance, though he didn’t have any fuzz or fur on himself he did have similar antenna save for the sharp quality.

“Jou remind me of them. Though zey aren’t anyvhere near as beautiful as jou mein hummel.”

There was silence for a long time as Bumblebee replayed the memory on a steady loop in his brain module. Blitzwing sat patiently enjoying the awe on his hummels face plate until the silence was broken.

“Bumblebee.”

“Hm?”

“My designation,” Bumblebee uttered with some hesitant but budding confidence, “my designation is Bumblebee. I want that one. I want that to be mine.”

His vox was small, personal, mystified.

Blitzwing felt a warmth in his spark grow that he didn’t know possible. The care he held towards his hummel grew and he knew then he this was truly it.

His hummel. Bumblebee.

‘This is the mech I vant for the rest of my life cycle und the next.’

He was never one for smiling but for Bumblebee he knows it will be easy.

“A beautiful designation, mein Bumblebee.”

It felt like cyberhoney on his glossa and he knew then he was sparked further.

“I guess being with you won’t he so bad, Blitzwing.”

The delicate kiss on his dermas further cemented his revelation and Blitzwing rested a servo on the back of Bumblebee’s helmet pulling him closer to deepen it.

He did not want to interface with his hummel. He just wanted to feel him and his em field reflected as much and so did their bond.

Blitzwing was more than happy to feel the sentiment returned.

First & foremost Free Palestine & Free Sudan & the Congo. Please share their stories & protest so that the cruelty they face may be stopped.

Second - I did not expect to make this story so long in the beginning. I hope all who read it enjoy.

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