#NO THEY ARE TWENTY BUCKS THEY ARE SO EASY JUST GET IT YOU DESERVE IT!

[eddiernunson]

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart | Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader | 18+

Summary: You and Eddie have both had crap luck on dates lately, nothing that can't be fixed with a strawberry milkshake. However, he gets asked out on a date and it goes well...until it turns your life on its head and he forgets how to pick up the phone. You don't even care that he's dating someone else you just want your best friend back.

Warnings: idiots in love, best friends to lovers, ANGST, brief EddiexChrissy, ooc Chrissy, attempted SA, bestfriend!Steve, and needy, desperate smut that makes it all worth it.

Thanks to @forget-you-morelike-fuck-you for editing bestie

I’m astounded at the response to the preview I posted last week. Thank you so much for the love, I hope you enjoy all 40k (20k wtf did my brain go)

-

As you pull up to the little house at the end of the street, you look over to the sweet boy with blonde hair and green eyes nervously, curtaining a strand of hair behind one ear. He shoots you a smirk, white pearly teeth peeking from behind pretty pink lips. The date has gone phenomenally well, the conversation over dinner was easy and your date even easier on the eyes. You smooth your hands over the dress you’re wearing, picking at imaginary lint as you’re entirely unsure of what to say next.

Daniel, your date, leans onto the center console, the scent of his minty breath roping you in. “So, dinner was like, forty dollars.”

Your brows pinch together, the topic of conversation coming from left field.

“And the flowers were about twenty.” He says, his voice hinting at a subtext lost on you.

You think back to the flowers, a cascade of spring colours that drenched you in their floral scent. They sit on your dresser in a vase, waiting eagerly for you to come home.

“Okay…?” You ask, unsure of what he’s getting at.

Daniel sighs, suddenly the frustration you didn’t see before is clear on his face. “Well, I think I deserve some compensation for the princess treatment, don’t you think?”

He’s raising his brow suggestively, and the atmosphere in the car turns thick as you realize what he’s referring to. You feel so stupid. Suddenly the smirk on his face isn’t sweet, it’s sleazy. The cologne he’s wearing isn’t earthy, it’s gross. He’s not a good guy, and you feel foolish for thinking otherwise.

You think fast, lowering your eyelashes in a feigned blush. “Actually, I think it deserves just a little more than that. Be right back, I’m going to grab a condom.” You wink as you get out, the cherry on top.

Daniel lights right up, apparently not expecting his ridiculous method to work. The sound of him undoing his belt makes you nearly gag as you run in the front door.

Your dad, the sweetheart of a single father he is, welcomes you with a kind smile until he sees your crestfallen face. “You okay?”

“No,” you choke back, tears threatening to fall down your cheeks. “He’s demanding I repay him for dinner.”

“Repay?” You tilt your head, inferring what it means. “Oh. Fucking twerp. You need me to–”

“Can I have 60 bucks?” You interrupt him, avoiding his angry eyes.

He melts. “Sure.”

You walk back out the door, head held high right to the little corvette that sits at the end with the cheeky asshole sitting contently, waiting for his treat. The window is still open from earlier in the night, which works right in your favor.

“Here,” you toss the bills at him, allowing a small smile to grace your face at his confusion. “Since you’re so worried about being paid.”

As soon as he understands what you’re telling him, his face curves into a scowl, embarrassed, but too proud to say so. “Like I wanted to do it with Eddie Munson’s slut anyway!”

Halfway back up to the house, you turn back to the car as the engine growls into the night. How does that make sense? you wonder. Why am I being called a slut when I refused to put out?

The front door to your house slams shut again, and your dad receives the message that you would not like to talk about it. “Ed called just now, by the way,” he mentions as you reach the top of the stairs. Your pause in gait tells him you heard him, but you don’t respond because you can hear the smirk he wears, as much as you repeatedly tell him that Eddie is just a friend.

The flowers you thought so fondly of now have a looming presence in your room, like a dark shadow menacingly waiting in the corner. You ignore them as you lift the pastel phone to your ear, dialing the number you know by heart.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hi, sweetheart.” Relief washes over you, instant and comforting.

“Hey, Eds. How was your date?” You and he had the same plans tonight, you just hope it turned out better for him.

“It sucked,” he sighs, sounding like he’s rummaging through his messy chest of drawers. “She didn’t want a date, I guess.”

“Well what did she want?” You ask, going through your own drawers for something comfier to wear.

“Uh, to be shown a good time,” he answers dryly, the sound of rummaging coming to a sudden stop. “Heard the rumors of Munson’s magic fingers and apparently only wanted that.”

Yikes, you think. Eddie’s had many hook ups in the back of his van, but as of late he’s finding himself defeated when they don’t want him, just what he can do for them. Your heart hurt for him last week when he admitted they rarely, if ever, reciprocated.

You didn’t think it’d be an appropriate moment to tell him you would happily reciprocate for him.

“That’s extremely shitty. Guess it’s not all that different from my date though, who expected payback from spending a lousy sixty bucks.”

“Payback?”

“Asked me to suck his dick and pointed to it,” you say, a million times more bluntly than you could to your dad.

“I knew that Daniel guy was an asshole,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “I think our shitty dates deserve each other.”

You laugh, holding the PJs you plan on wearing as you sit cross legged on your bed. “To be honest, I don’t think Daniel would’ve been all that great in bed anyway.”

“I could’ve told you that. He looks like he would call thirty seconds a long time,” Eddie laughs. “Sit tight, princess, I think we’ve earned pancake night at Benny’s.”

“C’mon, I was just about to get comfy!” You whine.

“Nah, wear the pretty dress. It deserves to see a strawberry milkshake, don’t you agree?”

Honestly, a milkshake night with your best friend is exactly what you need. “Sure. See you in twenty?”

“Eh, ten.”

You throw out the flowers, tossing the vase full of water into the kitchen sink, shrugging when your dad gives you an apologetic look. You certainly are already over it, just another asshole in Hawkins, who would’ve thought? When the loud music from Eddie’s stereo pulls up, your dad nods in understanding, telling you to have fun as you leave through the front door.

The date night dress you wear is a summer dress that sits just above your knees, held together by spaghetti straps decorated with pretty blue florals. It's a dress you go to for formal events, and even saw a dance or two back in high school. Of course, you had to dust it off for the cute boy in your Psych class who ended up being a complete dickwad.

The fabric of Eddie’s beat up van is familiar. So familiar that you could argue his passenger seat has a permanent indent from your ass. Eddie has, in fact, pointed it out from one night stoned in the back with him, giggling as you vehemently denied it. At your sudden quiet shut down stature, he patted your ass gently, claiming that he didn’t want any other person’s ass planted on his seat except yours.

That conversation, as hazy as it was, stayed in your mind for days after the fact.

Eddie’s dressed in his own version of a date night outfit, tight jeans exposing his knees with jagged rips under a leather jacket and plain black t-shirt. He’s gorgeous, tauntingly so. It’s not much different from an ordinary outfit, but the faint smell of fresh laundry detergent and his best cologne is the best evidence he’s all dressed up.

The loud music speaks for him, loudly, pulling off before your seatbelt is even clicked into place.

The path from your house to Benny’s is well trekked by you and Eddie on late nights when you should’ve been doing homework but ended up goofing off instead. Martha, a waitress that’s been working there well over twenty years, smiles with smeared red lipstick and too much blue eyeshadow.

You walk in stride with each other, straight to the corner booth as the husk of 20 years of chain smoking barks over the gentle music, “Hey, you two! Eddie, are you finally taking this girl of yours on a date?”

Shut up, you silently beg her, avoiding either of their eyes as you stare at your lap, seemingly fixated on a loose thread at the hem of your dress.

“Oh, I’m not that lucky,” Eddie winks, throwing his arm behind you on the back of the booth. “We’re just recovering after shitty dates.”

“One day, you two,” she muses, tapping her pen rhythmically on her little notepad. It’s never been the same notepad twice, always decorated with a little cartoon sticker on the front. You’re tempted to run to the dollar store and grab her a larger one, but a part of you thinks she thrives on her many little notepads. “Alright, a large strawberry milkshake with two straws, pancakes with extra strawberry sauce and fresh strawberries on top, and waffles loaded with whipped cream and sprinkles. Correct?”

You nod in unison, both aware that she insists you will collectively rot the teeth out from your gums if you insist on overdosing with sugar every damn time you waltz in late at night. She’s given up offering other menu items, having ordered extra strawberries just to make up for your love of the fruit.

Less than five minutes later, following the blissful sound of a blender, the milkshake is wordlessly dropped off at the table, closer to you as even Martha knows you will be drinking 75% of it. The sweet, pinky taste flows easily down your throat, humming softly as you dip into the whipped cream with a finger. “Best milkshake in town,” You assert.

“I wouldn’t know,” Eddie answers, smirking, “you never let us get a milkshake from anywhere else!”

You giggle, licking some of the whipped cream that found a home in the corner of your mouth. “I could never! It would be like cheating! This milkshake would just know,” you drop your voice to a whisper, “it would smell the other milkshakes on me!”

“We couldn’t have that,” Eddie grins, grabbing the large glass to take a sip. “Sorry your date was such a jerk.”

You shrug, already having gotten over it. You’ll just need to sit on the other side of the lecture hall from now on. “He seemed so nice.”

“No offense, sweetheart, but I could’ve told you that Daniel Moore was a shitty person,” Eddie finishes another sip of the milkshake, making a large dip in the glass as the pink slush is pulled up the straw. “He likes to instigate.”

You rest your chin on your elbow, sad the milkshake is already nearly gone. “I had just hoped he would’ve matured by now…”

“In seven months?” Eddie asks you incredulously, raising his brows past his curly bangs. His expression quickly turns curious, tilting his head at you.

“What?”

“So, you’re willing to bet that Daniel Moore has improved just based on personal speculation alone but you’re not willing to believe me when I say Steve Harrington is no longer a douche?”

You roll your eyes. God, you should’ve seen this one coming. “That’s different! I only heard about Daniel. Steve Harrington actually sat back and laughed when Tommy asked–”

“You out as a joke, yeah, I know, I’ve heard it before,” Eddie mumbles, grinning at your shocked expression. “Well, that was like what, three years ago?”

“I still can’t believe you’re friends with Steve Harrington now, of all people! Listen, I know he’s also Dustin’s friend, but I find it hard to believe that you guys even have something in common,” You shrug.

“I still can’t believe you refuse to give him another chance!” Eddie playfully retorts, licking some of the whipped cream that still sits on the rim of the glass. “He’s in your Sociology class, isn’t he?”

Yeah, and he seems to insist on forcing his friendship on you, too, no matter how much you resist it. If you found friendship in Eddie, it seems reasonable to find friendship with Steve, too. Yet, there’s a little part that remembers the cruel laughter, his carelessness with others’ lives, and it ripples down your spine in a violent shudder.

You haven’t gotten rid of the notion of being his friend completely, but it’s just not the right time for you, yet.

You shrug. The topic has too much nuance for a nice dinner with your best friend. Just in time, Martha wordlessly drops off the two plates, the smile that spreads across your face is effortless. Zachary, the night chef must’ve heard about the shitty night and added extra for you, because the mountain of strawberries on the table is huge, even for your standards.

Eddie smirks, reading your mind. “You gonna finish all those?”

“Absolutely!”

-

Eddie sits on one side of the open courtyard, flicking off ashes from his cigarette as he waits for you to get out of class. He mentally reflects on his crazy afternoon, taking another long, much needed drag. The car with the million symptoms was one thing, but the proposition he got right before, he couldn’t wrap his head around it.

It’s been 13 days since Daniel, four awkward classes of avoiding his glare, and you’ve decided to give up on boys completely. The one you want doesn’t want you, and the dates you’re going on don’t seem to do well no matter who you say yes to. The two offers you’ve gotten in the last week were therefore denied, realizing that even if they are cute, you don’t want to lead anyone on when your heart belongs to someone else.

Before the aforementioned date, you were practically begging for someone to ask you out, but for some inexplicable reason, now you’re getting offers left and right. Somehow people just know when you’re playing hard to get.

At least Eddie’s dates seem to be going terribly for him, as well. That’s one thing you can thankfully count on.

The puff of smoke that leaves his lips as you approach him should not be as gorgeous as it is. It’s practically unfair. “Hey, Eds.”

He flicks the filter, killing it on the cement table he sits at as he blows out one more puff. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Just from that particular look in his eye, you can tell something is on his mind. “You okay, there, Munson?”

He smirks, effortlessly standing up. “I suppose. I’m not sure how to react. Or how you’ll react.”

Your brows meet your hairline, watching his mind move at a million miles per hour. “Ok, Eddie, this better be about a new class of creatures in DnD, or something, because you’re scaring me.”

He smiles, nodding his head over to the halls that lead toward the front door of the campus. “Someone asked me out on a date, earlier, today.”

Your brows furrow, biting back the jealousy that eats at your chest. Every little part of you holds back the monster that threatens to claw its way out, to snarl and hiss at every girl that even so much as looks at him wrong. It’s hard to bite it back, to choke on it purposely, but if you must, you will.

It tastes like venom as you swallow it back down. “Oh, who?”

A faint pink spreads across Eddie’s cheeks, much to your dismay. Not once, in your fuck, what, seven, eight years, of friendship have you ever managed to see Eddie blush. (Just once but it was when you nearly walked in on him jerking himself off a few short years ago.) “Who?”

“Um Chrissy. Chrissy Cunningham?”

Your jaw drops, but your gut falls through the floor. You swear you hear it smash through the tiled floors and fall into the depths of hell.

“She asked you out?”

“Hey! Don’t act so surprised! A cheerleader could like me!”

That was the last thing on your mind. Of course a cheerleader could like Eddie, they’d be stupid not to. No. Every other girl that Eddie has either slept with, or gone on a date with brought no worry to your head, competition, per se. But a girl like Chrissy, one with pretty blonde curls, adorable smile and a sweet disposition, it’s like your worst nightmare come true.

Thanks to living in such a small town, you can recall 99% of the names that Eddie had told you, whether they be hookups or a date. Most of them didn’t intimidate you, only because, selfishly, you could nitpick at things you think wouldn’t work out with Eddie. Whether they were too vapid, too shallow, had none of the same interests as him, only shallowly liked him for his looks, or was a bully…you had something to give great comfort to you to prevent that little jealousy monster from clawing its way out.

This time, your brain wracked itself for some sort of answer. Some sort of flaw in the Queen of Hawkins High that could settle this uneasiness that has taken over your mind. Nothing. Nothing.

“I’m not surprised a cheerleader could like you, I’m surprised that Chrissy Cunningham asked you out,” you answer candidly, walking in step with him to where you supposed was his van. “I’m guessing you said yes?”

“I’d be crazy not to!” Eddie answered sheepishly, tugging at the sleeves of his leather jacket. “I’m taking her out on Friday night.”

“Ah, you’ll tell Steve to take Creeper off hold for us, then?” You try to keep your tone nonchalant, but bitter jealousy coats your tongue.

Eddie stops mid stride, faltering, his brows pinched as he gives you those big brown eyes. “Shit. It totally slipped my mind.”

This is also new. Even as his dates would happen, any previously made plans with him were always a priority. You just hope this doesn’t become a new habit of his.

“We’ll do it on Saturday, yeah?”

You nod, giving him the comfort you suddenly find yourself craving. From the pep in his step, the rosiness of his cheeks, the warm glint in his eyes, you can tell that he’s truly excited. As a best friend, you try to be happy for him, however hard it is to make the smile on your face even remotely convincing.

Eddie curls his arm around your shoulder, tugging you along with him for what will probably be another afternoon in his room, clouded by a haze of weed.

You smoke more than usual, if anything to allow his excitement and plans for his big date in two days to buzz into the background, the bong hit rippling through your lungs as a punishment for yourself.

-

A weight on your bed suddenly dips down and you sit up quickly to face Eddie sitting on the corner of your mattress with a small smile on his face. Your headphones, still playing the obnoxiously loud music that drowned out his knocks, fall off your head as you sit up. You press the STOP button, clicking loudly in the silence as you stare at your best friend.

The anxiety of his date has eaten you all night long, the only thing strong enough to distract it being music loud enough to hurt your eardrums. You always feel some sort of anxiety, but tonight was even worse, eating at your brain in fear of how painful it might be to be third wheeling with him after being his #1 for so long.

For once, you can’t tell how it went. A slimy, selfish part of you is hoping he shares bad news. His smile breaks. Into a bigger, much brighter beam. Damn.

“How did it go?” You ask, already knowing the answer.

Eddie slams himself onto the bed next to you, hiding his eyes with his hands with his dimples deep, his pearly whites exposed. “Fuck, it was the best date I’ve ever had.”

Your heart shatters. “That good?”

“God, she’s– much better than I thought she could’ve been,” Eddie answers, peeking out from behind his hands. “It’s fucking crazy.”

Of course Chrissy Cunningham, a known sweetheart, is everything he’s ever dreamed of. Of course she lived up to his expectations. Just your luck. “I’m just jealous of your remarkable turn in luck, I guess.”

Eddie chuckles, turning onto his stomach to face you as he kicks his feet. “You’ll have your turn, baby.”

The pet name stings in the worst way. Instead, you raise your brow at him. “Look at you lookin’ like a schoolgirl with a crush. Pretty boy doesn’t even need makeup with all that blush.”

He rolls his eyes, pinching you on the shin. “You’re such a shithead.”

“Yeah, well you still choose to hang out with me anyway, so, that’s on you.” It takes everything in you to ask the following question, “So, tell me about your date, will ya?”

He does. He rattles on and on about how pretty she is, how easy the conversation was, how much she surprised him, how the night ended with a kiss that had Eddie giggling. He lays next to you, leather jacket put aside on the corner chair and boots next to your bunny slippers at the end of your bed. Your small twin mattress has you close in proximity, your side in direct contact with him as he rests his head on his hands.

“She’s such a cool girl, you know?”

You’re half asleep by now, allowing the exhaustion to overwhelm the slight ache in your chest. It zaps through your heart, overwhelms your senses and makes you dizzy. Your eyes flutter shut, but Eddie keeps talking softly next to you.

“Why were you blasting your 8-track, anyway?”

The question harshly yanks you out of the haze, failing to think of something that doesn’t seem completely false. You wish you were a better liar. “Just stressed out about your date.”

He gives you a strange look, eyebrows tilted. “Hmm?”

“We both haven’t had a very good track record, lately, and if things won’t turn around for me, then at least they should do one of us a favor.” Not, not the truth, but definitely an over exaggerated version of it.

“You’re so good to me, you know?” Eddie asks, intertwining his hand with yours. “Wasting your anxiety on me.”

The rings are harsh against your skin, squeezing your fingers tightly. The physical hurt is almost comforting in direct contrast to your emotional hurt.

His scent is comforting, as it lures you like the pied piper into the land of sleep. It’s about another twenty minutes until he realizes there are soft snores coming from you. He doesn’t care to drive all the way home, despite it only being a five minute drive away.

He falls asleep to your comforting breaths, allowing your hand to remain engulfed in his.

-

The loud ringing of your phone jerks you awake, quickly crawling to the side of your bed as you grab it from the dock housed on the floor.

“Hello?” Sleep sits deep in your voice, spelling out clearly to your caller that you just woke up.

It just occurs to you that you could’ve just allowed your dad to answer it.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Eddie’s voice is chipper, alarmingly so since you’re not even awake yet.

“You sound way too awake for someone that didn’t believe in waking up before 1pm,” you quip, rubbing your eyes sleepily.

“Ha,” he deadpans, yet it's clear he’s smiling. “Chris wants to meet you. I mean, I know you’ve already met her, but you know, as my girlfriend?”

Ugh. It’s been a harrowing three weeks. “Yeah, sure. What did you want to do with her?”

“I thought we could introduce her to pancake night,” Eddie sheepishly answers, like he knows you would be hesitant to invite someone into your holy ritual.

Yeah. You don’t want to invite her. But…you asked for patience last month and it seemed that the universe has answered with a lovesick Eddie Munson.

“I don’t see why not,” you lie, finding it rolls off the tongue much easier than it used to.

“You’re the best! I’ll see after you study in the library, yeah?” He knows your schedule. On Thursdays after the morning Sociology class, you opt to crawl up into a small corner and hermit yourself with snacks and a pile of books to get the work that needs to be done finished.

In high school, you could get away with doing minimum work and passing, but with your dad paying and barely able to afford it even with his second job, it sent the need to do your work to the best of your ability for once. You owed him at least that much from all the calls of missed classes for four years straight.

“Sure.”

As you stretch while hanging up the phone, you glance over to the alarm clock to see the time and it lurches you forward in bed to scramble for clothes, textbooks, and scattered papers as your lecture starts in less than twenty minutes. You’re usually already sitting in the seat by then.

On your way out the door, your dad is surprised you’re still home, offering to drive you. You don’t want to burden him even more than you already have, so you insist you can ride your bike and still get there on time. Well, at least you hope you can.

The bike rack is nearly full when you get to the college, six or seven locks messily put around the poles, most bikes already fallen over. You jam your bike in between two of them, hurriedly wrangling the annoying coil of sturdy cable between what you’re sure is entangled in someone else’s lock, too. Whatever, they should’ve been more organized.

The clock on the wall tells you class started three minutes ago and your heart falls to your stomach, knowing the professor is a stickler for punctuality. His words falter as soon as you enter the hall, the heavy door echoing its creak against the walls. He graciously allows you to sit and get situated before he continues. He makes examples of every late student, and you figured you would never be in his laser eyed focus. Well, before your alarm decided not to go off.

The last chair available is the corner chair in the front row, the one spot in class you love to avoid. It’s too close for comfort, a place he often chooses for students to answer his questions even if they don’t raise their hand.

That, and it’s right beside Steve Harrington.

His fingers raise from the desk as a greeting, sharing a sweet smile as you start to collect your textbook and notes. You awkwardly smile back at him, your attention snapped back to the professor as he pointedly talks right at your desk in his lecture. Fuck, this’ll be annoying.

By the time the three hour lecture ends, your hand hurts from the amount of notes you wrote down, one side covered in graphite from smudging the paper. Your stomach grumbles, asking loudly for lunch after neglecting to eat breakfast as usual.

Unbeknownst to you, Steve follows a step behind. “That lecture was brutal,” You hear from behind you. You toss your head over your shoulder to glance back at him before turning back around.

“I guess.” You say awkwardly. Here we go again.

“Out of curiosity, how are Eddie and his new girlfriend doing? Chrissy Cunningham, huh? I cannot say I saw that coming.”

Neither did you. “They’re doing great, from what I hear. Haven’t really met her, yet,” you answer, heading straight to the small cafe that has a home in the heart of the campus. “Listen, Steve, I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Why not? You don’t think he’s happy with her, or something?”

You stop midstep, turning to face him. “It’s not that. I just don’t have the capacity for it, ok?”

“You like him,” Steve accuses, his brows meeting his hairline.

Your jaw drops, stuttering through an empty sentence. “I do not like him!”

“Really?” Steve laughs, crossing his arms as he watches you build a brick wall around yourself. “So you not wanting to talk about his new girlfriend has nothing to do with the way your face fell when I asked about it?”

How the hell did Steve Harrington pick up on it so fast, of all people?

“Even if I did, why the hell would I want to talk about it with someone I don’t even know?” You sigh, looking wistfully over to the cafe. “Besides, I’m not even caffeinated yet.”

Steve rolls his eyes, nodding towards the said cafe. “Here, if I treat you to some coffee will you talk to me about it?”

“If you add a wrap to the deal, then I’ll think about it,” You say dryly, pulling a laugh from him.

The barista, a student who you’ve gotten to know is somehow managing to do pre-law and work part time smiles nicely.

“I’ll get a vanilla latte with nonfat milk and an extra pump of vanilla, please.”

Steve raises his brow at you before making his own order, “I’ll get a medium black coffee with room for creamer, please, and whatever this lady wants from the menu.”

You scan until you reach the egg omelet wrap with mushroom, bell peppers, and tomatoes. “The loaded omelet wrap.”

After Steve pays he meets you on the handout counter. “Why nonfat milk and the extra pump of vanilla?”

“If I get nonfat then I can replace the sugar with the extra vanilla.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how that works.”

You pick up the cup as it lands on the counter, wincing at the temperature on your tongue. “It works.”

Steve grabs his, shaking his head as he makes his way over to pour some creamer in.

The wrap is soon presented as well, steaming in its cardboard sleeve as the scent alone pools on your tongue with saliva. The only thing that got you through that lecture was just the thought of lunch.

Steve meets you at a two-top by the window, setting his own bag down as he sits right across from you.

The omelet, much too hot to eat, sits waiting for you on the chestnut brown table as you sip on the latte. The latte is much too hot as well, but you’ve never had enough patience to wait for that caffeine kick. If you weren’t so afraid of your professor’s wrath you would’ve shown up another ten minutes late with a coffee cup in hand.

Steve allows you and himself a few minutes of quiet before he speaks. “So, why don’t you tell him?”

You cough mid sip, mentally apologizing to your lungs for allowing non-oxygen to make its way in. “I’m sorry?”

“Stop pretending. Eddie was dead on when he said you were a bad liar,” Steve says, grinning with stupid smirk on his face.

“Why have you and Eddie talked about me?” You ask, narrowing your glance towards him.

“Are you kidding? You’re all he talks about,” Steve shrugs, so nonchalant that you have no choice but to believe him. “Kind of annoying, actually.”

“Why?”

“I have to hear about how great of a friend this girl is but also how she can’t stand me.”

You huff in laughter at how distraught he genuinely seems by it, his face contorted into someone who definitely isn’t used to rejection. You cock an eyebrow at him. “Can you exactly blame me?”

“Yes! I can! Everybody loves me!” Steve rolls his eyes playfully, and damn it if you can’t help but find it mildly amusing.

“Hate to break it to you, there, sweetheart, but the people who were picked on by you don’t exactly crave to be around your oh-so-wonderful presence.”

He squints, crossing his arms as he leans forward. “Picked on? I mean that’s a little harsh, considering–”

“Fine, yes, you didn’t exactly jeer, or outright bully even, but you watched and laughed along and sometimes that feels even worse,” you admit, feeling suddenly small under his gaze. “Tommy and Carol said shit, that’s just what they did… But sitting back and watching sometimes is just as bad. You were nice, sometimes, I guess. But the fact that you had that capacity for kindness and chose against it just spoke volumes.”

“I met them in seventh grade. They weren’t as bad back then, mostly just somewhat belligerent. They got worse over time, but we all had terrible home lives, it was like we were the only ones that got what that was like…and somewhere along the way, I forgot that just because we had an excuse didn’t mean they had the right.”

“I guess that makes sense,” you answer, glancing at the omelet, debating taking your first steaming bite. “I mean, I’m not condoning it, but sometimes loyalty can be blinding.”

“I’m not that douche, anymore. I got that knocked out of me when I was seventeen. Literally. Now I spend most of my free time with a high school junior,” he laughs, taking another large sip of his coffee.

“Aah, Dustin,” you hum, thinking of the many instances where he had tried to convince you of what Steve had just told you. What made you so insistent on denying believing in either of your friends seems to dissipate, however, just in the friendliness that Steve radiates alone. Damn his charisma. “Would you believe me if I said he vouched for you many times?”

“The kid loves me, what can I say?” He shrugs, not hiding his laughter. “Now. Back to you. Why not tell him?”

No use in hiding it. If Steve can bare his soul in the middle of the day at a damn cafe just to get you to trust him, you suppose you owed him the same. “‘Cause he doesn’t feel the same,” you answer, starting to peel open the snack from the hunger pang. “Why make it weird when there’s nothing that could come from it?” You shrug, looking down sheepishly as the weight of your words sink into your heart like a stone.

“Doesn’t like you. Are you sure about that?” Steve asks, licking his lips.

You hesitate. “Is this a trick question?”

“Nope. I just wonder if you truly believe it, or if you’re too scared to let yourself have something you’ve wanted for so long.”

“Where do you get off on acting like you’re some sort of expert on this?” You ask, folding your arms across your chest. The question rings out from the mere fact that he is dead on the nose. He couldn’t be any more right. The very idea that Eddie had even an inkling of what you had for him scares you to death. You would rather keep him as a friend and lie in wait than lose him from a great love and not have him at all.

“I’m more observant than most people give me credit for,” he admits, twirling his almost empty coffee cup. “I’ve heard countless hours of Eddie talking about you, yet I haven’t heard him speak once about Chrissy. That says a lot, don’t you think?”

“Well, me neither, and I’m his best friend. Don’t get down on your luck.”

“You are both idiots. Just tell him. Seriously. I’m sick of you both acting like a pair of love sick fools.”

“You seem to be very convinced of something that is not real,” you tell him, garbled from the bite of omelet you’re in the middle of swallowing. “If you keep this energy up when you’re studying, you would probably do pretty well for yourself.”

“Fine. Remain in denial. I don’t care. You can destroy yourself from the inside. Who cares? Just, let me in. I need someone to help me with these assignments. They are mind numbingly dull.” He throws his hands up like he’s admitting defeat.

“You need a study buddy?” You laugh, hiding the food that sits in between bites. “I suppose that could be arranged.”

“Sweet. Now are you gonna treat me to a coffee every now and then, or?”

“I have a single father, not an unlimited credit card from Daddy’s big business, Steve Harrington.” You say matter-of-factly, jabbing your finger towards him accusingly.

“Oh, so I have to provide the newly released movies and buy the coffee, I see how it is.”

“Privilege breeds responsibility, Stevie. I don’t make the rules.” You give him a half smirk. As you look at him, you’re finally seeing the person you thought could see all those years ago behind the mask of his terrible friends. Steve’s ambush would be the best thing to come out of the next few weeks.

Because it turned into hell.

-

As your hair runs wild behind you, there’s a grand attempt to allow yourself to let the wind distract you from the sinking feeling in your gut. It grows bigger and bigger, until it becomes unbearable as you reach the gravel lining the trailer park. You allow your bike to fall heavily on the trailer, taking a moment to collect your courage before knocking on Eddie’s front door.

It feels weird knocking. You can’t even recall the last time you did. But, you refuse to overstep any boundaries that might not be communicated yet. Being on Chrissy’s good side will make your life a lot easier.

Eddie answers the door, out of breath and sweating with wild eyes and even crazier hair. “Hey!”

“Hey,” you greet, stepping in right behind him. You blink, taking in the pristine surroundings. It’s like stepping into an alternate dimension, one where Eddie and Wayne regularly cleaned their trailer and preferred the smell of lavender over stale beer and greasy pizza boxes. The kitchen is spotless, the living room has a lit candle sitting on the coffee table, and the shelves containing the million mugs were dusted. “Who are you and what the hell did you do with my best friend?” You laugh.

He chuckles sheepishly, crossing his arms in front of his chest as protection. “Uh, is it too much?”

“Better warn her now so she doesn’t get used to cleanliness,” you answer, watching as the surfaces around you sparkle and shine.

“Ha, ha. I have to get dressed. I have some snacks on the kitchen counter. You mind starting the popcorn?” Eddie doesn’t bother waiting for you to answer, already walking to his room.

You get a glimpse of his bedroom as he shuts the door behind him, smirking at the clothes still scattered on his floor. At least one part of this little haven of yours remains normal.

The popcorn shakes in your hold as you continually stir it on the stove to prevent it from sticking to the bottom of the thin aluminum bottom and burning. Just as the first batch of kernels reach their limit, a knock from the front door hits, each one feeling like a crack in any normalcy you’ve ever had.

Things will never feel the same ever again. Not after tonight. On your way to open the door you try to tell yourself that it can be a good thing.

Right?

The door opens to the once head cheerleader of Hawkins High, wearing a pink dress that fits her tiny frame nicely with blonde curls and bangs that beautifully frame her face. Her hands are folded behind her back, standing meekly in white sneakers and long lashes and blue eyeshadow. It’s hard not to be envious of how pretty she is.

It’s clear she’s not expecting you to open the door. “Hey! Sorry, Eddie’s just in his room. He should be out any minute.”

“Oh. Ok,” she enters as you back up, wringing her hands together, probably out of anxiety. “What movie did he rent?”

“You know, I was so busy making fun of him for cleaning up for once I didn’t bother to ask,” you admit, hoping to make the atmosphere just a little bit lighter.

She looks around the place, seemingly taking it in. “Hmm,” she hums, walking over to the couch. “It’s cute when they try so hard.”

“Sure,” you answer, walking back to the kitchen, hoping the popcorn isn’t irredeemably burnt. “Do you want butter on the popcorn?”

“Yes please!”

You’re in the middle of mentally begging Eddie to come out already while the butter melts in the microwave, the hum of the microwave loud in the silence.

“Okay! I’m ready!” Eddie announces, opening the bedroom door with a flourish. “Sorry for the wait!”

As he gets to the couch behind Chrissy, he wraps her in a big hug and plants kisses all over her neck. “How you doin’, sweetheart?”

You hold back the nausea as you pour the hot butter all over the popcorn in the large plastic bowl. You find it ironic that this is the same bowl you’ve held back Eddie’s hair over as he hurled into it. You just hope Wayne thoroughly cleaned it.

“Popcorn is ready, can y’all help me bring the chips and candy?” You ask, shaking the bowl to coat the butter over each kernel.

“We can do that,” Eddie answers, grabbing Chrissy’s hand as they walk to the kitchen.

“How can I help?” Chrissy asks, arms open as she looks around a kitchen she has no familiarity with.

“Um there’s some soda in the fridge, grab me and Ed a Coke, and you can grab yourself whatever you want,” you answer, pointing to the twenty year old fridge in the corner.

“Hand me some,” you command, holding a single hand for one of the many bags of snacks Eddie juggles.

The popcorn and a couple dozen little bags land on the coffee table in front of a blank tv screen. Chrissy sits with a soft grunt in between the two of you, cradling the cans of coke and sprite in her tiny arms.

She distributes the cans, handing them over to you and him. Eddie squats in front of the TV, pressing play on the tape which he apparently already prepared to watch. His plaid boxers peek out of his jeans, sitting above the studded belt as he adjusts volume and picture.

You share a smile with the blonde, opening your can and wincing at the loud hiss. You keep thinking about the days you and Chrissy will look back on how awkward this was. How the first days of this trio were so weird, and off putting, and how she thought you were a bitch when she met you.

Where she’s a friend.

You have to try.

“What are we watching?”

Eddie turns around slowly, that over exaggerated smile on his face that tells you he’s up to nothing but trouble. “Oh just a little somethin’”

“Oh god,” you wince, knowing that look on his face. You lean into her, whispering, “Hope you like horror.”

Chrissy turns to you with wide eyes and a queasy smile. “Not really.”

“Oh, this one is a classic,” Eddie promises, animatedly using his hands as he crouch-walks back next to her. “If any movie can turn someone into a horror fan, it’s this one.”

As soon as the music starts playing you recognize it. It’s a tune you’ve heard many times in his living room, subjected to it too many times if you had anything to say about it. Of course, you’ll watch it with him every time, regardless.

“Halloween? Seriously? The serial killer stalking the babysitter? You couldn’t think of anything else?” You roll your eyes. He could probably do a whole reenactment of the movie word for word if he tried.

“It’s a classic for a reason, sweetheart,” Eddie tells you, grabbing the bowl straight away. Of course, he will rip through the popcorn, he always does.

You feel Chrissy tense up, not that you can blame her. You suppose a talk about proper pet names will be necessary.

Each bag of snacks is eventually opened because you can’t stick to one bag long enough to finish it even if you tried. You get bored of the same taste too often. You have your favorite few, fuzzy peaches, M&Ms, Reese's Pieces, Swedish fish, and last and most controversially, at least where Eddie’s concerned, salt and vinegar chips.

He always has his own snacks at his disposal from nights of having the munchies, always on a dollar store run for said snacks. At each movie night he restocks, both yours and his alike, and suddenly you realize you will need to remember Chrissy’s too, if you’re going to be cordial.

With each bloody death that splatters the walls on screen, Chrissy grows closer and closer to Eddie. There’s a part of you that has considered using scary movies to cuddle up to him, but you’re just not genuinely scared of them enough to consider it. The ruse would’ve faded eventually. You try not to let the jealousy eat you up from the inside, no matter how much it burns your skin.

His arm wraps around her, petting her shoulder gently as she whimpers at the slash of his knife. “It’s corn syrup. Totally fake. You can tell by the color, it’s way too bright.”

Towards the end, the loud, chirpy, nauseating sound of kissing fills your ears. Your eyes can’t help it, they move towards the noise and immediately regret it. Oh god, they’re kissing. If you can even call that kissing. He’s practically engulfed her mouth.

Surely, with the company they have, they’ll stop, right? Their heads will remember and sheepishly get the fuck off each other? Right?

Two scenes and what feels like forever, later, you realize how wrong you are. “I’m glad you two are crazy for each other, really I am, but can we please wait until I’m gone?” You give an awkward laugh to try to stifle the discomfort coursing through your veins.

Eddie makes a surprised sound, almost like he completely forgot you were there. “Shit–sorry.”

Chrissy doesn’t make any apologies, in fact, you miss the way she rolls her eyes against his chest. She wanted to keep going, hoping you would take her hint to get lost.

Before long, the end of the movie finally arrives, the end credits rolling with that famous piano tune. Chrissy has practically stitched herself to Eddie’s side, her arms wrapped around his waist. The popcorn bowl is nearly full. All that work on it for nothing.

You sigh, about to claim that it’s your cue to leave when–

“I’m thinking we should show Chrissy one of our pancake nights, don’t ya think?”

No. You don’t want that. From the way Chrissy completely tenses up, neither does she. But for his sake, you both reluctantly agree.

Hawkins looks a lot different from Eddie’s backseat.

As the ring of the bell against the glass door announces your arrival, Martha’s head snapping up from the magazine she’s buried her nose in. “Hey you two, I was wondering when I would see you again!”

You and Eddie walk directly to the corner booth, as per usual, Chrissy trailing a half step behind him with her left hand intertwined with his right. Before Martha walks up to the booth, she starts the blender, the sound oddly comforting for how uneasy you feel.

“Well, looks like we got ourselves a little straggler! What’s your name darlin’?” She asks, the notebook she now holds a dark purple instead of the red she had last time.

Chrissy stares blankly at her, curling back into him. You don’t remember her being this shy in High School.

“This is Chrissy,” Eddie introduces her, giving her a fond look. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Martha’s penciled brows raise straight to her ruby red hair, the chewing gum loud in her silence. Her surprise only lasts two seconds, shifting into hospitality for the new member. “Welcome to these two’s many, many nights spent here at Benny’s. In fact, could you make them come a little less often. We’re starting to get annoyed at them.” She jokes, throwing a wink at you.

You laugh with Eddie, taking note of the fact that Chrissy is still silent.

“Alright, well I already know what these two want, did you need a second to look over the menu?”

She nods.

“Alright, well, I’ll be right back with your milkshake.”

“Can you make it one medium, one large with two straws?” You ask Martha, sure it would get more awkward if she brought one for you and Eddie to share.

“Oh, sure,” she answers, her voice unusually soft.

Less than five minutes later she returns with two milkshakes and a menu.

“Oh,” Chrissy comments, looking curiously at the pink ice cream drink in front of her. “I don’t really like strawberry. Can I get vanilla instead?”

Your forehead meets the table, punishing yourself. “Shit. I’m so sorry! I didn’t even think to ask.” Eddie apologizes.

“It’s fine.” Chrissy smiles sweetly at him.

“Oh, you gotta eat breakfast, it’s tradition,” Eddie mutters, switching her page to the all day breakfast menu.

“Hmm,” she responds, pointing to one of the menu options. “I think I’ll get the poached egg with the avocado toast.”

“Alright. Should be out quickly,” Martha answers, grabbing the milkshake from them.

“How often do you guys come here?” Chrissy asks, turning her face to Eddie.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Probably more often than we should. Like when shit goes sideways, or we need a hit of sugar, or when we just feel like bugging Miss Martha, over there.”

“When did you start coming?”

“My junior year,” you answer, smiling at the memory, “his second attempt at senior year, we both didn’t want to go to the stupid school dance, so we decided to get dressed up and come here, instead.”

“Why didn’t you want to go?”

Eddie shrugs, petting her shoulder with his thumb. “We thought it was dumb. Then, we ened up coming back when both of us failed this one really important bio test. Then, by the third time she remembered our orders and had the blender going by the time we sat down.”

Eddie asks how your day was, so you inform him you managed to have a civilized conversation with Steve Harrington. You have an audience for the conversation, one member animatedly interested, the other politely listening.

Polite is definitely the way to describe it, no spark in her eye. At least, not the one she wears when she listens to her boyfriend speak. In fact, you can practically see them glaze over.

Just as you nearly avoid explaining the main topic of the awkward conversation, Martha comes back over with two plates, one for you, one for Chrissy. It’s only half a moment until she’s back with the new milkshake and third plate.

The mountain of strawberries is bigger than average this time, this larger size becoming something you might get used to if the staff continues to spoil you like this. You take another flick of whipped cream from the top of the milkshake, suddenly realizing you’ve barely taken a sip the entire time. Damn, it’s usually half gone by the time you get your food.

“Do you guys order the same thing everytime?” Chrissy asks, looking at both of your plates.

“Yup!” You exclaim, spreading the strawberry sauce around your plate.

Her blonde brows furrow. “Maybe it’s not good to eat this much sugar every time you guys come here,” she comments, cutting at her squishy green toast. It doesn’t look appetizing to you in the least.

“It’s not like we come here every night,” Eddie laughs, spreading his sprinkled whip around the fluffy waffle. “It’s fine to indulge every now and then, you know?”

“Maybe you guys should try something a little healthier?” Chrissy asks, her voice having what you think is a little bit of a bite in it.

“People don’t exactly come here to eat healthy, Chrissy,” you laugh, thinking of the menu item called Heart Attack Jack, which is a burger doused in American Cheese with layers of bacon and a bucket of grease. It’s not going to be a soccer mom’s number one choice for health.

“You don’t have to bite my head off, it was just a suggestion,” Chrissy mutters, curling into herself.

“I-I didn’t,” you reply, very surprised at her knee jerk reaction. “I’m just saying, if we wanted to go somewhere to eat healthy, we probably wouldn’t pick a greasy diner in a small town in the middle of nowhere. Honestly, I’m not sure anywhere in Hawkins really has the healthiest choice.”

“Chris, what she’s trying to say is that eating a crap load of sugar is just tradition at this point,” Eddie says, intertwining her hand with his. “It’s a part of our ritual. You don’t have to eat like us if you don’t want to, we just thought you’d want to be included.”

“It’s just a lot of sugar, is all.” She’s barely taken a chunk out of her food, resembling a bunny in the very small, very tiny bites she continues to take. “Maybe I won’t join you guys next time. I don’t really understand the point.” She says sheepishly.

In the depths of your soul, you feel at that moment you would probably never get along with her, have given up hope on her completely. It wouldn’t be for a handful of weeks until you acknowledge that you had sound reasoning.

The bill is paid, money hitting the table on your and Eddie’s parts, the vanilla milkshake just barely touched. If you knew she wasn’t gonna drink it you would’ve doubled down on the strawberry, Eddie hates vanilla.

As you walk out to the van, trailing behind them as he wraps his arm around her shoulders, you find yourself at an impasse. “Eddie, can you give me a ride home?” Chrissy asks. She moves on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “Maybe I can ride you before you drop me off?”

The pancakes you wolfed down churn back up your throat, threatening to make their second appearance for the night.

Eddie’s cheeks flush, his eyes wide as he tugs her in. Guess that answers that question. “Um, do you need a ride?” He asks you, almost avoiding your eyes.

Chrissy’s death stare is plain as day, silently warning you not to take it. Fine, you didn’t want to sit in the van with these two, anyway.

“No, it’s fine. I can grab my bike from the back.”

Chrissy beams, her curls bouncing as she jogs to the passenger seat. You hope your ass imprint is uncomfortable for her.

Eddie returns with the bike, putting it gently down in front of you. “Hey, Ed?”

“Hmm?”

“Might want to teach your girlfriend how to whisper,” you tell him, grabbing the handles from him. “It’s not considered a whisper when everyone in a ten foot radius can hear!” It comes out harsher than you intend it, but with how horribly tonight has gone, you can’t bring yourself to want to apologize.

“Oh, fuck,” Eddie swears, the pink in his cheeks now from embarrassment. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t mention it,” you insist, dismissing it. You had a feeling she said it loud enough for you to hear on purpose, anyway. “Just use protection, ok? We don’t need any more Munsons in this world running around, creating chaos.”

If you got Chrissy pregnant I would actually be sick, is what you mean.

“Shut up,” Eddie laughs, wrapping you in a hug over the bike. “See you next time, slugger.”

That was when you changed from sweetheart to slugger.

-

There’s no whiplash like discovering your best friend is a completely different person when he’s in a relationship. On one hand, phone calls with him are as ordinary as always, teasing and jeering and flush with the familiarity of a best friend.

On the other hand, when you meet with him and his girlfriend, he seems to dampen his wild personality and slice it into ribbons for her sake. It kills you.

Reruns play on the small tv, old cartoons Wayne recorded for a rambunctious little kid in his mix. You’ve watched them enough to know some of them by heart, especially your favorite gags.

Eddie sits in the corner of the couch, curled up with Chrissy on his lap as they talk quietly. They’re low enough you can barely make out what they’re saying, but from the giggles alone, you have no interest in the nausea it would give you.

She was already in his lap when you got there, a sarcastic comment choked back having something to do with maybe getting off, opting to sit on the other end.

“Oh, Ed, the movie is next Friday,” you remind him, taking another sip of the ice cold coke in front of you.

“Remind me what that was?” Eddie asks you, peering his chin over Chrissy’s head.

You narrow your eyes, scoffing in incredulousness. “Uh, hello? I did not wait in line for hours for the Princess Bride just for you to forget!”

“OH, fuck I didn’t realize that was coming up so quickly!” Eddie exclaims, a wild look in his eyes. “Well, shit I’ll make sure to free my oh-so-busy schedule!”

“Sweet.”

“Oh, I totally wanted to see that movie!” Chrissy chirps, sitting up in Eddie’s lap. “Are there any more tickets for the night you guys are going for?”

“It’s been sold out for weeks,” you shrug, chomping on a potato chip. “I stood in line for like six hours that morning.”

“Oh,” she mutters, curling into him.

You wish you could say it doesn’t give you great pleasure to know she won’t be able to crash your movie night.

“You think, uh,” she starts, turning around to face you. “You think I could have your ticket and Eddie could take me?”

You scoff, bewildered that this even crossed her mind. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, I really wanted to see it and it doesn’t really make sense for you two to go out for a date, now that he’s dating me…”

“I think you forgot the part where I stood in line for six hours to get these tickets,” you reply, trying to catch Eddie’s eyes. He’s avoiding you.

“And I’m sure we’ll all go next time!” She offers as an almost smug smile plays at her lips.

She can’t be serious. After watching her face, you realize she is fully expecting you to give up your ticket so she can go with him. Guess that Iron Maiden concert coming up this summer is off the table, too, you think, rubbing your eyes tiredly.

You look at him, waiting for him to say something to indicate how ridiculous his girlfriend is being, to stand up for you.

Oh. He’s not going to.

“I really don’t see the big deal.” Chrissy scoffs.

Of course you don’t. “I’m sorry, but I’m not giving you my damn ticket!” you snap. “If you really don’t want Eddie to come with me that badly then I can get Steve to take me.”

Which is ridiculous, Eddie was the one who wanted to see this movie in the first place. It looked like it was about adventure, something Eddie loves in movies. You decided then sure, since his birthday is right after the movie comes out, you’ll stand in line for the tickets then treat him to a fun movie night.

If Chrissy is uncomfortable with that, then that’s her prerogative, but she can choose something else to do with her boyfriend since she wants to so badly. You won’t let her walk all over you.

Chrissy doesn’t answer, but she’s clearly upset by yours. “It’s alright, babe,” Eddie hums, tugging her up against his chest so she curls into him. “I can wait until it comes out. We’ll just rent it, yeah?”

You’re not sure which makes you more nauseous, the fact that he just made a plan with her that won’t come to fruition for six months, or that he had nothing to say in the conversation.

You’ve never felt so unwelcome on his couch. “I’m gonna head home. I’ll see you later.”

Whatever comes out of Eddie’s mouth then falls on deaf ears as you fight the tears that irrationally threaten to spill over your water line. They’re stupid, your emotions are stupid, the movie is stupid.

-

Steve sits on the other side of the light brown table in the library, hunched over some notes as you explain the concept to him once more.

“Ugh, this is ridiculous, I’m going to forget this as soon as we learn it,” Steve whines, rubbing his eyes.

“Well you’re only taking Sociology because you haven’t claimed a major yet and sociology is required in most degrees.”

“That’s true,” he smirks, stretching his arms. “This still is all starting to look like gibberish. I get it, we live in a society in which the rules are not in our favor, why does that have to be studied to this intent?”

You shrug. “It’s fascinating.”

“To who?”

You roll your eyes, wondering how he grew on you like a weed. “Alright, we’ll take a break, then.”

“Any plans upcoming for next Wednesday?”

“Uh, no, at least not that I’m aware of,” you answer, putting your highlighter down. “We were supposed to see the movie for it, but, well you know how that turned out.”

“I’m sure there’s something he’s planning,” Steve assures, tapping his pencil rhythmically. “It’s not like him to not make a spectacle of his birthday.”

That, you agree with.

“Dustin said he hasn’t heard anything about it, either. He almost planned a surprise party for him. You think he’s just taking it easy this year?”

You doubt it, he’s turning 21, after all. Not like hasn’t been going to bars since he was fifteen, but now at least he’d be able to go into a major city with his real ID without getting flagged. Last year he prattled on about plans for this one, how he was gonna have a big rager at Steve’s and drop a whole paycheck on kegs.

You’re sure if he was going to do anything in those next two days, then he would’ve told you by now.

That Wednesday morning, you rise early to the sound of your alarm.

The kitchen counter is already filled with the ingredients you need, preparing for a labor of love. You hook your Walkman to your jeans, listening to the music blaring in your ears as you add one ingredient at a time, watching the batter slowly come to shape.

It’s familiar, your mom’s famous homemade recipe for cake batter. After missing her many cakes and the familiarity of her food, you finally searched for the cards containing her neat print, clearly and concisely telling the reader what her recipes needed.

It became your favorite thing to do when you missed her.

As you pour the batter into each divet in the tray, you recall the first time you thought to make a birthday cupcake for Eddie.

Neither of you cared much for first period, so it was easy to catch him before he woke up. That day you presented a vanilla cupcake with a swirl of black and blue frosting. You learned that morning he hates vanilla.

Every other instance of making him a cupcake has been a litany of flavors, but never vanilla.

As they bake, you whip up the frosting with a hand mixer, hoping the low hum doesn’t wake your father. He works so hard already. Red food coloring turns it from white, the process all too satisfying.

A plastic sandwich bag with the corner cut off is always just enough for you to pipe frosting on, the skilled hand you’ve trained after trial and error working fast.

Your dad always knows on February 19th he will wake up to 11 cupcakes on a big plate.

The pastry sits in a comically large container as you borrow your dads truck, the sun just barely peeking over the horizon as you climb the stairs to the Munson’s front door.

You balance the cupcake in your hand as you head straight down the hall towards Eddie’s room. The sounds filling the trailer take a moment to register, for some reason not realizing how quiet it should be on an early weekday morning. The only sounds should be that of an early bird or newspaper hitting the front door.

Dread finds home in your stomach, as if on a very instinctual level you realize what you’re hearing. Though for some crazy, masochistic reason, those instincts wanted to be sure.

His door, wide open, reveals him hunched over Chrissy with the blanket barely covering his broad shoulders as he’s rocking. He’s rocking…and oh, you can hear her, too.

She’s moaning, whining, clawing her nails up his back like a leech, or worse, a tick, digging itself in and refusing to give up the tight hold they have on their victim.

Your mind goes empty, numb, until you hear her faintly wish him a happy birthday. You blink yourself out of the trance, blindly stumbling back into the fresh air of the living room. The cupcake lands on the kitchen counter on your way out the door, not caring as it slams behind you, definitely alerting Eddie and Chrissy of the third unknown presence in the trailer.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to even care about it, the queasiness deep rooted in your stomach threatening to make itself known on the outside plants.

You have a class in less than an hour, something you need to continue into the second year of your Communications degree, but not something that requires brain power.

The simple question of how you managed to ride your bike all the way to the campus, take notes in your class and blindly walk over to the library will always escape you. You somehow watch yourself go through the motions until you meet Steve at the cafe.

The moment he sees you, he knows something is wrong just by the deadened stare that’s taken over your face.

When you break down into tears, he brings you to his house, letting you finally admit to him what you’ve been afraid to admit to yourself.

You’re in love with your best friend. And while you’re doing your best to be happy for him, your poor heart can’t handle it.

-

The cupcake isn’t mentioned until you call him two days later, still heartbroken, but missing his voice. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, despite the great ache that makes each and every day fuzzy.

Usually, more than half the cupcakes get eaten by him, which is why a dozen are made each year. There’s still more than half left, the very sight of the cupcakes depleting your appetite as his continued absence carves a bigger and bigger hole in you.

He answers on the fifth ring, sounding as if he’s in the middle of rummaging through items in some way, slightly out of breath. “Hey, Chris, sorry I can’t find–”

You swallow the pain. Maybe the lump of pain swallowed in your stomach will finally evict itself like the contents of stomachs should. Yet, the more you throw it up, the more it seems to gather. How does that work? “It’s me.” You say dryly, tiredly.

“Shit,” he breathes, the background noise coming to a sudden halt. “Hey, you.”

“Hey. How was the cupcake?”

“The mysterious appearing pastry was delicious as always, slugger.” Slugger. “What-what time did you drop it off?”

You know that he knows that you heard something. He doesn’t know how much you heard, but he knows the slam of his front door was you.

“I didn’t hear much. Just enough to know you had already received your birthday present for the year,” the attempt at humor doesn’t hit you very well. You’re not sure how it’s received, but Eddie laughs regardless.

“Sorry about that, she slept over the night before unplanned. I should’ve remembered your yearly morning cupcake.”

“Should’ve remembered you have a girlfriend,” you answer, wishing you had that better judgment. “Did you do anything for your birthday?”

“Chris took me out for dinner with her parents.” Honestly, that sounds like it was for her more than it was for him.

“Sounds fun,” you deadpan, earning earnest chuckles from him.

“They’re an acquired taste,” Eddie offers, allowing your slight criticism of his birthday party.

“You sure you still don’t want to go to Indianapolis and bar hop?” You can’t help but ask. It’s like you can hear his reluctance to accept the celebration he got.

“Nah. Besides, we can’t risk your fake ID, after all.” He pauses, an understated sigh passing through his breath. “How has school been?”

Small talk is not often something that passes through a conversation between you two. You’re aware of it, he’s aware of it, and it turns the conversation into something almost jilted.

“I miss you,” you admit, lying back on your bed.

“I miss you,” he parrots, soft and sweet.

“Can we do something? Just you and me?”

He chuckles, low and under his breath. “Sure. Pancake night. Just you, me, and Martha’s perfume.”

…that never happened.

-

The less you see Eddie, the more you end up hanging out with Steve. He seems to want to introduce you to his own best friend, but your admission of not wanting to be a third wheel again gets him to drop it. You can’t help but notice the only times you speak to Eddie are when you call him. He hasn’t called you since asking for Chrissy to join pancake night.

That alone wouldn’t entirely convince you to not call him anymore. The jilted conversations always ending with promises of time with one another never coming to fruition. It’s the equivalent of being skinned alive, one strip at a time.

Steve has watched the circles under your eyes darken, the enthusiasm in class deplete, and the lust for life dissolve before his very eyes. To say he’s pissed at his friend is to understate it, he’s ready to tell you to give up on him and forget he exists.

Yet, Steve knows how unlike Eddie it all is. Dustin has complained he hasn’t been called back for a long time, Gareth reached out to you asking if you’d heard from Eddie lately as they haven’t rehearsed for a while. He garners more concern than anger at times.

Steve’s living room has become a new choice of hang out space, but the unnatural cleanliness of the house, the lack of cologne that both Eddie and Wayne use, the familiarity of eight years of friendship, it gives this unrelenting feeling of emptiness. It’s worth trying to fill it with edibles and weed.

It doesn’t seem to work, but you’ve become more open, more free willing with him as a direct result. He doesn’t favor horror movies like you and Eddie, but you find common ground in action and slapstick comedy, instead. Anything but romcoms, you implore. Anything even close to resembling romance is rejected.

Steve spills the latest he heard from Hawkins’ elite country club group, a bunch of ladies with nothing better to do with their afternoons than spread rumors about the population as a whole and judge them for it. Steve knows for a fact which members of the country club have side women, bringing them in hours after walking in with their own wives.

It’s so nice to be concerned with the lives of others and to not care about yours falling apart at the seams. Well, really it's being ripped apart by Chrissy Cunningham’s greedy little claws.

Ironically enough, you get paired up with Steve for a major assignment in Soc class, one required to analyze social constructs that have been deep dived in class. Another little gift of irony is you were given Social Stratification, which is the hierarchical arrangement of individuals or groups within a society based on various factors such as wealth, power, and prestige.

Being from two very different classes, you and Steve find yourself uniquely qualified to discuss the topic.

It provides opportunities to hang out together, distracted by the collective want to not work at all, but driven by an looming due date. Your mind wanders to Eddie non stop, wondering how he is, if he’s ok, if work is still giving him a hard time, did he finally get the belt he was needing, if Wayne was taking it easier.

Your fingers itch for the phone to call and ask, always haunted by the memory of each phone call, the polite conversation and empty promises. You crave to remember what it was like before.

Steve seems to act as your voice of reason, disencouraging you every time you mention wanting to call him. He sympathizes, of course, but he recalls the last time you called him and the aftermath following it.

When the assignment is finally in the last stages, making final edits to clear up any loss in conciseness, the final second guesses if the point has been made clear, you sit on the floor of Steve’s room cross legged, going cross eyed as you reread it, again.

“I can’t wait for this thing to be handed in,” you groan, throwing your pen at him.

“I think we earned a celebration,” he sighs, throwing the pen back to you. “On Friday, after we finally hand over this paper to this asshole, I am throwing a big ass party in your honor.”

“A party will not make me feel better,” you reprimand, glancing at him under your brows.

“No, but a good excuse to drink the pain away, might,” he grins, leaning forward on his stomach and kicking his legs animatedly. He looks so innocent, as if he doesn’t have his own agenda. You’ve come to know him well enough that he really doesn’t. “C’mon. Let loose with me just for one night!”

You reluctantly agree to it after he pulls out his dumb puppy eyes.

News of Steve’s party spreads fast across campus, and you find yourself curiously excited for it when you usually dread dancing with complete strangers. The strangers at this point make it better, not needing to concern yourself with anything other than how the alcohol burns.

Your dad drives you to the party, the rain heavy on the pavement making it hard to bike in such weather. He’s noticed the way you’ve shut down a little bit as of lately, more than happy to bring you to a party if it means putting some life back into the eyes of his one and only daughter.

When you enter the door with slightly damp hair just from the walk from the truck, the party is already in full swing, music overtly loud, bodies bumping and dancing, empty cups already scattered on dusty surfaces.

As soon as you see Steve, he waves you over, talking to Robin, who he’s introduced you to. She became your friend the same way he became your did; ambush. Turns out, Robin is really cool. She hands you a beer, winking as you tilt your eyebrow out of skepticism.

“Beer, really?” You ask over the music, turning the bottle around in your hand.

“You’re drinking to forget, right?” She asks, an air of wisdom in her scratchy voice. “Then what does it matter what it tastes like?”

Well, you guess she’s right. You grab another from the fridge while you’re at it before they lead you to a couch. It’s surrounded by a crowd of people you mostly have never met before, more than happy to laugh with them at the particularly stupid topics of conversation.

You’re already pretty buzzed less than an hour spent at the party, having asked Steve to get you a third bottle. “Might wanna slow down, sweets.”

“I’m drinking to forget, remember?” You ask him, winking cheekily.

Time starts to meld together as the bottle gets emptier and emptier. Robin grabs you by the hand to dance with her and Steve in a circle, top 40 pop acting as a soundtrack while you forget any goddamn trouble that might have plagued you.

You’re chatting about some mindless gossip when something tells you to turn your head towards the door. The door opens to Eddie and Chrissy, holding hands as they look around the party that got even rowdier since your arrival.

Eddie’s eyes meet yours, frozen in place as the emptiness his absence has left consumes you.

“Oh shit,” Robin mutters right next to you, but you don’t answer it as you stumble your way into the kitchen.

The internal debate on whether you need to drink water or more alcohol is roaring, so you drown it with more alcohol. Maybe you can shut it up. It’s too fucking loud. The ajar door opens and closes, a presence in the kitchen you don’t bother acknowledging. You don’t smell Eddie’s cologne, the momentary disappointment flooding your senses that he saw you and didn’t even bother talking to you.

Another sip. Another gulp. Make it go away.

“I was wondering when I would run into you,” it’s not Eddie, or Steve. Confusion takes over you as you wonder which male voice in your life you’re forgetting, turning to face the culprit.

Daniel.

“Here I am, I guess,” you mutter, taking another swig. “What exactly do you want?”

“Retribution.”

“Huh?”

He laughs, cruel and blunt. “I’m here for what I’m owed, sweetheart. I don’t get told no. Girls don’t say no to me. So, I think I’m owed some payback for the humiliation you put me through.”

What the fuck?

The laughter that leaves your throat is loud and abrupt, clearly not what he’s expecting. “Oh my fucking god, you’re just delusional. Girls don’t owe you shit for buying them dinner! You ask us out for a date, that’s on you, bud!”

“I don’t fucking think so,” he growls, slinking in closer. You can smell his breath, he’s clearly been drinking. “I will get what I want, I always do.”

Panic floods your brain, suddenly realizing he’s being dead serious. “Wait–” you protest as he leans in, the wall and your back colliding harshly. “Wait, no–”

“All you had to do was blow me, baby,” he chides, as if he’s reprimanding a small child. His hand harshly wraps around your waist, preventing you from weaving from between him and the wall. “Now look what you made me do.”

You try to push him off, panic continuing to push up your throat as he proves himself much stronger than you. Oh god, am I about to get raped in Steve’s kitchen?

His hand feels slimy as it pushes past your shirt, sending a jolt of shivers down your body. You’re shaking from fear, one cheek against the wall as you continue to resist him. “Stop– Daniel, please stop–” Your voice is frantic, eyes wide in terror as you try to push his hands away.

The harsh laughter directed at your pleas are cut off, an incredibly familiar voice slicing the air with malice. “She said stop.”

The heat you were surrounded by is thrown off, leaving the cold air behind Daniel to overwhelm you as he’s thrown onto the floor.

Blows of fists on flesh fill the room, watching in horror as Eddie has him pinned, delivering blow after blow to his face. You only see a portion of Eddie, his dark jeans and leather jacket as he hunches over his victim and blindingly delivers one punch after the other. Daniel has stopped fighting back, just a limp set of limbs as it jumps from each hit.

When Eddie has shown no signs of letting up you’re forced to jump into action, stumbling as you run into his line of eyesight. “Eddie, stop! You’re going to kill him!” You plead.

The sounds of brutal fists on soft flesh die immediately, Eddie huffing as he rises to his feet. “You okay?”

You blink as his hands frame your cheeks, petting them softly with his hands. A tear falls, splashing his hand. His concern is comforting, but the direct juxtaposition of his concern from the silence he’s fed you the last few weeks washes over you, confusing every emotion that has been hurting.

Despite the sweet shine in his eyes as they watch you, you back from his hold in a jerk reaction. “Didn’t know you still cared about me.”

He wears the hurt from this statement on his sleeve. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You wander back over to the fridge, grabbing a beer from the second six pack you’re working through. You pop it open from the mounted bottle opener, taking a handful of sips. “You’re kidding me, right? You haven’t called me in weeks. Weeks.”

He stands there, blankly watching.

“I might be more forgiving if it weren’t for Dustin and Gareth and hell, Steve also saying the same thing. None of them have heard from you. You went from calling at least once a week to radio silence! I wanted to get along with Chrissy. I really did. I started all the conversations, offering snacks, asking questions about her, letting her set her boundaries, but she had something to say about everything we did together!”

Eddie stutters, blinking as he watches you talk. He doesn’t try to talk, doesn’t try to defend himself. You don’t give him the chance.

“She clearly doesn’t respect you, otherwise you would still be my best friend and I would remember the last time we had a normal fucking conversation. I get wanting boundaries, but at this point, I don’t think she even wants you to have friends! Is that what you want? A girl who makes you make yourself smaller for her sake and isolate completely? Really? Because that’s what you have. No horror movies? No more junk food? No heavy metal music? She’s making you shrink yourself so she deems you desirable! Fucking– I can’t watch it anymore.”

“Wait, what do you mean–” he’s interrupted by the door closing, a yelp filling the room as Chrissy runs to him.

“What happened to your fists?” You glance down to them, seeing bruises lining his knuckles.

“Nothing, it’s fine. I’m fine,” he assures her, putting his hands on her shoulders.

“Alright. Well. I meant exactly what I said. I can’t do this one sided friendship thing with you anymore,” you take another swig, wondering how the bottle was already so light. “I can’t. Call me when you find my best friend, because I haven’t seen him in three months.”

You leave the room, ignoring the calls from his mouth that suffocate you. As you stumble into the living room, you catch Steve’s eye right away, chin trembling. The hot tears that trail down your face have already drenched your cheeks by the time you realize it’s even happening, choking on the emotion that drowns you.

Steve guides you into the guest bathroom, closing the door as he watches you attempt to stop the sobs long enough to tell him what happened.

“I think–” you hiccup, sniffling loudly, “I think I just lost my best friend–” tears rattle through you once again, just saying it out loud feels like lightning in its startling ability to shatter you once more.

By the time the sobs diminish again, you’re sat on the floor by the tub, head sitting in his lap as he pets your hair. You sit up suddenly, mid hiccup as you give Steve an odd look.

He almost asks if you’re okay when you spill over his lap, whimpering between gasps as you know what you’re doing, the toilet only a foot away, but it continues to explode from your stomach.

“I’m so sorry,” you explain, tears falling again, as he sits in shock.

He grins sadly, undoing his belt. “It’s fine, sweetheart.”

He finds someone, Robin, to grab him a second pair of pants, ditching the ruined pair in the bathtub.

The dry heaving seems to stop the tears, now staring blankly with a wet face and lashes that stick together. Steve brings you upstairs, wrapping his arm around your waist as he brings you to his bedroom.

As your head hits his pillow your eyes fall closed, mumbling something about fucking up, about three months ago.

Steve locks his door from any stragglers, walking down each step to find a particular metal head to give him a piece of his mind.

From how your sobs shook your body, he might give him the whole thing.

-

The light cascading through the blinds hurts, like a dagger through your brain as you take in your surroundings. You don’t know how you got into Steve’s room under his blanket.

As soon as you sit up, the pain stabs you, pushing you back down. Ow. You don’t even attempt to get up again until the urge to pee hits you, when it’s too much to ignore. You rub your eye, tip toeing to try to get back under the dark blue comforter decorating Steve’s bed.

On the corner of the bed Steve sits, one foot resting on the other knee as he holds a jade green drink. “How badly does your head hurt?”

You wince at the volume of his voice, placing your hands over your eyes. “Not great.”

He winces sympathetically, offering the smoothie. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Blurry images flash through your mind, the kitchen, Daniel, half of the second case gone. You attempt to remember past that point but it comes up blank. “I remember running into Daniel.”

As you sip on the surprisingly delicious hangover smoothie, Steve watches you, wearing a clear expression of concern.

“Anything after that?”

You can tell he’s egging you on, digging for something with an unprecedented seriousness in his tone. But there’s no memory after that. You gingerly shake your head, which sends more needles of pain through your skull.

“Why?” You ask weakly. Steve pauses, ruffling a hand through his hair as he releases a long sigh.

“You really don’t, huh?” Steve asks, one last attempt. “Maybe it’s good you drank as much as you did, then.”

“Steve, you’re scaring me.” Images of worst case scenarios course through your mind. What did you do?

Steve pats the spot on the bed next to you, double checking you don’t feel the urge to throw up. You don’t.

“Daniel tried to force himself on you.” He’s gentle, compassionate in his admission as he watches your reaction.

Huh. “How far did he–” you stutter, breath hitching as you bite back the sobs that suddenly threaten to rake through your body.

“He was interrupted before he even got that far,” he comforts you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as he caresses it. “Eddie sort of bashed his face in.”

Now that you think about it, the memory of Eddie hunched over Daniel as he delivered blow after blow to his nose, his cheekbone, his eyebrow. You didn’t see the final result of Eddie’s defense, but the bruised knuckles you vaguely recall spell out how brutal the retaliation was.

Eddie.

“What–” you pause, stuttering through your breaths, “what happened after that?”

“You yelled at Eddie. Berated him. I think you even told him you didn’t want to be his friend anymore. At least, that’s what I gathered from what you told me,” he admits.

Your blood grows cold. From the weeks of silence, the jilted conversations, the slow resentment that bloomed through your stomach for him. The ache already hurt just from the absence of your best friend, but it was good for you. Fuck, this hurt.

“Is that all?”

He laughs, pulling your head into his neck. “Just that you can’t hold back your liquor.”

That’s why your breath tastes like vomit.

From the extra strength tylenol he gives you, the rest of the morning is spent helping Steve tidy up the trash around his house. Only after spending twenty minutes in the kitchen on his hands and knees scrubbing up the red stains does he allow you to help him. You only catch a glimpse of the paper towel soaked in dried blood and bleach when throwing out red solo cups, a small hint of the mess Eddie made of Daniel.

The thought of his name is a self betrayal, and you work faster once it crosses your mind.

Once the place is clean, you allow Steve to drive you home at his insistence, repeatedly asking when he pulls up to your house that you’re sure you’re okay.

Your dad is at work, not there to ask any questions you wanted to avoid from the previous night, namely why your eyes are swollen from tears. The blinds in your room fall with a trill resembling a xylophone, blocking the sun from your intense migraine.

For the first time in weeks, you’re stirred awake from sleep from the ringing of the phone on the floor that has been pushed under the bed. You let it ring.

Just as sleep pulls you back in, you’re abruptly startled as the phone alerts you again. You roll over, ignoring it as you wrap your head in your hands, curling into the pillow. No one has to get a hold of you that badly.

This person does, it seems, as they call you again. You groan, crawling over the edge as you grab the phone from your receiver. “Hello?”

You refuse the want to chew them out, to take your emotions and friendship breakup out on the person who has interrupted your sleep.

“It’s me.”

You lurch forward in your bed, still tethered to the receiver by the tightly coiled wire as it forces the receiver to scuff against the hardwood floor. Eddie.

-

Eddie’s sat on his couch, limply resting his head on the couch arm as the shrill voice of the main character complains over a problem that could be solved if she had just told someone. His hand rests on his eyes, shielding himself from the light to prevent the headache he can feel coming on. He’s given up on suggesting other movies by now, but she somehow seems to only play the movies that get on every last nerve.

He would probably be more willing to watch the romcoms in question if they weren’t the bottom of the pack. Last time Eddie even suggested a romcom he actually doesn’t completely hate he had to hear about it for an agonizing twenty minutes. Fine. She could watch her movie, he can practice on his guitar, right?

You would think.

So he dissociates and focuses on the gentle petting of his calf as he rests his leg on her lap. His mind floats to his best friend, how much he misses the smell of your shampoo, or when you make fun of the cheesier horror movies he loves to watch. If Chrissy wouldn’t make a near temper tantrum every time your name is mentioned in conversation, he would’ve called you weeks ago. He missed your voice.

Chrissy continues to insist that you like him, that you’re trying to steal him from her. It turned into many fights where Eddie felt like he was losing his mind, insisting he just wanted to see his best friend. There is a stubborn, immovable force still holding hope that something will just click one day and realize just how wrong she is. There’s a little nagging part of him, eating at his brain, warning that it probably won’t ever come true.

The possibility is almost too much for him to mentally handle, because when it blows up in his face and you decide not to forgive his radio silence, he doesn’t think he will be able to handle the absence in his life. So he procrastinates the detonation.

“I’m surprised you’re not going to Steve’s party,” Chrissy chirps, interrupting Eddie’s disarray.

Eddie blinks, trying to recall any mention of a party that might’ve slipped his mind. That might’ve been the reason for his ignorance if he could remember the last time he even spoke to Steve. He’s sure Chrissy knows that.

“I didn’t even know he was having one.”

She grabs at the extra material of his jeans, pulling his attention. “Did you want to go?”

He mentally rattles through the mechanics of going to Steve’s stupidly large house, knowing damn well his distance has managed to drive you straight into the arms of someone new, even if it’s only platonic. You’ll be there, the chance much more likely than not.

He wants to see your face, even if it’s in passing. He wonders if Chrissy sees you there if she’ll decide to leave early or just avoid you altogether. But it’s just the chance that drives him to agree.

By the time he gets there, vehicles have already littered the streets surrounding his house, some even audaciously blocking his neighbor’s driveways. Chrissy’s hand is in his as he walks in, anxiously looking around the party for you.

He peers into the living room, to the couch containing members of some of Steve’s closer acquaintances and it wasn’t long until he saw you, sitting right next to Robin holding the bottleneck of a beer bottle.

Your eyes are already on his, wide and still as you stare at him. You’re even prettier than he remembered, any polaroid he’s ever had of you does absolutely no justice to your radiant smile or vibrant eyes.

Fine, you’re staring at him like you would rather be anywhere else for the moment, panic flooding your features, but it’s a breath of fresh air for him compared to his last few suffocating weeks. As you stumble to your feet, Eddie tricks himself into believing that you’ve gotten up to talk to him until you pass the front entrance straight into the kitchen.

He supposes he deserves that, fading as Chrissy tugs him to the dance floor. His hands find her hips, allowing himself to get lost in the relentlessly catchy pop tune. He can’t help but allow his eyes to float back over to the couch every now and then, something in him carnally needing making sure that you’re safe.

Alarm bells go off, goosebumps trailing over his skin as something in him screams that you’re in danger. You could very much just be avoiding him, which he wouldn’t blame you for, not for one moment, but he wouldn’t forgive himself if he found out his worry had any footing.

“Babe, I’m gonna grab a drink,” he mutters, blankly kissing her sweet scented blonde hair before his long legs take him to the kitchen.

His stomach drops as your voice fills the kitchen, asking the asshole with wandering hands to stop as he forces himself on you.

The next thing he knows, Daniel is under him, his back slammed on the floor with a face scrunched up in pain as Eddie’s fists are flying. His fists, his jeans, the floor, the whining little shit’s face, it all gets painted with blood.

Eddie doesn’t realize when the pair of arms stop trying to push him off, or when the green eyes no longer stare at him in horror, shut from the trauma of one blunt hit after the other. He just continually bashes his face in for even daring to attempt to force himself on the woman he loves.

Fuck this guy. Fuck him.

Eddie’s blind with rage, but he’s also blind with his own regret.

Your voice cuts through the anger, a warning that seeps in his brain like a sponge. If he keeps hitting him like this he will end up taking his life.

He stands up, facing your trembling form as you seem to be in shock. You melt in his hold, tears spilling over his hands as he caresses you, doing his very best to take care of you. He knows the answer when he asks, but he has to hear it from you.

Finally, the words seem to sober you from wanting his comfort to the hurt that you’ve felt from his silence. You lurch yourself from him, staggering blindly to the fridge as you grab another beer. The scent was harsh on your breath, the sight of you glugging back as much as you can sends jolts through his system.

Then you tell him everything. And he deserves it. He wants so badly to tell you how badly he wanted to call you, but the excuses sound lame even in his own mind.

When you tell him you’re done is when he finally snaps out of his own trance. He knows what you mean, but surely, you don’t really mean it? Before he can ask, Chrissy comes into the picture, doting over his bruised knuckles, ignoring you completely as she asks what happened. He’s fine. He’s not, but he’ll say anything to get back to what you were just saying.

Choked back sobs escape as you tell him with absolute finality that you are done, tripping over your own feet when you leave through the kitchen door.

No, this has gone too far. Eddie hasn’t had a single drop of alcohol but feels as if he’s wasted from stumbling after you, blocked by his girlfriend.

That conversation goes as well as can be expected.

In the hours following, he doesn’t seem to find you anywhere. But without Chrissy trailing after him, he finds himself free to converse with friends he’d missed, meeting their snide remarks of coming back to the land of the living with grace. Eddie stays for hours, half heartedly partaking in any conversation he finds himself witness to just in case you make another appearance.

Steve walks down the stairs after what feels like forever, wearing a grim look on his face. Eddie approaches him. “Hey have you seen–”

“She’s upstairs,” Steve answers, sighing. “Passed out. She’ll wake up tomorrow morning.”

“Is she okay?”

“Didn’t choke on her own vomit, at least,” Steve quips, his voice harsh. “Physically, she’s okay.”

Steve moves to walk around Eddie, seemingly done with the conversation.

“Physically?”

Steve sighs, angry, frustrated. “She just sobbed on the bathroom floor for an hour and a half, Ed. I literally watched her heart break! Safe to say, I don’t think she’s doing so well emotionally.”

“Fuck,” Eddie mutters, feeling hopeless, like he should’ve been there to take care of you instead of being the cause of your suffering. “Steve, I–”

“Listen, Eddie. I just heard a bunch of shit from her that I’m not even sure she knows that she said. Other than her I guess telling you to fuck off, what else happened?”

Eddie gulps, not exactly wrapping his own mind around it, yet. “I found Daniel Moore trying to force himself on her.”

“Jesus,” Steve mutters, passing Eddie straight into the kitchen.

“Steve–” Eddie tries to stop him, or warn him at least, wondering how no one else has seen him, yet. There is almost no reason for most to make their way into the kitchen as the drinks station is in the living room, but usually a straggler or two, especially couples would make their own way in. He’s definitely not up and partying from the blood that seeped through the shirt he was wearing…

Should Eddie have called the ambulance?

“What the fuck–” Steve barks, taking in the crumpled form before him. “Jesus, Eddie, what happened?”

“You listen to your best friend beg someone to stop assaulting them and not beat the shit out of him?” Eddie retaliates, watching as Steve double checks to make sure he’s still breathing.

“Well, now I gotta get him out of here before someone has you fucking arrested,” Steve mutters, wracking his brain through old morally questionable friends of his that would help with no questions asked. Fuck. He has a few favors to call in. “Where’s Chrissy gone?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Eddie spits.

“Considering she has control over who you’re allowed to spend time with, probably somewhere nearby with binoculars,” Steve mutters, a fragment of seriousness in the joke.

“Well, not anymore,” Eddie shrugs, feeling surprisingly pragmatic about it.

“Oh.” Took you long enough, Steve thinks. “I’m gonna get him out of here, but I suggest you do the same.”

“Can I stay? I wanna be here when she wakes up.” His eyes pleading to Steve.

Steve’s brows raise. “Respectfully Eddie, I don’t think she really wants to see you.”

“I haven’t been able to tell her anything for weeks, I’m staying!” he insists, crossing his arms like a petulant child.

Steve shakes his head, leaning on the counter. God, he wished he hadn’t invited a few dozen people to come to his house for the night. “God, you’re an idiot.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re an idiot. You’re both idiots, but, man I think you’re the bigger one.” Steve walks around the kitchen island, getting unreasonably close to him. “I don’t know if you’re blind, or just selectively ignorant. She loves you, dude! She was willing to support you getting a girlfriend, but then you just shut her out. It’s gonna take more than an apology to be back in her good graces. When she wakes up with a killer hangover, I think the last person she’ll want to see is you. God, if one of you just made the jump years ago this never would’ve happened!”

Eddie’s heart drops at Steve’s angry words, refusing to believe any of his feelings for his best friend are reciprocated. “Sure, because three months of friendship tell you everything you need to know about a person.”

Steve chuckles, walking over the snoring asshole as he steps out to the living room. “I would have to be blind not to see it. She talked about you one time about this stupid fucking movie she watched with you and I could tell. Rather than telling your girlfriend that you have a best friend and she has to get over it, you shut her out. For weeks. And left someone else to pick up the pieces.”

“Steve, I know. I know I was being an ass–”

“Then why didn’t you stop? Why didn’t you give her a call? You had to know she wasn’t going to forgive you so easily–”

“Of course I fucking knew that, Steve! Why do you think I put off letting it explode in my face?”

“Because you’re an idiot! She loved you. She loves you! If you can’t see that then I really don’t know what to tell you. Listen, if you call her tomorrow, I’m not all that sure what would happen. It’s gonna be a while before she’s ready to forgive, bud. For now. Maybe you should go.”

-

“Oh,” you sigh, hugging your knees into your chest, feeling small. A war rages in your mind. You were hurt enough by him to break your friendship off with him, but you don’t even remember it. The other side of you just wants to be close to him again, willing to sink into the apologies that he owes you and happily accept them.

But you shouldn’t. And you know you shouldn’t.

“Do you wanna come over for a movie?”

You want to come over and watch a movie so badly, it wraps around you and constricts your airflow. “Will she be there?”

“No. Just me and you. I promise,” Eddie swears, voice low enough that it resembles a whisper. “She won’t be, uh, crashing our movie nights anymore.”

You diminish the pulse of hope that threatens to bloom. “What do you mean?”

Eddie sighs. “I was hoping to tell you in person, but we broke up last night…come over, I’ll tell you more. I just need my best friend…and a horror movie…and junk food, god, I miss junk food.”

You miss him so much it hurts. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

The bike ride sends pulses through your head, worsening the ache of the hangover. If the pain isn’t gone by tomorrow, you might just ask someone to shoot an arrow through your head to put you out of your misery.

It’s been more than long enough since the last time you were on his front door step, nervous as you hesitate to knock. Eddie’s footsteps are rapid and loud as soon as your knuckles hit the door, the opening to him, wide eyes, graphic t-shirt and pair of sweatpants. He appears unlike himself, almost tired. You wonder if you noticed it last night.

Before either one of you says a word, he tugs you in, wrapping his arms around you in an embrace in his scent. Overwhelming emotion takes over, his shirt absorbing the tears that fall. He feels like home, every part of him. His scent, the muscles flexing under your grasp, his steady breaths.

“I missed you,” he mutters, his voice low, choked, even.

Then why didn’t you call me? “Me too–” you whimper, squeezing onto him even tighter. You sniffle, curling your head into his neck.

The hug lasts forever, or at least long enough for your arms to become numb.

Your butt lands on the couch, the spot that was once permanently marked by you now weirdly lumpy from the lack of use. Did Chrissy know she was allowed to sit in her own seat on the odd occasion? On the coffee table, Eddie has already prepared the popcorn and your favorite snacks, only your favorite snacks. Three movies are laid out, all awaiting their turn in the VCR.

“What’s this?” You ask, rubbing your nose from the snot.

“Uh, three movies. Pick one.”

You read the titles, Back to the Future, Friday the 13th, and Labyrinth. “What happened to wanting to watch horror movies?”

“I have a lot of sucking up to do before I get to be picky with our movie night,” Eddie answers, his voice gentle and careful. “Pick one.”

If he says so, then you’ll have to pick your favorite, rather than his favorite. “Alright, then, Labyrinth it is. David Bowie in leather pants, here I come!”

As the movie plays, a teenage girl desperate to find her brother, you sink into the comfort of the ratty old couch. Through Eddie, you found out that the rattiest couches are actually the most comfy. The more tears and rips, the better. Eddie stands up, running to the kitchen to grab fresh cans of soda from the fridge.

He sits back down, handing you a Diet Coke while popping open his own. Two things you notice when he sits. One, he’s remarkably close, his ass nearly planted in between the cushions. Two–

“Since when did you start drinking diet coke?” You ask him, wincing at the aftertaste.

“Since Chrissy was such a stickler for sugar,” he answers casually, grabbing a bite of the popcorn.

His simple tone, emotionless and understated, squeezes your heart. “What happened with her, anyway?”

Chrissy blocked him, staring at him with wide eyes as she held his shoulders. “What–what is going on?”

“I need a minute,” he stuttered, attempting to walk around her.

“Did you do that?” Chrissy asked, pointing to the lifeless piece of shit on the floor.

“Chris, it’s really not a good time, right now. I will tell you later, I promise. I’ll be right back.” Eddie promised.

She blocked him again, hands pushing on his broad shoulders. “You’re not seriously thinking of going after her, are you?”

“Chrissy, she’s my best friend! That creep just tried– I have to go check up on her, make sure she’s okay!”

“You mean the girl who is pathetically in love with you?” Chrissy asked, belligerent and full of sass. “Sure, go and give her more false hope! She was practically all over you at the diner, mooning over you, desperate to take you out on a date, I mean, don’t give her fucking hope!”

Eddie sighed, rubbing his face angrily. “I don’t know how many times I need to fucking tell you, Chris. She is just my friend. She was being nice, trying to include you. I’m so fucking tired of this conversation!”

“So am I!” Chrissy crossed her arms, popping her hip out. It was times like these Eddie was absolutely sure of why Chrissy and Jason dated for so long. “You know what? Fine. Me or her.”

“What?” Eddie was unsure if she was being serious.

“Pick! Me or her? Because when you pick me maybe then she’ll get the fucking hint!”

It was the easiest decision he’s ever made in his life. “Her.”

Eddie finishes explaining it, mostly nixxing the parts where she berated you or talked shit. You just needed to know the part where she practically had a temper tantrum.

“Wow,” you mutter, remembering how you called Chrissy sweet when they first started dating. “And…you, you picked me?”

“Of course I did.” Eddie pops a kernel into his mouth, leaning back into the couch. His body heat is warm, his scent intoxicating. “You’re my best friend.”

“You haven’t called in weeks, Eddie.” It comes out quietly, the hurt overflowing in your body and pouring out your mouth. “I thought you had a new best girl.”

Eddie sighs, grabbing your hand. “If I could take back the last three months, I would. I-I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“I missed you so fucking badly,” you admit, focusing on how your hand feels intertwined with his.

“I missed you. I know– I fucked up, but believe me when I say, I missed you so fucking much.”

On one hand, it’s hard to believe him. It seemed like it was so easy for him to cut you off. On the other, the glint in his eyes, his thumb caressing the back of your hand, gentle and unequivocally vulnerable.

Eddie leans forward, connecting his forehead to yours. “I will make it up to you, I promise.”

“You have a lot of making up to do, mister,” you inform him, pulling away from him to lightly nudge his hair.

“And a million strawberry mountains covered in strawberry sauce,” he answers, kissing your forehead softly.

“You really had me worried,” you admit, taking a good look at his face. “I believe you when you say that you missed me, but Eds, you hurt me. I want to trust you, but–”

His movement is swift as he grabs your face with his hands, pulling you in close. “I know, baby, I know.” The pet name takes your breath away, music to your unsuspecting ears. The name wraps itself around your like a warm hug, melting all those months of worry and panic away. “I’m so fucking sorry, if I could just–”

Maybe it wasn’t the right timing, months of silence, unanswered questions, hurt, but all that just conveniently disappears the moment his lips touch yours. You startle, jerking backwards as you look at him curiously, looking for something that’ll tell you he’s not kissing you out of pity, or obligation.

You’re met with the exact way that he always looks at you, but this time, it’s radiant. How did you miss it this whole time? You smile, wrapping your hand behind his neck as you tug him in, entangling his lips with yours and chasing that emotion that ran through you the first time.

Eddie meets your kiss with enthusiasm, grinning madly as he pulls you in closer, your body flush against his as he pulls you down with him.

It’s maddeningly enchanting, the way you can taste his minty breath and his hums against your lips, buzzing and tickling. His tongue sweeps along your bottom lip, pulling a gasp as you happily meet his with yours. Your skin feels electric as his hand sneaks under your shirt, as if he’s just getting the feel of you.

You sigh, curling your arm around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. His kisses trail along your jawline, down your neck, pressing sweet kisses down your jugular. “You taste like strawberries,” he mutters, audibly smiling. “I should’ve known, all those damn strawberries you eat.”

“Before we go any further,” you gasp, clutching at his t-shirt, “and believe me, I want to, you owe me a proper date.”

“Taking you out for a date, baby?” He places more rapid kisses on your neck, letting himself absorb your laughter. “God, I’m lucky.”

-

You’ve learned one thing for absolute certainty, Eddie Munson knows how to grovel. Between the many kisses you’ve shared that night you tell Eddie with surety that just because he knows how to kiss doesn’t mean he’s suddenly forgiven. Eddie relishes in that, grinning just because you’re kissing him.

The previous night he was losing his mind at his ex-girlfriend’s terrible movie choices, and you, his best friend, the person who has always known him best, you’re finally here kissing him. You could ask him to write a 1000-page apology letter entirely in rhymes or haikus and he would do it heartbeat, but all he’s required to do is prove it?

He’s more than willing.

When the date is proposed, he swears he would love to take you anywhere. He provides a list, with all of the restaurants you know he can’t afford. When you ask him and inquire about such, he shrugs casually. There’s a silent question there, wondering if Chrissy had even considered his wallet size before their date nights.

Instead, you answer with, “Our first date should be the diner, no?”

You’ve never been so nervous before, looking through your small arsenal of date night dresses. He’s seen all of them, whether from a school dance or the aftermath of a date gone sour. One dress catches your attention, at the very back of your closet covered in plastic, just waiting for the right time.

White, with blue flowers hand embroidered on the bodice, a sweetheart neckline and bubble gum pink ribbons tied together as the straps. Periwinkle blue that bleeds into mint green leaves along the hemline, fanned out into a hoopskirt. You’ve stared at this dress when it sat in your mom’s closet, asking when it might be your turn to finally wear it.

The dress fits you like a glove, looking remarkably close to the photo on the easel downstairs, a first date 25 years ago that ended up being one of your favorite bedtime stories.

As you finally make your way down the stairs, hair half up in curls in a ribbon matching the ones on the dress, your dad looks at you with pride and glossy eyes. Whispered words of the resemblance as he hugs you, eyes too tired for a man in his forties from loss and stress, a whiff of gratitude hits you.

It’s a warm spring evening, no need for a coat as the van pulls up with the usual melodies of heavy metal and drumming. You make your way down the sidewalk to his passenger side, butterflies erupting as you open the door.

The volume is turned down to a background noise, the heavy metal feeling oddly out of place at such a low volume. “Hi, sunshine.”

You grab his hand, petting at his calloused skin. “Hi.”

You feel his eyes on you, taking in the dress that is on its first night out in decades. “I don’t know how you show up looking this good and expect me to act normal.”

You grin, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and sniffing at the leather. He can’t say shit like that and expect you to go on like normal. “C’mon. I haven’t had a strawberry milkshake in ages.”

You open the window just a crack, appreciating the scent of fresh grass in the spring. New beginnings, fresh starts, rebirth. It seems oddly poetic.

He pulls up to the diner, bright neon lights against an evening sunset. It looks as if it’s painted, yellow into orange into blue. A lonely diner isolated sitting against a watercolor sky, but one of your favorite places in the world.

The bell ringing feels like an old song you haven’t heard in years, bringing some bittersweet nostalgia.

Martha perks up, the diner even deader than normal with only a lone man sitting on a bar chair holding a milkshake like a beer. The comparison sends a gag reflex through your body, never wanting to even smell another beer in your lifetime. As you sit next to Eddie, in such close proximity that the other side of the booth is useless, Martha appears with a cheeky smile on her face.

“If you two aren’t on a date, I’ll eat my notebook,” she sighs, hands on her hips as if she’s chastising two kids.

You and Eddie glance to one another, debating on fucking with her. It’s all the approval she needs.

“Finally! If you came in my diner again with those puppy dog eyes of yours I would’ve about had it with you two. Now, are you getting your regulars again?”

Eddie’s arm curls around your shoulders, his thumb petting the bare skin of your shoulder. “I’m disappointed you haven’t already brought the milkshake, Martha.”

“Smartasses. The both of you!” She walks off, a brand new pep in her step.

His thumb turns under your chin, pulling your face towards his. “C’mere. I need to make up for the times I just wanted to kiss those pretty lips in this booth of ours.”

“Why didn’t you?” You ask him, breathless as you stare at his eyes.

“I didn’t think the prettiest girl I know would want to kiss a goofball like me,” he chuckles, self deprecating and vulnerable.

You shake your head sadly, sighing happily. “You are so wrong.”

His chuckles are interrupted by your kiss, clutching onto the cotton t-shirt clinging onto his chest. It’s like you to forget how to breathe, taking the moment to take a deep breath before kissing him deeper, harder.

Your tongues meet, wrapping together with his and leaning forward to be as close to him as possible. His hand lands on your thigh, petting it roughly as he teases you. You hated yourself, hated how you told him you wanted to wait, because it’s becoming too much. The need for him sits deep in your stomach and begs you for any resolve from his teasing hands.

His kisses keep you only so satiated, whimpering by the time your make out sessions are done and ready to beg him to touch you already.

The glass of pinky sweetness hits the table, interrupting his electric lips on yours. “If you two do it, at least have the decency to take it to the bathroom like every other patron.”

You yelp, avoiding Martha’s eyes as Eddie tugs you in against his chest, kissing your temple. “Yes ma’am,” Eddie obeys, saluting with two fingers. Two, very distracting fingers.

You take a sip, humming. After weeks, you will proudly proclaim that this is still the best milkshake in town.

Eddie kisses your cheek, pulling you even closer. “If you lick that whipped cream off your finger, so help me god.”

It’s a habit of yours, one you’ve done at least once a visit just to get a taste of it before it sinks into the milkshake. The numerous times you’ve done it sinks in, unknowingly teasing him. “Something wrong with tasting whipped cream, Eds?”

“When you do it with that tongue of yours, yes,” he mutters, nipping on your jawline.

“Why don’t you have a taste,” you hum, taking a scoop with your pinky, licking it up.

Eddie pulls you in, humming as his tongue reaches out for yours to grab a taste of the cream melting fast in your mouth. He pulls back all too soon, eyes fluttering shut as he tuts his tongue. “Mmm. Yum. Thanks, baby.”

The milkshake is nearly gone by the time Martha rolls around again, pancakes and waffles in hand, interrupting soft conversation and sweet nothings.

He finally tries a taste of your pancakes, eating from the fork you offer him. His face winces, screwing up as he chews on it. “That strawberry sauce is sweet, ain’t it?”

“A little sour, I guess, but it’s my favorite. The fresh strawberries are a nice little addition.” You tell him, cutting up the pancakes.

“I’ll stick to my sprinkles,” Eddie mutters, dipping a piece of the big fluffy waffle in the whip. “They are the best.”

“I have a question,” you mutter, relishing in the taste of the sweet strawberry sauce. “How-how long have you liked me? Was it more recent, or have you liked me for years?”

Eddie smirks, placing a stand of hair over your shoulder. “Years.” He chokes back the correction of the word like, cause it’s so much more. “The first time I saw you, you were giving one of the football dicks hell for picking on one of the scrawny little freshmen. And I mean, berating him. You’re shy, baby, but not when it comes to others.” He pauses, chewing thoughtfully. “I knew from that moment.”

Oh. It was a handful of months before you found yourself sitting by the hellfire table, shaking your head at their antics. Plus, Gareth was just plain wrong in his opinion, you shook your head disapprovingly as you dug your nose in the book. Eddie caught on to it, demanding you join their group and inform him of how wrong he was. You did. You didn’t realize how charming Eddie was, how welcoming and genuinely kind.

It took your breath away, especially how gorgeous he was. The crush was kindled from then on, only being nurtured as you continued to debate him and his friends on their nerd culture.

Eddie followed up with the same question, asking how long ago for you, too. You tell him that very story, of how he enamored you just from being around him.

“You know, by then I was already head over heels for you,” he admits casually, sipping the last of the milkshake. “Something about sticking it to the man just does that to a guy.”

“Those dimples of yours are a weapon.” You admit in kind, and he laughs. You drop your jaw incredulously. “They’re a weapon! You think your hands are the only things those girls call magic?”

Eddie leans in, hot breath on your ear sending ripples down your neck. “And have you thought about these magic hands of mine, sweetheart?”

You gulp, licking your lips as your heart races in your chest. “Maybe...” You say softly.

He hums, tentatively kissing your skin. He really shouldn’t be doing this in a public space, you think, attempting not to wiggle at the uncomfortable feeling of arousal pooling in your panties. “I can’t wait to show you just how magic they are.”

You hold back a whimper, choking on it as your eyes flutter shut at his tentative kisses.

“Let’s get out of here, shall we?” You nod, watching as he places the right amount of bills with a decent tip for Martha.

On your way out the door, Martha shouts her goodbyes, happily yelling out her congratulations as the glass door slams behind you. Eddie’s lips find a home on the back of your hand, holding it as he kisses loudly, tickling the skin.

The trailer sits alone in the park, all lights off as he pulls up. With the turn of a key, his arm wraps around your waist as you walk in sync. It’s familiar as you help him turn on the lights, domestic, even. His jacket is off, tossed on the couch as he tugs you by the hand towards his room.

You’ve thought about it so many times, whisking away into his room with him to devour him completely. Usually it occurs when you’re mad stoned, happy and horny, but too blizted to make a move.

Your hands curtain the back of his neck, thumbs petting the nape of his neck and tangling themselves in his curls, rubbing in small circles. His lips connect to yours, stumbling over dirty laundry as he guides you to his bed. “Hmm, strawberries.”

He yelps as lands on his back, laughing as you collide with an oof. The playful moment is quickly replaced with intensity, staring down into his brown eyes, darkened by desire. Across the years of being his friend, he’s darkened his eyes in many moments, right before he decides to pin you down and tickle you senseless or when you talk down on yourself.

There were moments when his intense gaze took you aback, mostly when you innocently used too much enthusiasm in eating ice cream or put your hair up in a ponytail.

Or when you wore a sundress that sat a bit too high on your thigh.

All these moments suddenly make sense, filling you with a gust of emotion as you grab at him, tugging him harshly for a kiss much more powerful than you knew you had in you. He gasps into it, deep and desperate against your lips as you pull him closer. One of his hands travels downward, hiking under your skirt and grabbing at your thigh, your knee pulled up against his stomach.

Eddie turns you over on your back, hands grabbing at the skin harshly, his rings pressing at your skin hard enough to create an indent. Your leg wrapped around his waist tugs him down, his chest landing on yours.

“Question, my love,” Eddie mutters, words intertwined with his kisses. “Why the hell haven’t I seen this dress until now, it’s…oh my god.”

You grin against his lips, pushing your hands past his cotton shirt. “Waiting for a special occasion.”

“You telling me I could’ve seen this ages ago, baby?” He gasps, wrapping your tongue against his, delicate but enough to make you mewl into his mouth.

“Probably.”

He nips your lip, a punishment for your cheekiness. “It’ll look better on the floor.”

Your hips grind up, meeting the bulge in his pants just right. “You can’t say stuff like that–” you gasp, arms wrapping around his neck to hold on to him pathetically.

“You have no idea the things I’ve wanted to say to you.” His hand travels further up, passing the waistline of your panties and spreading on the skin of your tummy. “All the things I’ve held back…”

The admission is thrilling and terrifying, giving you almost everything you’ve ever wanted.

Now if you could get that bike you wanted for Christmas when you were twelve…

“Can you tell me now?” you ask, smiling up at his pretty, bewildered face.

“Hmm, patience,” he tuts, using his hand to explore. “Right now I just really want to touch your pussy, please, baby, please.”

It’s your turn for bewilderment. He’s acting like touching you is this great honor, instead of a means to an end like anyone else you’ve slept with. “Uh, yeah, I want that. I really, really want that.”

Eddie sighs, using his traveling hand and dipping it under the waistband of your panties. As his best friend, you’ve gotten so comfortable around him, arguably too much. Late nights in his room with a t-shirt and panties as his room fills with smoke. Eddie is only human, appreciating them too much as as you sat cross legged with the strip just a tad too thin for what it was supposed to cover.

This particular pair is decorated in lace up the front, a sheer lace for the bum, a light blue to match the flowers. His fingers latch to your pussy, delicately moving them up and down the folds.

“Oh my god,” he sighs, playing with the slick and spreading it. “You’re so wet, all this…all this for me?”

He adds more pressure, rubbing small circles and watching you throw your head back and melt in the heat that spreads across your thighs and takes form in a tremble, in a shake. “F-feels good.”

“Yeah?” he asks, placing his thumb on your clit and rotating it in tiny circles. “You like the way I play with your pussy, baby?”

You frantically nod, grinding up against him. “Need..need more. Please? More?”

“What does more mean?” He leans in, decorating your neck with sucks and bites and licks. “You want me to lick it, baby? You need my fingers, you already beggin’ for my cock? C’mon my girl, use your words.”

You might just beg for his cock, but you don’t want it to be over so quickly. “Want–want your fingers, Eds.”

He giggles, planting a nice wet kiss on your lips. “That’s my girl.” He doesn’t wait a second, curling one finger past your entrance and pumping it slowly, building a slow momentum that pulls at your stomach. He sighs, husky and deep, “Fuck, it’s so tight.”

He removes his finger without warning, not commenting on the moan in disappointment that escapes your mouth. He sits up, grabbing at the waistline as he tugs them down your legs, slowly, carefully, savoring in the moment. He lifts up the skirt, exposing the landing strip that sits waiting for his eyes.

“Did you decorate your pussy just for me? It looks so pretty… Thank you, baby girl,” Eddie is borderline emotional in his gratitude, showering you with praises.

Your legs attempt to close back together in embarrassment from his intense stare. He notices it, pushing your legs back down. “Do me a favor, won’t you? Keep these legs open while I eat your pussy.”

You drench your thighs, turned on even from the mere idea of being with him. “Mmkay.”

“You–” he gasps, delicately licking at the mound. “You taste so good. Wanted to bury my face in this little cunt for so long.”

His hands lift your thighs up and over his shoulder. His mouth tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing, listening to the cues you give him through your quivers and whines. The dress is completely covering his face, hiding the man that is eating you out, slowly and carefully, as if wanting to taste every drop of arousal you feed him.

Before long, your legs start shaking in his hold from the pleasure that has your hands tangled in your hair, eyes squeezed tight as he pulls whine after whine from you. One finger slides right back in, facing no resistance, sucking on your clit simultaneously. That arches your back and curls your toes, gasping from his build up, his words, god just from the years of mental torture.

You cum against his lips without warning, for him or yourself, twitching around his fingers and crying out his name.

He coaxes you through it, kissing your pretty pussy lips gently until your legs stop convulsing. Sweat beads on your forehead, spreading on your back and neck and making the thick fabric of the dress too hot. You untie each ribbon, desperately grabbing at the neckline to pull it up and off.

He kisses up your torso, laughing as you get stuck with the dress half off. One heel digs in his back in retaliation, whining as you gesture to him to help you. “I’m sorry, you’re just so cute.” Eddie giggles.

You whine, kicking your legs for him to hurry up. Your hair is stuck in your dress. It lifts over your head, a light bra covering your tits acting as a tease for him. The dress lands on the floor, nice and splayed out as it’s done its purpose.

You roll your eyes, tugging him in for a desperate kiss by the neck, wandering hands moving south to tug at his t-shirt. “Wanna see you, too,” you confess, helping him rid of his shirt. “Show me those tattoos.”

“You like the tatties?” You nod enthusiastically although you know he’s just teasing you. “Oh, I bet ya do. Probably ogled them while I wasn’t lookin’ huh?”

With a chest like his, you don’t imagine he could blame you. You let your eyes speak for you, raking over his covered chest and openly staring. “Wanna suck your cock.” You look up at him with big doe eyes, silently begging.

Eddie’s eyes widen at your admission, groaning as you start to undo his jeans. “Fuck, I don’t know if I’ll last that long…I need to be buried in you, wanna feel that pussy around my cock.”

You gulp, wrapping your legs around his torso so his jeans meet your pussy, probably drenching a wet spot on the front. “Me too…but I remember you said you didn’t really get reciprocated very much.” You inhale, gathering courage. “I remember thinking how I’d love to spend hours with your cock down my throat.”

Eddie keels over you, curling his face in your neck as he whimpers. “You were holding that back from me?” He punches the mattress right next to your head, a mild temper tantrum. “What other depraved thoughts have you been hiding from me?”

“You want me to tell you, or show you?” You’re not sure where this surge of confidence is coming from, but you’re running with it, especially if it means you can hear him make that sound again.

“Sh-show me- want you to show–” he nods, whimpering into your neck and shuddering.

“Mmkay,” you muse, smirking at just how easily the shoe falls on the other foot. “Get on your back.”

He complies promptly, wrapping his arm around the small of your back and turning the two of you over. You straddle him, grabbing at his chest carefully as you plant kisses all the way down his lean torso. You bring teeth into the mix, sucking and biting and marking your territory.

You’ve been itching to do so since he showed up one morning with bruises decorating his neck, claiming his hookup got a little too eager.

I'll show you eager, you begrudgingly think, wishing that all the boys were teasing him from bruises you gave him, instead. God, there was one planted on his collarbone that was excessively large, annoyingly so.

You mark your way down his chest, his stomach, lapping greedily at his treasure trail as he whimpers at your enthusiasm. This is power, you think to yourself, wondering what other noises you could conjure from him. As your mouth moves, so do your hands, undoing his belt slowly, taking your time as you unzip his fly.

The evidence of his arousal is strikingly clear, his boxers bulging out of the open fly and begging for your attention. While your subtle glances downward gave you an inkling of his size, his hardened cock presenting itself to you, even disguised in its plaid wrapping, had you letting out a gasp in unbridled lust.

You wrap your hand around it, gleaming as he hisses, a hushed swear passing through his lips. You watch his face, observing him as you place your lips on the covered shaft, just letting him feel the heat of your breath on it. “Oh, fuck–” Eddie chokes, letting out harsh shudders.

The sight of his face is borderline angelic, all of his walls down as he focuses on you. You can’t help but smile at that, at how you desperately wished for nights like these, only paying attention to one another. You poke your tongue out, drenching the cotton fabric with your spit, working your way down the length.

At his little whines, you finally curl his fingers under his waistband, drooling at the taut cock that pops out, giving you a friendly hello, swaying from the spring. You smile ear to ear, delicately wrapping your hand around the base.

You kiss the tip, lapping at the pearl of precum that gives the clear indication of his arousal, as if his hard on wasn’t enough. “Mmm,” you hum at the salty taste, leaning in to suck every last drop from his flushed tip.

You let the saliva that has pooled on the surface of your tongue drool onto his cock, spreading it down the shaft, absorbing the moan he rewards you with. “Shit, that feels–oh my god.”

You smile with pride, finally taking him into your mouth, enthusiastically bobbing up and down on his length. Your eyes remain on his, watching him as his face melts, committing it to memory.

“Oh, Jesus,” he swears, hips rutting up, clawing further into your mouth. You take him in further, gagging on it as you wrap your tongue around it experimentally, choking loudly and purposely. “Ch-choke on it, yeah, ch-ohmy god, just like that–”

Your hand moves in rhythm with your mouth, slobbery sounds of spit on flesh, his and yours, deliciously wet. He tenses up beneath you, whines growing more desperate, moans huskier, deeper. It’s a marvelous melody, one no composer could make even if they tried their hardest.

“St-st-stop,” he stutters, curling over himself, writhing under you. “Stop–I-I’m gonna cum.”

Reluctantly you listen, lifting your head off him with a pop and cheekily smiling at his heaving chest. You crawl upward, yelping as he wraps his arm around the small of your back and tugs you in for a kiss, more powerful, wrapped in an unnamed emotion you couldn’t possibly let yourself be delusional enough to define as. The one hand crawled up your back undoes the clasp of your bra, tugging it off your arms and flinging it across the room.

“Gimme those tits,” Eddie sighs, kneading them in his hands and toying with the flesh and nips. “Oh, they’re so pretty, baby. I love them, I‘ve wanted to play with them for so long.”

Eddie’s legs move under you, kicking off his jeans while holding you close to his chest. You sit up, tugging him up with you as you hover just over him.

His skin directly on yours, close and toe curling as you straddle his lap, arms wrapped around his neck as you stare into his eyes. There’s a glow in them, eyebrows relaxed as he holds your hips, staring up at you with such enamour. “Want your cock,” it’s only a whisper, but loud in the intimacy between you two. “I want you.”

His brows furrow, only a moment. The thought passes through him quick as a flash, but you see it.

“What was that?”

He smiles, relieved and tender. “I’ve wanted you for so long.” He leans in, pressing kisses on your clavicle, your neck, your shoulder, the swell of your breast. “Not-not just like this. I mean, fuck, I wanted it, so, so bad. But…I’ve wanted you, wanted your late nights and early mornings, to help you when you need to study, wash the dishes…sorry, I’m rambling.”

You pet his cheek, shaking your head. “No. Keep going.”

“I mean, we’ve always sort of had that, you know? It was just torture, not kissing you stupid whenever I wanted…because I wanted to. I wanted to, so much, baby. I love you. So much. You’re my best friend, my person, and I just love you so fucking much.”

A breath of a laugh passes through your lips, attempting to absorb what he had just told you. “Really?”

You smile, holding him tightly as you kiss him, sighing happily as he confirms, nodding frantically. The head brushes against your entrance, pulling a whine from you. “Eds, I-I love you, too.” The kisses get more fierce, Eddie clinging onto you harder and nearly attacking your lips. “But…if you don’t fuck me soon I might actually lose my mind,” You giggle.

He laughs, combing his fingers through your hair, away from your face, from the sweat. He slaps his cock against your clit, teasing you with his head. “Of course, baby, you wanna ride me, hmm? Hop up and down on my big fat cock?”

You nod, biting your bottom lip, hissing when he pushes his head in, watching as your jaw drops. “Oh, look at you, I knew you could take it like a good girl.”

You choke back a whine, swallowing hard as his words have such a strong effect on you. ‘Fuck, f-feels so good.” You stop, mewling as the burn of his girth becomes too much.

“Don’t rush yourself, baby, it’s okay.” He puts his hands on your hips, digging into the soft flesh. “So nice and tight, fuck.” His eyes practically roll to the back of his head.

You sink further, taking him deeper as the burn bleeds into bliss and back to burning again. “Jesus, s’good.”

“Mm, almost there, baby.”

“Move, please. Eds. Need-need you to move.”

Eddie chuckles, large hands holding your back. He lifts his hips, slowly filling you to the hilt and bringing it back out, one hand landing by his side to use it for leverage. You chirp out his name, mewling as he slowly rocks his hips. “Love the way you say my name,” he gasps.

You start rocking, slowly lifting your hips as you assist him. “You gonna make me scream it?”

“If that’s a challenge, then I will happily accept,” Eddie growls, gripping onto your hips harder and pulling you down so the union of where your bodies meet hurts in the best way. “Wonder when those legs will give up, hm?”

“I’ve thought about riding you on the couch too many times to give up easily,” you admit, giggling at his wicked grin.

“Oh, have you now? Been wearing those little panties just so I’d snap and ravish you, hmm?” He asks, hair wild as he watches you bounce on him.

“Maybe,” you admit, though that was mostly just out of comfort and trust of your best friend. “You have stronger will power than I thought you would.”

“Hmm, you think too much of me, baby,” Eddie mutters, framing your face with his hand and pulling you in for a kiss.

Admittedly, your legs are growing tired, but you soldier on, connecting your forehead with his desperately and watching his eyes glaze over. Your head already feels hazy, heat building in your stomach as you rapidly climb towards your climax. “You getting close? About to cum on my cock?”

You nod, startling in your movement as he starts to move you quicker with just the tightening of his grip on your hips. “Eds,” You whimper as he rubs his thumb on your clit, rapid movements as he hurdles you towards your orgasm, your cunt tightening around him as your eyes roll back.

“Lemme feel you squeeze my cock, baby, wanna feel you cum all over it.” Almost as he demands it into existence, you finish with a start, twisting your toes together and hunching over his shoulder while he rolls his hips, gasping and whining and mewling. “Oh, that’s my girl. Here, bet those legs’re gettin’ tired, hmm?”

You nod, giddily giggling as he maneuvers you on your back. “God, I love you. I really really do. I don’t–I don’t know what the fuck I’ve been thinking–”

You slap your hand on his mouth, giggling at his wide eyes. “Sorry, but…shut up. Rail me. Destroy me. We have time for all that later, now quit getting all emotional on me.” You take your hand off his mouth and pat his cheek. “Be a good boy and make me scream your name, won’t you?”

He chuckles deeply, his jaw dropping as he nips on the palm of your hand. “‘Be a good boy,’ hmm? Yes, ma’am.”

Okay, this turns you on too much not to eventually dissect it, but Eddie’s hips start moving, harsh and raw and brutal, just as you asked for. With each collision of his hips comes a whimper from the force, each one louder than the last.

His head curls down into your neck, sinking his teeth into your skin as he sucks and bites and laps his tongue over the pain. “Look at your neck, all marked up. All mine,” He rasps.

“All yours,” you whisper, choking on the emotion that fills your throat.

“My good girl who loves to get fucked hard, hmm?” He chuckles, curling his arms tightly around you. “Oh, listen to those pretty little noises you’re making, so pathetic for me, oh fuck.”

“Ed-keep-oh-oh–” you gasp, whining higher and higher.

“Yeah, just like that. Pathetic little princess.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in close, skin to skin, all sticky and sweaty as the smell of sex fills the air.

“You’re moaning like a desperate little slut but you’re not screaming my name, yet. Can’t wait for it. Hmm? Why you makin’ me wait?”

“Maybe you’re not hitting hard enough,” you gasp, a smile spreading across your face.

Eddie’s eyes widen, lifting his body off yours quickly. “Oh yeah? Hands n’ knees. Turn around.” He sends a jolt of fear through you, eyes widening as move into a crawl position. “That’s a girl.”

His hands tighten on your hips, lining himself up and pushing in all within the span of 3 seconds. He’s relentless with it, lurching forward as he grabs a fistful of your hair. “C’mon, I can’t hear you.” He taunts you, pulling deliciously at your scalp.

He starts moving faster and harder, clumsily planting his lips on your back, messily trying to take any claim he can on you. One hand slaps your ass, Eddie hums, appreciating the print of his hand on your skin. Moans pass through your lips, the loud ones that Eddie was asking of you. HIs name is added into the mix, cross eyed and desperate as he somehow increases his force.

“There we are. Where do ya want me to cum, baby, I’m so fuckin’ close.”

“Cum–cum in me, Eds. Fill me up.”

“Fuck-you, y’sure?”

“Fill. Me up.” You say again, getting your point across.

“Oh fuck–” he stutters, jaggedly rutting into you as he bends over you, filling you up with sticky white ropes. “You feel that, baby? Fuck. You feel all full?”

Eddie releases the hold on your hair as you fall forward, breathing heavily as you collect yourself. He pulls himself out, collapsing right next to you. His arms easily wrap around your back, pulling you in against his chest. You curl into him, sighing happily as you listen to his racing heart.

You lay like that for a while, listening to his breathing even out as he pets your hair gently. He plants a kiss on your forehead, humming. “Why did that take us so long to do?” You ask, still trying to regain control over your breathing.

“Hmm?” He pulls away, processing your question. “Oh, I don’t know. We’re idiots.”

You tug him back in, feeling sleepy as you smile against his chest. “Yeah. Big, big idiots. I love you, idiot.”

He hums, pulling you in tighter. “Love you too, ya idiot.”

It’s strange. You thought it would change everything if he were to finally be yours. It doesn’t change anything, banter traded as always, only with a caressing hand that tugs you in for a kiss when he teases you. Hormones go wild, finding resolve in one another as movies are no longer watched, just a nice background noise.

-

Thank you so much for reading, remember replies and reblogs are the best way to support fic writers on tumblr

Taglist For I Can Do It With A Broken Heart:

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bold means it wouldnt let me tag you so I DM'd you in private to you know.

[cyberchronics]

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

so unhinged about him ♥︎

satoru gojo + missing you

★ no real power dynamic, pathetic needy gojo, masturbation, teasing, phone sex ★

✩∘₊ ✩*✯☆⃟⃟⃟✯*✩₊∘✩

satoru knows you can't go on every mission with him. in fact, he wants you to stay safe and sound at home while he makes your problems go away

so why does he miss you so damn much?

he's lying in a cold hotel bed missing your warmth, scrolling through his phone to try and distract himself– before one of your various posts shows up on his feed. everything has to remind him of you, even god damn social media. what a life to live.

satoru is stressed, even more than usual, so he takes a deep breath and falls back on ol' reliable. peeling back blankets and slipping his sweatpants down is the easy part. he barely needs any masturbation material as thoughts of you swim through his mind, but he unlocks his hidden folder anyway and picks a random recording of the two of you.

he's glad you let him have this dirty habit for times like this. he wishes you were here.... he craves your touch, but his hand will have to suffice for tonight. a voice in his head knows he'll never be able to satisfy himself as well as you do.

...satoru misses you :(

∘₊ ✧───────────────────✧₊∘

Satoru is halfway through his ridiculously long home video, listening to your sweet mewls as you take his cock, but he's nowhere near close. It's frustrating, seeing himself orgasm for the second time in twenty minutes as he gives you another sloppy kiss. He's been jealous plenty of times, but never of himself. You bring out a weird side of him.

His pace falters as he closes out of the folder, considering just rolling over and admitting defeat. It's what he deserves for setting himself up like this: going to bed desperate and hard. Maybe he'll get better results if he tries again in the morning. Just as he's about to throw his phone on the charger and call it a night, your contact pops up the distinct ringtone filling the room. Perfect timing.

The video call flickers on instantly as he answers, his feed turned off for the time being. You're laid in bed all pretty, blankets down just enough to reveal your choice in pajamas. You're lying on his side of the bed and wearing his shirt. Are you trying to kill him? "Hey, baby. Was 'bout to go to bed, but I wanted to talk to you first." You missed him too? A warmth blooms in his chest and he smiles like an idiot. "Can you turn your camera on? I wanna see you."

Your voice is soft and gentle, scratching every inch of his pathetic brain. He bites his lip to stifle a desperate whine, thinking of a decent excuse to give you. Satoru never minded begging for attention before, but something in him doesn't want to give you the burden of putting on a show for him. He'd rather just listen to your raspy tone and watch the pretty lips that should be giving him hickeys say sweet words.

"I don't want you to see me like this, babe." His voice comes through the phone between heavy pants, still fisting his cock in a rhythm pace. "Face is all bloody and bandaged up, and– fuck..." Satoru cuts himself off with a curse under his breath, hips bucking up at a particularly good stroke. "Yeah, uh... it's just a mess. Real gorey, y'know?"

That gorgeous laugh floods his ears, sending shivers down his spine instantly. How can someone be so damn perfect? "Satoru... are you jerking off?" Satoru promptly chokes on his drool. Was he being too loud? He knows he's never been subtle, but you can't even see his face! "W-what? Nah, babe. I'm just layin' down. Why would you think somethin' crazy like that?" The words come out clumsy, and he trips over them as they come out. You know him too damn well.

"You're not? That's too bad..." Satoru watches in amazement as you turn the camera around, yanking down the heavy comforter and revealing your busy fingers. They thrust in and out of the lube-slicked entrance, making loud squelching noises now that there was nothing to muffle the sound. He's already drooling and it's been less than a second. Why does he keep underestimating you?

"I was hoping we could cum together." Those familiar whimpers come through the line as you fuck yourself on your fingers, a small thump coming from you throwing your head back against the wooden headboard. "Fuck, baby. Feels so good... 'm g'nna cum." Before he can even rush to catch up with you and turn on his video, you fulfill that promise and make a mess of your high-quality sheets. It's a sight to behold, but Satoru doesn't get to enjoy it long.

The camera pans back to your sweat-covered face as you flash him a tired smile. "Love you, Satoru... come back soon, okay?" You blow him a kiss through the camera, hanging up before any protests can be made. Fucking tease. It's a good thing he always screen records your calls. Satoru's never painted his hand white with his thick cum quicker. You always know just what he needs.

He can't wait until he can return the favor.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

a/n: sorry that mahito fic pt 2 is late 😭😭 im struggling so much with writing it idk why. also yuuta!!! wanna start writing something for him immediately :3

[voylitscope]

Stucky Recs: Holiday fics

December is here, so I've gathered twelve holiday Stucky fics to make this rec post for all of you. They're all perfect for reading under a blanket with the warm beverage of your choice.

Canon Holiday fics

❄️Paper tree | Ellessey | Explicit | 21,391 words

I don't know if it's just me, but I feel like pre-war fluff always has this extra softness to it, even more, somehow, than even the softest and sweetest of AUs. It just hits different. This wonderfully warm and feel-good holiday fic is such a perfect example of what I mean. Steve and Bucky are so sweet to, and about, each other in this fic, and I adore it. This one is also broken up into scenes that happen on different days as December goes on. I always enjoy that sort of formatting so much in a holiday fic, and, in this case, it also gives a whole month of delightful, endearing, and lovely pre-war moments.

Quote:

"It's a different taste, though! I want the authentic Mallo experience, in drink form." "It's coconut. The different taste is coconut. We could make it ourselves." Bucky's face lights up, and Steve adds another thing to his mental list of ways he can make those blue eyes get all happy and bright. He thinks about how many things he's not good at, how many things are so hard for him, but seem easy for everyone else with their perfectly functioning hearts, lungs, ears, and eyes. And he thinks about how easy it's always been for him to make Bucky happy. Doesn't even seem like he has to try, but he likes to try anyway. He drops another marshmallow in his own mug, and two in Bucky's, and thinks he could probably spend the whole rest of his life just trying and trying and trying.

❄️On the other end of the line | velleities | Teen | 9,385 words |

So, okay, only the last part of this fic takes place on Christmas. This fic does go through the rest of the year, too. But I feel like the Christmas-set resolution is significant enough to make this one solidly a holiday fic. It's also a gorgeous fic. It's a Post-TWS recovery fic that makes plenty of time for how not-okay Steve is, something I always really appreciate. Like I said, this fic takes them through a year, a Bucky-recovery year, and the growth and rediscovery of their relationship in that year is so well done. It's sometimes heartbreaking and sometimes sweet and always beautiful. I know calling a 9k fic a slow burn is debatable, so I won't say this is a slow burn. But I will say, that by the time this fic is done, these two have really earned their happy and romantic resolution.

Quote:

He can’t hold up a conversation. He doesn’t want Bucky to go – he craves his company – but he’s too drained to think of anything to say. He resorts to just feeling pitiful for himself, breathing in and out and listening to Bucky breathing in and out in return. “D’you want to hang up?” Bucky asks gently. “No,” Steve says hurriedly. “Okay.” Twenty minutes later, Steve is slowly drifting into sleep. “Steve?”   “Mm?” Steve mumbles into the phone, cradling it as if cradling Bucky. “G’night.” “G’night, Buck,” he manages drowsily. Steve somehow sleeps through the night.

❄️I got that good thing for you | canistakahari | Explicit | 5,830 words

You know that correct version of things where, these days, Steve and Bucky live in a nice brownstone in Brooklyn? And awful things have stopped happening to Bucky? And the events of Infinity War and Endgame definitely never occurred? And Steve and Bucky are really happy and super in love? Right. This fic happens in that world, and I love it. This is just so cozy and domestic. It's so low-stakes and so romantic. It's a holiday fic, and it's a fic about just how much Steve loves both making Bucky happy and seeing Bucky happy. It's also a fic about Bucky wanting to get the aesthetic exactly right for a specific sex fantasy. And honestly? They deserve that. We, as a fandom, deserve that. This fic is a joy.

Quote:

“I’ve spent a lot of time looking at pictures of other people's Christmas lights.” Bucky extricates himself from his blanket nest and walks right up to Steve, puts a hand on his chest, and kisses him firmly on the mouth. He is solid and soft at the same time, his hair carrying the faint scent of wood smoke and cold air from the tree farm. “I'll get your lights,” mumbles Steve against his lips. Bucky grins. “Yeah. I’ll make you cookies.” Oh. Oh, Steve didn’t realize it was a trade. It doesn’t have to be, but Bucky is offering. “What kind?” “Whatever kind you want,” says Bucky. He slides his hands down Steve’s chest, fingers tucked into the top of Steve’s jeans. “Even if you want nuts in them.” Steve cocks his head. Bucky doesn’t make cookies often, but whenever he does, Steve counts every single one of his blessings. Bucky will eat two or three and then leave the rest to Steve to devour, which he does, often within the first twelve hours of them appearing. The whole batch.

❄️Home is the Human Heart | aimmyarrowshigh @aimmyarrowshigh | Teen | 3,194 words

This fic parallels two years: one in during the post-TWS recovery era and one when Steve and Bucky are young. The scenes go back and forth between the two years in a way that really sets this fic's tone. It's beautifully done, and there's a touch of a really lovely bittersweetness that never takes away from the warmth, joy, or hopefulness of this fic. I also really, really love how Steve goes about things, with and for Bucky, in the current era scenes. Also! This fic has a line near the end that hit me hard when I first read it and that I still think about all the time.

Quote:

Rachel crawls out from under the table. Bucky gets the jar of pennies he and Becca have been collecting for the last year, and Becca gets the dreidel. Rachel’s eyes go wide at the sight of all the money. There’s probably fifty cents clanking around in the jar. “Steve, d’you remember how to play?” Bucky asks. “Of course.” Steve sounds affronted. “How many years’ve I been losing to you, ya lousy cheat?” “You can’t cheat at dreidel,” Bucky says, laughing. “Punk.” “Jerk.” “I don’t know how!” Rachel says. She kicks Bucky’s knee under the table. “I wanna play!”

❄️Two strangers in the bright lights | Claudia_flies | Explicit | 7,348 words

Listen, listen. It's a holiday fic! It's a post-TWS recovery fic! It's a tower fic! It's a fake dating fic! It's a damn delight, and you should read it. The love-struck, dopey-eyed, total disaster about each other, antics happening throughout this fic are just wonderful, truly. Bucky spends about 85% of this fic practically on Steve's lap . To make the fake dating look real and fool the other Avengers, of course. (Obviously, we need to do it this way, Steve! It has to be convincing, Steve!) And Steve spends about 85% of this fic absurdly happy about Bucky doing just that, and also noticing that doing these things seems to make Bucky happy, and then being even happier because Bucky is happy — but then not examining that too closely, because, you know, Bucky is clearly just really good at this plan and super committed to it. A joy of a fic that's so much fun to read.

Quote:

Steve finds the tablet discarded among the multitude of cushions on the couch while waiting for their new French press to finish brewing, and as soon as he touches the screen, it opens on a web page titled ‘10 Cute Holiday Winter Dates To Go On With Your Boyfriend’ written in an obnoxiously cutesy script. The first one on the list is ice skating, and the next one is decorating the tree together. Each bullet point is accompanied by a cheap stock photo and some inane text about why this particular date is suitable for a cute winter romance. Gently, Steve closes the tablet and carefully places it back where he found it. He pours the coffee into two matching mugs and carries them into the still-dark bedroom. Bucky mumbles something resembling a “thank you” from underneath several pillows and most of the covers as Steve places the steaming cup on his bedside table. Steve smiles and climbs back into the bed, sitting up against the headboard with his coffee and a book. It’s probably the most perfect Sunday morning he’s had in a lifetime.

❄️(I'll be home for Christmas) if only in my dreams | crinklefries | Teen | 13,728 words

A 5+ 1 that looks at 5 earlier holidays, but starts and ends on the current one, one that Steve and Bucky are spending together, in Wakanda. It's an emotional gut punch of a fic, in the best and most satisfying of ways. I love the holidays this fic chooses to showcase, the little stories it chooses to tell, and the moments it chooses to share. I love the wonderfully sweet holiday tradition it creates for Steve and Bucky. I love the way that tradition becomes something that is so important and so meaningful that they're able to keep it, even when it should have been impossible. Really gorgeous stuff.

Quote:

For the first time since his capture, Bucky feels safe. They’re in a fucking goddamn ditch killing fucking goddamn Nazis on fucking goddamn Christmas, but Bucky can hear Steve’s heart beat, strong and steady under his ear, and he feels safe. Maybe because it’s Christmas day, but there are no shots fired. It’s mostly quiet, the group of them in their respective ditches, tensed, just waiting. Someone--Dugan, he thinks, or maybe Gabe Jones--starts singing a Christmas song and then the rest of the start singing too. Steve’s never had much of a singing voice, but he tries and Bucky tries not to smile.

AU Holiday Fics

☃️'tis the damn season | chicklette | Explicit | 4,625 words

A fic about a Steve and Bucky who grew up together, were together as teenagers, and who, if they're being honest, have been in love their whole lives. But they're adults now, and they refuse to hold each other back. This a general premise that comes up decently often in Stucky AUs, and I'm typically into it for them. I can see these two and their stubborn, self-sacrificing ways, each deciding that they were the thing stopping the other from a goal/plan/the general idea of growing up. It's a very specific sort of exes-to-lovers story, and it leads to a very specific feelings reveal, one that's not "I'm in love with you," but instead, "I've never gotten even a little bit over you." It's something that can work so well for these two, sometimes, and this fic is an example of it being done just absolutely gorgeously. It's warm and painful and sexy all at once — until its wonderfully romantic resolution.

Quote:

Steve’s hair is a little long on top, and he’s rocking a scruffy beard, and fuck him for looking so goddamned good. It isn’t fair, Bucky thinks, mixing the drink. It isn’t fair that he looks so fucking good, that he looks exhausted and stressed out and kind of sad, and he’s still the best thing Bucky’s ever seen. It isn’t fair that Steve shows up every year at Christmas and it is Christmas, it’s a fucking gift and Bucky looks forward to it all damn year, but this year there was a little dread too because every year it takes him a little longer to let go.

☃️I've got a lot to pine about | cable-knit-sweater @cable-knit-sweater | Mature | 6,113 words

I just love a fic about people who are having Totally Very Casual sex, and who are both convinced they are the only person in this situation who has developed feelings. A fic about people who are pining while actively hooking up. 10/10. Great trope. This fic is that trope, used at Christmas, and it's wonderful. There are so many feelings! There are ridiculously cute seasonal activities! There are sweet holiday gestures! There are two absolute idiots in love, being painfully obvious about how in love they are — while both being certain, just completely convinced, that the other is definitely only here for the casual sex! There is a romantic holiday resolution! Just a complete delight.

Quote:

Once they get there, though, he forgets about his worries and actually has a good time. There’s a small Christmas market, a stall with hot chocolate and apple cider, and he’s surrounded by his friends. Even Steve seems to be feeling a little better about the whole festive season, and Bucky likes to think he played a hand in that.  What makes it all even better is that Steve is wearing the earmuffs Bucky bought him. He looks ridiculously cute, like Bucky’d expected. The fact that Nat tells Steve he looks cute and makes him blush and grumble a little annoyedly, makes it absolutely perfect.  At some point, he doesn’t get away with just staying on the sidelines and sipping his hot chocolate, and Steve drags him onto the ice. He must notice how Bucky is a little nervous.  “I’ll hold your hand?” Steve offers. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall. I got you.”

☃️If Only in My Dreams | odetteandodile | Teen | 28,317 words

A holiday rom-com. A joy. Sweet, trope-filled, funny, and so very romantic. This fic has a Hallmark Channel-worthy premise in the most fun and most wonderful way. I am a firm supporter of Steve and Bucky getting to have a rom-com life. Instead of, you know, the relentless tragedy of canon. I also really enjoy that, unlike many actual Hallmark Movies, the central conflict continuing to be a conflict throughout the fic is completely believable and understandable. And then, when we get to the end, it's all resolved in such a satisfying (and romantic! and lovely!) way.

Quote:

He’s been so good today, so laser-focused on taking Sam’s advice to heart and throwing his all into his work—into cementing this dream he’s been working toward for nearly three years. It was steadying to apply himself to the tangible things he could make and do, utterly rooted in reality. But the thing is—Steve is real. He may look like a fantasy somebody invented to torture Bucky this week, but he’s a flesh-and-blood person. And he’s looking back at Bucky like Bucky is the dream guy. Bucky doesn’t make a move to step any closer. All of his words and common sense have abandoned him. So he just stands with his heart hammering foolishly against his ribs at the edge of the room. Steve doesn’t look away. But after a moment he squares his shoulders and stands, his full height and broad chest emphasized under the cut of his uniform, light glinting off the medals and ribbons on his coat.

☃️Whose arms will hold you | biblionerd07 | Gen | 10,843 words

The first of two fics on this list to feature a holiday road trip home from college, a snowstorm, and, yes, only one bed. This one is a meet-cute, and wow, is it cute. Seriously, this fic is just so, so very sweet. When I was pulling this list together, I quickly reread over this fic and hit a moment that made my breath catch when I remembered what was about to happen. It's a moment that made me think, "Oh god, that's right. This is that fic!" And then my heart did a fluttery thing. Also, we've got an alive and well Sarah Rogers in this one, and the conversations Steve has with her are just as lovely and delightful as everything else about this fic.

Quote:

"I didn't realize you were trying to impress me." "Why wouldn't I be?" James says, arching an eyebrow in a way that makes Steve's stomach lurch a little. Is James flirting with him? He can feel his cheeks heating up a little. James is apparently oblivious to his internal turmoil, because he goes to his duffel and roots around. He emerges with a pack of cards. "Wanna play?" Steve doesn't know how to play poker. But James doesn't know how to play gin, so they're sort of at an impasse until Steve says, "Well…what about Go Fish?" And that's how two grown college-students end up playing Go Fish on a dusty motel bedspread, eating apple pie that tastes a little old but not terrible.

☃️Not the same river at my fingertips | giselleslash | Expicit | 11,021 words

And now the second road-trip-home-from-college-for-the-holidays (but then a snowstorm! And a motel room!) fic on my list. This one is not a random ride-share meet-cute. This one is about a Steve and Bucky who had a one-night stand years ago, and who haven't stopped thinking about each other since. But: miscommunication. So they're both pretty sure the other has never given them a second thought. But it's fine because they're both totally okay about that. They're very mature about it, okay? They can handle this road trip without any weird tension. They definitely won't make things worse by talking about the thing where they're each convinced the other doesn't like spending time with them. And the combination of the tension, the memory of their one-night stand, and the fact that they're both, actually, obsessed with each other will absolutely not lead to anything at all when they have to get a motel room to wait out a snowstorm. Not even when there is, of course, only one bed.

Quote:

“You’ve brought me a truly beautiful feast.” Bucky laughed at that and Steve instantly felt a hundred percent warmer than he had before. Even Bucky’s fucking laugh was sexy. It was horrible. Bucky had slipped off his boots and grabbed two of the plastic cups from the small tray that held them and an ice bucket. “Gimme,” he said as he waved his fingers at the bottle of tequila Steve still had clutched in his hand for some reason. He handed over the tequila and Bucky crawled onto the bed with it. He sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed and patted the mattress next to him. “Bring the food and hop on,” he said. Steve got the food containers and did just that.

Bonus:

⛄Here Comes Santa Claus | AidaRonan | Explicit | 6,755 words

So, as I've mentioned before, I hesitate to include recs for fics that are primarily smut (and very, very little plot) on these themed rec lists. Mostly because primarily smut fics are just sorta their own thing. That is a theme. But. I'm making an exception, because truly, you guys, here in Stucky we've got fics for so many scenarios. There is just fic for a seemingly endless amount of scenarios. For instance, there's this one. It's Santa Steve fic about, well, Steve, as Santa (but looking like Steve!), repeatedly visiting (an adult!) Bucky on Christmas, and it eventually leading to sex in Santa's sleigh. And, really, I've gotta say, I love that for us. I love that this fic exists. So I felt like I had to include it with these holiday recs. Even if it very much is primarily smut.

Quote:

“You’re standing under the mistletoe,” Bucky says, and Steve looks up. “Huh. How ‘bout that,” he says, before going back to his work. “What’s the rule if you’re under the mistletoe alone? Jerk off?” “Jesus, are you allowed to talk like that?” “I can talk however the fuck I want.” “Pretty harsh language from Santa Claus.” “Language is a construct like time and gender. And ‘fuck’ is really fun to say. Harsh consonants. So satisfying.” Santa slides a small gift box between branches in the tree. “Besides, no one but you is awake to hear me.”

Happy holidays!

Fic Rec Series

[ficsforeren]

Our Little Secret - Chapter 5

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Eren Jaeger X Female Reader

Genre: College AU, Spider-Man/Spider-Girl AU, Fluff, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Eventual Smut

Series Summary: Eren Jaeger, a 21-year-old virgin college student who loves his camera a little bit too much, has a crush on you. Every night, he switches on his camera and talks about you but he never could find the courage to speak to you in real life. Strangely enough, he finds it easy for him to befriend Spider-Girl, the crime fighting vigilante, not knowing that you both share the same identity.

Chapter Summary: Due to some miracle, Eren finally gets to go on a date with you, and you look so pretty, so cute, he doesn't know if he can survive the night without drooling all over his shirt. He doesn't know that you're Spider-Girl, the same woman he's been spending so many wonderful hours together. You want him to find out about it, but at the same time, you know it's wiser not to say a word. But when one thing leads to another... Can you really keep yourself silent?

Content Warnings: explicit sex scene (happens at the end of the series, can be skipped if you want), swearing, mentions of characters going through depression, traumatic past events

Word Count: 10k

Poster art by the most talented @rainbuniart on Twitter

The Coffee Club. 8 PM. 

My first date ever.

The last time Eren ever felt this excited in his life was when his brother Zeke accidentally left his credit card on the coffee table. It was the best day of his twenty years of living, truly. Eren spent five hundred bucks to get himself a geometric wolf tattoo on his left forearm, and a full black tribal band tattoo on his right bicep. He wasted a few hundred more just to be a dick and get back at his brother for catching his private session on camera.

When Eren came home later that night with the biggest wicked grin and a shopping bag practically the size of his fridge, Zeke swore that from that day on, they were no longer brothers. “Oh no, I’m going to cry,” Eren faked a pout and a whine, going as far as puffing out his cheeks and pushing out his lower lip, but when he slapped back his credit card to his brother’s chest, Eren tossed him a demonic smirk. “Fine with me, Monke.” Zeke tried his very best to ignore his baby brother for, at least, a month. But only two days had passed and he came barging into his brother’s bedroom, hugged him from behind—causing Eren’s character on screen to get shot by this jackass named Noobmaster 92 (fuck you, Noobmaster92)—and cried out, “Please tell me you still love me! PLEASE TELL ME YOU STILL LOVE ME, EREN!”

So, yeah, that happened. Wait, what were we talking about again?

Oh, right! The date!

Eren has fantasized about going on a date with you ever since he got his first wet dream (he got it pretty early when he was still, like, twelve—probably because he kept stealing Zeke’s hentai mangas and read them in secret). At that time, the only female he had ever interacted with so intensely in real life was the little girl he met during his stay at the hospital (a.k.a you). Eren knew he had a crush on you from the start. He just didn’t know that he was down for you so bad that you began to take form in his dreams too. 

To be honest, if he could select the girl he was going to have sex with in his dream as easily as he picked a character in his favorite game, he wouldn’t have chosen you. Of course, he would love to see himself, for the lack of a better word, fucking you in his dreams. Hell, maybe God would be kind and He would let you motorboat your tits too. But his dreams are filthy. Even filthier than his wildest imaginations and that’s saying something. And you don’t deserve to be treated like a prostitute or a sex doll. You’re a princess in his eyes—a goddess even, and that’s why you need to be worshiped. He wants to make love to you, not just to fuck your brains out in the nearest alley. Fucking is for bunnies. Or Muffin and that ugly pug that keeps trying to get inside his backyard just to get a quick hump. Eren isn’t like them. Eren is—

Damn it, we keep getting sidetracked. 

So, about his date.

Eren has his thumb between his lips, teeth grinding against his nail as he sits on the bench that stands right across from the coffee shop where you’re supposed to be meeting him soon. He takes a glance at his phone screen, a smile naturally graces his lips when he sees his wallpaper—your pretty eyes looking like the most beautiful pair of crescents, your lips pulled back in the cutest grin. He notices that he’s an hour early (poor boy is too excited for his date), and that means he has to wait for another hour with his leg bouncing restlessly against the concrete, his nose turning a shade redder every time the night breeze kisses his cheeks. Spring is about to come to an end in a few more weeks, and yet here he is, still shivering like a baby deer.

He’s okay with being cold, he just doesn’t like it when the wind blows too hard because my Lord Jesus, I love you, but I spent literally an hour of my life trying to style my hair like this, so can you take it easy with the wind tonight, please? Thanks. It’s really nothing special, actually. He just tied his hair up like usual but instead of sporting that messy man-bun because he didn’t care, he’s going with the stylishly messy man-bun, as in he spent an hour in front of his bathroom mirror trying to trim and comb his hair here and there to make it seem like it already looks that good even without him doing anything. He had to watch a thirty-minute-long tutorial video called “How to Get a Man Bun like Jungkook from BTS” on YouTube to get his hair done right. 

He’s dressed in a pair of dark wash jeans, a slim-fit white sweater, a nice jacket to keep him warm, and a great pair of boots instead of his usual sneakers to showcase effort. Eren still low-key thinks that he should’ve worn his suit but then again, he doesn’t want to seem too overdressed.

He’s brought you some flowers, a whole-ass bouquet called Grape Bubblegum, full of sweet colors and matches—the most playful type of bouquet, they said. The florist told him, “Judging from your story, I can tell she’s a very energetic person so I believe this one suits her best. I can guarantee that she's going to have the biggest smile on her face when you give this to her. That’s the best way to start your romantic journey together, don’t you agree?” It’s most likely bullshit—just another one of her marketing scams—but Eren snapped his fingers in the air, shouting, “Bitch, I’m sold. Take my fucking money.” Of course, he didn’t actually curse. Eren would never do that to older people. To his three years older brother Zeke? Sure, yeah, definitely. But to a sweet, sweet old woman who looked like she needed to settle in a retirement home for good? Nope.

Of course, Grape Bubblegum doesn’t look as playful and beautiful anymore when some jackass—who probably weighed a hundred pounds more than he was—accidentally sat on it on the bus. Never in his life had Eren ever felt like he was about to commit genocide from the amount of rage burning in his chest, but at that time, he really did. But no, instead of lashing out, he just said, “Dude, get off my flowers!” The two pink roses—which are supposed to be the highlight of Grape Bubblegum—are ruined but Eren continues to hold the bouquet close to his chest, not knowing what else to do since he hasn’t prepared another gift for you. 

Should I run to the nearest store and grab some chocolates for her? He thinks, biting harder against his nail with his eyes glaring at his dark combat boots. No, that would make me look like I'm being half-assed about it. God, that’s the last thing I wanna do—to look like I’m—

“Hey, you’re early.”

“—BEING HALF-ASSED!” Eren jumps from his seat, his mouth spouting the last line that runs through his head as he’s shocked by the sight of you standing not a meter away from him. You’re just as surprised, taking a step back in reflex to avoid his head bumping against your chin. 

“Sorry,” you say, raising both hands in the air to calm him down. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Eren didn’t catch a single second of sleep last night trying to come up with the right words to say upon your first meeting. He has prepared a whole speech, something that goes along the line of: “Hey, you came. You look so beautiful. Is that a new dress? Looks pretty on you. Me? No, I just got here. Oh, right, almost forgot, I bought you some flowers. No, it’s okay, it’s nothing. My aunt is a florist so it really wasn’t a big deal. I just hope you’ll like them. You do? You love them? Oh, thank God. I was really nervous about this whole date. Yesterday was a mess and I don’t want to repeat that mistake again. Why am I going this far for a first date, you ask? Well… Isn’t it obvious? I really like you. You’re the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I adore you with all my heart. Everything you do drives me insane and I just hope you’ll give me the chance to be closer to you. To understand you better. And to make you feel… my love.”

Okay, maybe it was a bit too much for a greeting—and corny too, probably, but if Adele could sing that line in a song, why can’t he say it to the girl who owns his heart? Nevertheless, it would still be a thousand times better than him spitting on your face—almost literally—while shouting, “BEING HALF-ASSED!”

“What did you mean about being half-assed?” And you had to ask about it too. Great. You could’ve just let him go, saved his poor soul by pretending like you didn’t hear him. But no, you just had to humiliate him even further this way. Because that’s where you find your enjoyment, isn’t it?

Eren, as he tries his best to stop himself from lying down on the pavement—crying his heart out—offers the bouquet to you with a pout and his shoulders sagging forward. You blink twice, a bit stunned as you’ve never received flowers on a first date before. You thought it was going to be a casual date—just two friends hanging out, trading coquettish smiles and flirty banter over a cup of coffee. But no, apparently for Eren, this is serious.

“Some fat guy sat on them when I was on the bus,” Eren murmurs with his chin tucked, his invisible puppy ears going down. “I’m sorry. I wanted to buy you something else but I was afraid I wasn’t going to make it on time for our date. I thought about getting you chocolates from the store, but I didn’t want to seem like I was being—"

“Half-assed about it,” you finish, accepting the flowers from his hands. Happiness glows inside you. He doesn’t need to bring you flowers to make you smile. Just seeing him like this, with his blush painting his cheeks and a pout growing prominent on his face, this is enough. “Thank you. You really didn’t have to bring me anything. I already feel so happy knowing that you put that much thought into it. I’m sorry I didn’t bring you anything.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine.”

“Is there anything I could do for you?” You offer him a benign smile. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

Eren swallows, his mind coming up with a thousand different answers at once. Of course, he has something he wants you to do for him. He has a lot of things he wants you to do, to him, for him, and with him. But one thought stands more vividly than the rest, especially when he rakes his eyes over your appearance. You’re wearing a soft pink trench coat above your black skirt and chiffon blouse, and a pair of boots that accentuate your legs. On top of your hair is a beanie—the cutest one he’s ever seen—to keep yourself warm, and a patterned navy blue scarf to protect your neck from the night wind. You look like you’re walking out of a romantic movie, a true heroine of a beautiful love story.

 “Can I, umm…” He tightens his grip around the strap of his bag that’s hanging on one shoulder. “Can I take your picture? I-if you don’t mind.”

“You mean right now?” You look around to take a quick scan of your surroundings. A few people are walking down the pavements, mostly young couples sharing giggles between conversations as they hold each other’s hands. 

Eren notices how you seem a bit uncomfortable by the thought of striking poses in public. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” he hastily adds.

“No, it’s okay,” you say, smoothening down your skirt. You move closer to the streetlamp to get better lighting, standing a bit awkwardly as you hold his flower tightly in your hands. “Like this? Let me know if I look weird, okay?”

“You’re beautiful,” he says without even giving a second for his brain to digest your words. Retrieving his DSLR camera from his bag, he takes off his lens cover and offers you a sheepish smile. “You’ll always look beautiful to me, no matter what you do. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“That’s…” You can already feel your heart pounding like a drum and your date just started literally seven minutes ago. “That’s too much, but thank you.”

Seeing how your usually confident self is turning diffident, Eren feels his cheeks getting warmer. Ah, she’s so cute, he wants to shout it to the world. “I will, umm,” he clears her throat, bringing his camera closer to his face. “I will just—“

“Yeah, just take it.”

It feels so awkward having him take pictures of you on the street like this as you are more accustomed to striking poses while keeping your identity hidden underneath your Spider-Girl costume. You feel bare and exposed, feeling how intense his gaze is even from behind his camera. After a few clicks, Eren brings his device down, taking a quick look at the photos.

“Do they come out nice?” You ask him.

“Yes.” He seems immensely pleased, looking like he just had his wish granted after years of waiting, which in a way, is true. “You look perfect.”

Ignoring the way your stomach somersault from his comment, you take a stride toward him. “It’s not fair if I’m the only one who gets photographed over here.” Eren watches you take out your phone from your coat pocket. “Can I? To commemorate our first date.”

 Eren, realizing what you’re planning to do, nods shakily. “S-sure.” Never in his life had he thought he would have the chance to take a selfie together with you but there he is, standing close enough for him to get a waft of your shampoo. 

“Maybe it’s better if you hold it since you’re taller than me,” you say and he nods again. His words have left him for good. Your scent’s too intoxicating for him to think.

Taking a hold of your phone, he bends down a little to fit his face right next to yours in the frame. “Okay, uhh, on three,” he says, sounding noticeably nervous and you refrain yourself from giggling. “One, two…” He taps his thumb twice on your phone’s screen before he hands it back to you. You take a look at them together, with Eren, who’s standing close behind you, grimacing right away at the sight. “Ugh, I look so weird.”

“No, you’re cute,” you correct him, turning his body stiff when you suddenly look up at him. The proximity you’re in is the closest you’ve ever been to him, and while you do feel your heartbeat escalating just a tad faster, Eren’s is soaring through the roof. “You’re the cutest boy I’ve ever taken a selfie with. Thank you, Eren.” 

“Umm, yeah…” You can see his eyes drift down to your lips before he averts his gaze. “Y-you’re welcome.”

“Is it okay if we take another one?”

She’s planning to kill me, she really is. “Sure.”

Eren is somewhat right because you do have a plan, not to kill him, just… tease him a little bit. “Ready? One, two…” Right as he clicks the shutter button on your screen, you stand on your toes and plant a kiss on his cheek. Eren’s eyes widen in surprise, the camera catches a picture of it. Your phone nearly slips out of his grip when he backs away from you, face flushed. “What—why—did you just—” he stammers, his thoughts scattering all over the place.

Giggling, you snatch back your phone from his hand, going through your gallery. “Hey, it looks perfect!” You chirp gleefully while Eren is still trying to collect himself. You hook a hand around his arm, tugging him close until his shoulder bumps against yours. “Don’t we look cute together?” You show him the picture of you looking like nothing but a pair of lovers with scarlet cheeks and an innocent kiss. Eren is blushing hard enough for his ears to buzz. He still can’t believe this is happening. “Do you want me to send the pictures to you?”

He gives three little timid nods. “Y-yes, please.”

Cute, cute, cute, cute, he’s so cute. “Okay, done. Now we can have matching wallpapers if you want.”

Fourteen minutes into the date and this is already the best thing that’s ever happened in his life. 

As he places back his camera into his bag, You take a moment to breathe in the scent of roses and lavender from the bouquet he’s given you. You have the most radiant, expressive smile breaking on your lips as you close your eyes, reveling in the fragrance.

Watching you like this… Eren feels his heart singing again. You look so small, so delicate. Graceful too with your fingers pushing a lock of your hair so it won’t fall over your face. You leave him dizzy, breathless even, just by the mere sight of you looking up at him from underneath your lashes. “I’ll put this in a vase when I get home. They say fresh flowers could last up to twelve days if you take care of them properly. I’ll try my best to make them last.”

God, you would look so pretty in a wedding dress. “Y-you don’t have to. I will get you new flowers when they’ve withered away. I can send you a bouquet every week if you want.”

“How very committed of you,” you croon, pursing your lips in a way that makes his flush spread to his ears. “Why don’t we just focus on getting through the night for now? If you’re on your best behavior, maybe we can arrange a second date.” You don’t even have to add a wink to give him a heart attack. Your words already did that for you.

“I—Really?”

“Yes,” you chuckle, amused by how his entire face just brightened at the thought. “By the way, when did you get here? I thought I was early but you already got here before me. Did you wait long?”

“N-no.” He looks away, rubbing the tip of his nose. “I just got here.”

You’re a terrible liar. “And when was that exactly?”

“About…” He grows nervous under your gaze. Wincing, he decides to tell the truth. “An hour ago?”

“Oh my God—really? Why didn’t you go inside the coffee house? It’s freezing out here.”

“I’m not cold.” He tries to convince you by straightening his back, even though his hands are shivering inside the pockets of his jacket.  

“Your nose is red, dummy.” You shake your head, pushing back the bouquet to his chest. “Hold the flowers for me?” 

“Umm, okay,” he complies although his forehead creases in confusion. “What are you—”

Without waiting for him to finish, you quickly untangle your scarf, standing on your toes to hook the wooly fabric around his neck. Eren holds his breath, his eyes turning round. Tugging him closer by the scarf, you force his body to lean toward you. He catches a whiff of the perfume you wore for the night, even when the wind is blowing hard enough to raise the tiny hairs on his nape—or maybe it’s because of how close you are to him. 

You toss him a smile, feeling satisfied when you witness how much effects you have on him. “Do you know how to tie a Parisian scarf knot?”

Your voice is thick with charm in his ears, melodious and a bit… seductive. He swallows his breath, fingers curling into fists as he tries to stop his eyes from wandering anywhere else but your eyes. Your lips look so inviting, but he doesn’t want to look more obvious than he already does. “No, Ma’am.” He discovers his voice again after spending what feels like forever trying to process your question.

“Well, it’s really easy. Fold your scarf in half widthwise.” You practice directly on him, doing the same thing your lips instructed you to. “Then fold in half again lengthwise. Drape the scarf over your neck, and then—bend down a little for me?” 

Eren’s face is burning bright but he follows. This time, he can’t stop himself from gazing at your lips. He can tell that you’re wearing a different shade of lipstick tonight. You keep your make-up to a minimum but you applied bold red lipstick to grab his attention. And boy, you didn’t just steal his attention. You’re taking his entire breath away. 

“Then you bring the loose ends through the hole,” you continue, pretending like you’re oblivious to the thoughts of him wanting to get a taste of your lip gloss. “Tighten the scarf around your neck and voila.” You beam at him with a youthful grin, patting your hands once against his chest. “There you have it. A Parisian scarf knot. Does it feel warm, big boy?”

Warm? He’s about to burst into fucking flames. He shakily nods. “Yes, Ma’am, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you grin, taking the flowers back from him.

“What about you?” Eren asks, eyebrows stitched in concern. “Aren’t you cold?”

“No, the scarf was just an accessory.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, if you’re that worried,” you roll your eyes playfully at him, shifting the bouquet to your right hand while you offer him your left one. “Here.”

Eren just stares at it like the idiot that he is. “Umm… Do you want your scarf back?”

“No, silly.” You snatch away his hand, lacing your fingers together before you bring them inside the pocket of your trench coat. Eren’s jaw hangs slack on his face but he’s not given the time to react when you take a step forward, walking toward the path you were coming from.

Eren, low-key panicking (actually, maybe high-key), follows after your trail as he’s left with no choice. His hand is probably sweaty and gross but you hold it firmly as if he’s the other set of puzzles you need to complete you. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?” He asks with a quiver in his voice. “L-like, your hand in my pocket instead of mine in yours?”

“True, but let’s not get too predictable.” This time, you do hurl a wink at him and a little bit of his soul just ascends to heaven. 

“Where are we going?” He tries not to think too much about how your hand fits his perfectly or how delightfully warm you are. “I thought we were going to get coffee?”

“I’ve changed my mind. We’re gonna catch a movie instead. You like watching movies, right? Except for the scary ones.”

“Yeah…” But then he furrows his eyebrows, suspicion in his gaze. “Wait, how do you know I don’t like scary movies?”

Oh, shoot. “Well, I mean…” You hope your giggle would be enough to mask how tense you are. “I… have been doing research about you.” What am I even saying? “I mean, I’ve had my eyes on you for a while too. Isn’t it natural for me to want to know what interests you and what doesn't?” Okay, to be fair, that makes a lot of sense but God, that was so embarrassing!

But if your goal is to divert his attention away from the topic, it works perfectly. Right now, Eren is taking a trip over the moon, his spirits flying high at the thought of you asking around about him because you’re interested in him. “Do you, umm…” He wets his lip, his heart thrashing wildly inside his rib cages. “Do you… have a crush on me?”

Are you for real right now?! Who asks that kind of question?! But you’ve got no other choice but to say yes. You have to make your previous sentence believable, don’t you? And it’s not like you’re lying about it. You do have a crush on him. Actually, it’s even bigger than that. You’re probably in love with him at this point. But admitting it out loud to the person you have feelings for? Doesn’t that mean you’re going to do the same as he did on the rooftop, telling stories about you to Spider-Girl? Except you’re going to sound like a bigger idiot this time since you’re not going to accidentally tell him about your feelings just because you happened to be clueless about his secret identity. Eren’s alter ego is a giant pervert and you already know that from day one, and now you’re going to admit your feelings to him like this.

I hate myself.

You sigh, glaring into the night as you admit bashfully, “Yeah. Kinda.” Ah, I want to die.

You’re not sure what you expect him to say. Maybe you want him to be honest too? Make this a little less awkward and humiliating by saying, “That’s good because I have a crush on you too. And it’s so bad that I had to jerk off to your pictures and tell the town’s most famous superheroine about it.” or something like that. But of course, that only happens in your mind because now silence comes third-wheeling on your date, and you’re this close to shooting your web and swinging away from the scene.

Then you hear him sniffling.

Spinning your head so fast, you almost give yourself a head rush. “Are you crying right now?”

He is. He so is. Well, not actually crying like how he bawled his eyes out when he watched Hachiko—that movie had no business being that sad and depressing. But yes, Eren may have gotten a little bit emotional by your confession. Could you really blame him, though? Adoring someone from afar for two fucking years without doing anything but secretly taking your pictures is not an easy feat. Eren really thought he would never find the chance to talk to you, let alone go on a date with you like this. And now you’re telling him you’ve got a crush on him too? 

“N-no,” he mumbles, tossing his face to the side as he rubs the back of his hand against his nose. “I’m just—I’m cold.”

“You literally just said you weren’t cold.”

“Yeah, but that was just me trying to look strong.” He sniffles again. “I’m actually very sensitive to cold.”

He really can’t lie to save his life, but that attempt deserves a reward so you bump your shoulder against his in a playful manner, letting out the softest laugh as you do. “You’re blushing so hard right now, I can tell.”

“I know,” he admits with his head hanging low. “I’m so pathetic.”

“I think you’re adorable.”

“C-calling a grown-ass man adorable isn’t really a compliment, you know.”

“And yet, it makes you blush even harder. I say it is, big boy.”

Your smirk is supposed to seem evil but to Eren, you just look so titillating, his brain immediately takes a snapshot of your expression for his, uhh… late-night entertainment. “You’re going to kill me someday,” he mutters, his pout returning to his lips.

“Well…” You release his hand only to hug his arm against your chest, your cheek grazing against the fabric of his jacket as you walk side by side with barely a centimeter separating you. “Let’s just hope someone will be there to save you.”

At this rate, even Quicksilver can’t be fast enough to save him from dying. “You’re a dangerous woman.”

***

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I fell asleep. I’m so sorry.”

That’s what you’ve been saying for the last fifteen minutes as you walk out of the theater with one hand holding your bouquet and another one cupping your face, fingers tapping lightly against your cheek so it would stop feeling like it’s catching on fire. 

You had a plan. A very thorough plan involving you leaning your head against his shoulder as you both watched a romantic movie playing on the big screen; you giving him signs that it would be okay for him to hold your hand and maybe, just maybe, he could lean in to kiss you too. Not wanting to sound desperate or anything, but you have been thinking about doing intimate things with him for a while, especially after he confessed his whole feelings to you—well, to Spider-Girl—on the rooftop two nights ago. You can’t help it. After knowing that he likes you so much, it’s impossible for you not to expect something to happen tonight. Especially since you knew that he’s been thinking about you in sexual ways too. If he had one hand wrapped around his dick just from being aroused at the thought of you, obviously he would want to do something more than hold hands, wouldn’t he?

You’re both still in your early twenties. It’s natural to have your hormones going crazy at the thought of being in the dark with a cute boy. Boys might not know this, but girls think about sex just as much as boys do, don’t they? It’s been a while since you’ve let loose and made out with a handsome quarterback at the back of his car. It doesn’t help that you’re still a virgin too, just like Eren. You have a desire burning inside you, and an endless amount of curiosity needing to be answered. But it’s not just physical contact that you crave, it’s the emotional bond too. You want to feel like you’re in love. You want to be loved, and Eren, you know for certain, has so much of that to give you. If only you had followed your plan, you might have been able to have all that. Because the movie date was supposed to be cute, with him stealing glances and gazing at you with those lovestruck eyes every time he caught you smiling at him, but no, what happened was—

“I think it’s cute that you were already snoring in the first ten minutes,” Eren simpers. 

Fire burns your cheeks. “I did not snore.”

“You did. Pretty loudly too. There was this couple sitting in front of us that kept looking back to check up on you.”

“Oh my God.” You rub a hand over your face, hiding your lower half behind your palm. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Eren laughs wholeheartedly, placing his hand above your head just like how a big brother would tease his sister. “Guess being the top student can be pretty hard, huh?”

Being a top student? Nah. Running around the town catching drug dealers and stopping car chases at three in the morning? Yeah, probably. “I’m so sorry,” you vocalize with regret in your tone. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Studying?”

“Yeah,” you lie. “There’s this science olympics I have to participate in next month and I’ve got so many things to prepare. I need to land first place or my dad’s gonna kill me. My body must have given up on me.”

He stops walking, taking your hand so naturally this time that it leaves you—the one who took the initiative—flustered. “Are you okay?” He asks, concern overtaking his face. “I can take you home if you want to rest. We don’t have to do this tonight.”

Your heart melts a little. He’s always like this. So attentive, so caring, putting your needs above everything else. “It’s fine,” you assure him with a smile. “I slept like a baby for two hours just now—I’m fully recharged. Thank you for lending me your shoulder the whole time. Is your arm okay?”

“Yeah,” he tosses you his lopsided grin. “Just a bit smelly ‘cause you drooled all over my jacket.”

“Shut up!”

Conversations start to flow naturally as you both grow more comfortable with each other’s presence. The initial awkwardness has vanished without a trace, transforming into a sense of familiarity that shrouds you as if you were two friends who had been spending time together for weeks. Which, of course, you are, but Eren doesn’t know this. 

He doesn’t blush so often anymore but you, on the other hand, are becoming worse and worse in that department. The more comfortable he is with you, the more honest he becomes, and the more he feels like he can say anything he wants to say. He told you how he really liked it when you wore your hair up in a ponytail, how it made you look sporty and fresh, and even a bit sexy (he still turned red at the last part, but he didn’t stammer like a five-year-old trying to tell a story). He told you how he liked the scent of your strawberry shampoo—how it suited your sweet and cheerful personality, and how he always thought of you these days when he was out shopping for groceries and he saw strawberries sitting on the fruit counter. He told you that you have a beautiful laugh, the kind that can elevate people’s moods, like sunshine seeping through dark clouds. Everything he says sends blood pooling on your face. It doesn’t help that he never lets go of your hand as you walk down the street, doing the same thing you did to him earlier—interlacing your fingers together and sticking them inside the pocket of his coat.

“Warm?” He asks, his smile is sheepish but his pretty green eyes are radiant, glimmering under the city lights.

You nod, heart palpitating. This doesn’t feel like a first date. It feels like you’ve been lovers for months. 

How perfect is this? Fate came in to introduce you to one another when you were children, and now it’s doing the same thing by reuniting you with him again. Not to mention that your alter ego, Spider-Girl, also met him by accident and now she’s playing a huge part in his life as well. It’s like the universe wants you to be together. But as you fall harder for him with every second passing by, Eren is feeling the opposite.

Unbeknownst to you, Eren hasn’t been a hundred percent honest tonight. He’s said the things he wanted to say but there are still some matters that he holds to himself, and that is the fact that he keeps seeing Spider-Girl in everything you do.

It’s weird. Maybe even sickening at some point. Because how can he think about another girl when he’s going on a date with the girl he’s been secretly in love with for years? He can see Spider-Girl in the little gestures that you make. The way your hands move animatedly in the air when you get too excited as you retell your story; the way you snort and say something witty or sarcastic whenever he’s being a little bit corny. But ultimately, Spider-Girl comes alive in his mind every time you laugh. He can hear it. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine it was Spider-Girl who was chortling at his joke. Even the little giggles you let out ring familiarly in his ears too. 

But why? Why can’t he stop thinking about her when he’s with you? This isn’t right. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen. He’s supposed to be head over heels for you and only you. Eren shouldn’t let himself feel like this for a second longer but the more he tries to forget about Spider-Girl, the more his mind does the opposite. 

There are two logical explanations to elucidate the emotion he’s going through: a) for some bizarre reason, you are indeed��Spider-Girl herself or b) he’s…

I’m in love with Spider-Girl too. 

Eren feels something weird crawling up his chest, something he can’t really describe. It feels both like dread and also joy. It feels so wrong to admit it to himself, feels even worse that he just realized it now. He’s trying so hard not to believe it that he forces himself to return and think further about his first option.

You’re Spider-Girl. God, even saying it in his head already sounds so ridiculous to him. How can you, one of the university’s best students, have the time to fight crimes? Or even the motivation to sacrifice your life every night to fight a gang of mafias or the Lizard? You just said it yourself that you had to stay up all night to prepare for the olympics. Plus, You’re so different compared to Spider-Girl. You’re much more feminine, even clumsy at times too, while Spider-Girl is this badass fighter with fast reflexes and superhuman strength. Of course, you being clumsy is just a part of your cover, but how could Eren know that? How could he know that the personality you’re showing right now is a part of the illusion you create to make you seem more normal? You’re not this feminine. You’re not this graceful. You don’t laugh with a hand covering your lips to be polite. You laugh with your head thrown back and your eyes shut closed. The real you—the one who has your true personality—is Spider-Girl.

“Hey, are you okay?” Even with your gentle call, Eren still flinches as if you just shouted at him. “You’ve been quiet for a while. What’s wrong?”

He’s staring at you like he’s seeing a ghost and for a moment, you feel your chest tightening too. Has he realized it? Has he figured out that I’m Spider-Girl? Fuck, what gave me away? I thought I was being careful all night. But that’s not it. Eren isn’t panicking because he’s learned the truth about your identity. He’s freaking out because he’s starting to believe that he really is in love with two women at the same time.

This is bad, he thinks, fidgeting as the words sink even harder. This is so bad. 

“N-nothing, sorry,” he forces out a laugh. “Should we go, umm, get some coffee?”

***

“I had a great time today,” you say, turning around on your heels to face him with the sweetest smile you can offer. Standing on the crosswalk, your bodies are bathed in the yellowish glow of the lamppost, two pairs of eyes locking together as the world turns blurry behind you. The digital clock on your phone screen shows that it’s a few minutes away before midnight strikes. The peaceful town has turned quiet. Stores are closed. Most of the locals have returned to their families, all warmed up in the serenity of their homes. There are still a few cars passing by, shining headlights and casting shadows to stretch under your feet. It would’ve been comforting, this atmosphere between you, if your heartbeat didn’t chime so clamorously in your ears.

You’re still struggling to wash away the anxiety in your chest, worried that he’s found out about your secret. But if he did, why doesn’t he say so? Is he waiting for you to make the first move and tell him the truth? It doesn’t make any sense. Wouldn’t he be happy to know that you were the same girl who’d spent countless hours with him, talking your heart out every night? Or is he embarrassed over the fact that you already knew about the feelings he had for you—the real version of you?

Oh no, you almost gasp in shock. What if he’s angry at me for keeping my identity a secret? What if he’s upset that I didn’t stop him when he talked about his crush—about me? What if he thinks I’m annoying for messing around with him? What if he hates me now?

Your head is going round and round and round that you feel like you’re on the verge of throwing up. But when you tilt up your chin to meet his gaze, Eren doesn’t seem like he’s vexed. Rather than angry, he just seems… conflicted. About what, you’re not so sure.

“Me too.” Eren smiles, answering your earlier question. Now that you’re about to part ways, he releases your hand. It feels strange to have spaces between your fingers again, as you’ve grown too comfortable from having his lean ones filling the gaps. “Thank you for lending me your scarf. I’ll wash it before I return it to you.”

“You can have it.” You beam at him, hoping that it would look natural. “It looks better on you, anyway.”

He still turns abashed like he always does, but it doesn’t last long. The next time you blink, he returns to his distraught state.

You’re both too caught up in your own thoughts to form words but you’re recovering faster than he is. With turmoil sitting heavily inside your chest, you feebly ask him, “Is there… something wrong?”

He blinks. “What?”

“It’s just…” You take in a sharp breath. “I feel like something is bothering you, and I keep rewinding everything that we did, trying to figure out what I did wrong but… Are you angry at me..?”

His brain stutters for a moment, every part of him goes on pause as his thoughts catch up. Shit, what have I done? “Nothing’s bothering me!” Eren claims a little bit louder than intended. “I’m so sorry for making you feel worried. I’m not angry at you—I would never—you could never anger me. I’m just… I have some… thoughts, that’s all.”

Okay, that’s a relief. You can sense honesty both in his voice and his expression. “About what? If that’s okay to ask…”

Eren bites on the corner of his lower lip, anxious. “I’m—” He parts his lips but nothing comes out. What am I supposed to say to her? I’m in love with you but I feel like I’m also in love with someone else? “I…”

It’s nerve-wracking to see him this way and you can’t stand the tension. What if he’s about to say something you don’t want to hear? “You know what, never mind, it’s okay.” You end your sentence quickly with a peal of laughter that sounds too strained even in your own ears. “I didn’t mean to pry. So, uhh…” You hook your hands between your back, fingers tied around the bouquet to stop him from seeing how jittery you are. “Do you… Do you still want to do this again?”

“Yes,” Eren answers instantly, his breath quickening for some reason. “Yeah, of course. If you want to, I would love to go out with you again.” Maybe if I spend more time with her, I can make sure of my feelings. “I really enjoyed our date tonight. Truly.”

Your smile is genuine but it doesn’t lift the heavy anchor resting in your chest. “Cool. Maybe next time we can have, like, a study date? Finals are coming up soon. We can study at your place if you want.”

“M-my place?” He asks, stupefied. “Umm… Okay. Just the two of us?”

“Do you want me to invite someone else?” You wanted to tease him but your tone sounds flat as if you’re enervated.

Eren’s fingers curl against the side of his jeans. “No…”

“Then I guess it’s just gonna be you and me. I don’t have anything planned for tomorrow, actually. I’m free after I’m done with my ballet practice. Maybe… I can visit your house after that?”

Eren gives two little nervous nods. “O-or I can just pick you up? I’ll borrow Zeke’s bike and we can grab some takeouts before we go to my—” He clears his throat, face aflame. “My house.”

“Okay.” You didn’t feel awkward at all during the date, and now awkwardness is all you feel. “Okay, yeah, that sounds great.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then… I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you again for the flowers.” Your eyes shift to the same spot of his skin where you brushed your lips against just a few hours before. It’s supposed to be easier the second time, but now you can’t even lean close to give him a friendly hug. Restraining a sigh from fleeing out of your mouth, you toss him one last smile before you pivot on your heels.

“Wait,” Eren calls out, his fingers clamping your wrist. “Let me walk you home, please.” 

“No, it’s all right, I’ll take a cab.” You tug your hand gently, enough for him to get the message and let you go. He’s about to protest when you repeat, “I’ll be fine. I’ll text you when I get home, okay?”

The roles are now reversed. Eren can tell there’s something you’re hiding behind your smile, but he’s too much of a coward to use his voice. What if you feel like he’s invading your privacy too much? 

There he goes again, worrying. You realize maybe you’ve come out a bit too strong. Gathering as much courage as you can, you take two quick steps toward him, yank him down by his scarf and place another kiss on his cheek. You can hear him stifling down his gasp as you sweep your lips against his smooth skin. When you break away a second later, you keep your fingers around his scarf, keeping his face hovering just a couple of inches away from yours as you whisper, “Good night.”

Bewitched by your beauty, he finds it hard to breathe. “G-good night.”

You release him. Your smile will be an everlasting memory in his mind. And as you walk away, Eren keeps his eyes trained on your figure.

There’s no doubt that he loves you. Otherwise, how else can he explain this rapid beating of his heart every time he caught a glimpse of you? How else can he explain this sense of elation and gratitude that flowed through him every time you cast him a smile? But why…

Why can’t I stop thinking about her?

Why can’t I stop thinking about Spider-Girl?

***

Eren has been spending the last twenty minutes of his bus ride home just staring at the window with vacant eyes and a storm churning inside his chest. He has taken off the knitted scarf you wound around his neck, his fingers laid idle on the wool as he sets it down on his lap. The scent of your perfume still lingers close but instead of giving him the sense of longing to see you again, it leaves him at sixes and sevens. He thought joy would be the only thing that filled the depth of his heart after his first date with you but now it seems like it’s something intangible. Every time he thinks about you, he thinks about Spider-Girl too, and remorse floods his chest. He folds the scarf and tucks it inside his bag, hoping that he could wash away the guilt that way, even if it’s only for a moment.

As he walks away from his bus stop, Eren retrieves his camera from his bag and wears the black strap around his neck. With his shoulders hunched forward, he switches it on and goes through the pictures he’s taken of you a while ago. His smile still blooms on his face at the sight of you smiling a bit awkwardly to the camera, but it’s faint, barely visible. He clicks on the same button repeatedly, going from one picture to another until his gaze lands on the candid photos of Spider-Girl that he took. He feels his heart jolt. Flashback of the night you shared with him on the rooftop—the way you sounded when you laughed, the retorts you made as he told you his jokes… His smile turns a bit wider this time. For the first time in his life, remembering Spider-Girl spreads more contentment in his chest than the thoughts of you.

Because to him, Spider-Girl feels more… real.

Thunder rumbles above his head, flashing silver light across the night sky. Knowing how it’s about to rain, Eren swerves to the right, stepping inside an abandoned alley that he’s walked a thousand times in his life. It’s a shortcut that takes him right to the road that leads to his house. He’s never bothered by how eerie and quiet it is, not even perplexed by the thought of being alone in the dark with only the moonlight guiding his steps. Except the moon is hidden behind the dark clouds tonight, and he fastens his steps, trying to get home as fast as possible before his body is drenched by the rain.

But he’s forced to slow down the second he crosses paths with a few men covered in tattoos and piercings. 

A man, a few inches shorter than he is with bleached hair, purposefully bumps his shoulder against his, almost causing his camera to slip off his grip. Eren stops walking, lifting his head as the other man turns around to cast him a wicked grin. The other three males sneer, tossing their cigarettes away to the ground and crushing them under their boots. 

“What do you have over there, champ?” The man with the bleached hair asks, yellowish teeth peeking behind chapped lips. “Looks expensive.”

Eren’s cautious eyes drift down to catch him sliding his hands inside the pocket of his hoodie. He’s probably going for his knife, a voice inside him tells him to be prepared. Eren feels his muscles tautening, his heart gradually pumping more blood through his veins as the four men begin to circle him, leaving him with no way to escape.

“Hand us the camera,” another man says, this one has a barcode tattoo on the side of his neck. “We’re gonna need your phone and your wallet too.”

Rain starts to pour. Eren feels the droplets sliding down his cheeks before he can see them. Switching off his camera, he tightens his grip around it. “Look, man,” he says, “I don’t want any trouble here.”

“Give me the camera then.” The tallest one among them suddenly takes a closer step, giving him no choice but to back away. He has his spine glued to the wall, his heart pounding in his ears but he keeps his jaw clenched tight.

“No,” Eren utters through gritted teeth, and within a split second, the taller male has a pocket knife pressed against his throat.

“I wasn���t asking,” he says, voice hoarse and grating. 

Eren doesn’t blink or cower in fear. He faces the man right in his eyes. “Ganging up on me like this. What are you, a bunch of pussies?”

“You fucking—”

Eren knees the man right between his legs hard enough to give him a moment to escape. He ducks his head down, the tip of the man’s knife only missing a few millimeters from slicing his skin. He knows that his chances of winning the fight are close to zero. So instead of holding his ground, he chooses to flee. Still with his camera dangling around his neck and his bag slinging on one shoulder, Eren sprints away as fast as he can. 

But the ground is dark and slippery under the rain, and he misses his footing. Falling to one knee with his palms scratching against the pavements, Eren gets himself pulled back to his feet by one hand tugging at his roots and another slithering around his throat.

Fuck. Terror rises fast in his chest. His brain can’t think fast enough to find a way for him to escape. One man is holding him from behind, the other two are closing in on him, while the tallest one moves to loom before him.

“You’ve got a pretty face for a man,” the tall man grins, pointing the tip of his blade toward his cheekbone as Eren tries to break free. “Why don’t we put a smile on that face, yeah?”

“Get off me, you fucking—”

The rest of his sentence is followed by a silent gasp when a lump of web shoots over Eren’s shoulder. It covers the tall man’s face with a force hard enough to knock him off his balance before another thick string of web, sticky and unyielding, glues him to the ground, keeping him immobile. Before Eren can process what’s happening, another man falls to the earth with a broken nose, screaming in agony into the night. The man that was holding him from behind has his body smashed against the wall, and Eren can see you—Spider-Girl—aiming your wrist forward and shooting enough chunks of web to trap the man to the bricks behind him. Now that he can’t move, it leaves you one more opponent to take care of.

This is the first time Eren sees you in action. The way you hold your fighting stance; the way you drop down to the ground with one leg bent on the knee and another one stretched out; the way you hold your balance with one hand in the air and your other one settled on the concrete only by your fingertips—you’re beautiful. You’re deadly and graceful at the same time, like a ballet dancer performing the third act of Swan Lake. Within seconds, you knock the last gang member unconscious. Eren is about to call out to you when the man with the broken nose returns to his feet and hooks an arm around his neck.

“Don’t move or I’ll slit his throat,” the man with the bleached hair threatens with his teeth bared, and you freeze. 

The rain is tapping against your hood, your costume glistening but not soaked. You raise your arms in the air, keeping your lips tightly pressed as you straighten your back. You watch Eren through your lenses and you see no fear in his eyes even if the tip of the man’s knife is digging dangerously into his skin. You, on the other hand, are nervous. Fear can turn someone as harmless as a baby lamb into a cornered wolf and by the look of it, this man is terrified by the things you can do. One stupid move and you’ll risk Eren’s life. If the man adds just a little bit more pressure onto his knife, Eren will have his white sweater soaked in red.

“Let him go,” you carefully say, not wanting to startle him.

“Get the fuck out of here,” the man says, his voice muffled by the amount of blood clogging his nose. When you don’t budge, he starts to scream. “Are you deaf?! I said, get the fuck away—”

To his surprise—and yours—Eren slams his elbow against the man’s stomach, successfully knocking the wind out of his lungs in one try. Now that he’s released from his headlock, he grabs the man by the shoulder and takes a small step back to unbalance him. Quickly turning around as he maintains a strong grip on his body, Eren pulls his arm as far over his shoulder as he can. It sends his opponent sailing over his head and landing flat on his back. He finishes with a hard punch to his face and the man is laid out cold on the ground.

Your eyes are wide open, baffled by how swift and precise Eren’s movement was. With that amount of muscle in his body, you could tell that he could win his fight if needed. You just didn’t think that he’d perform a complete martial move on him. 

“Wow,” you say, walking through the rain to get to his spot. “Didn’t think you could pull that kind of stunt. I’m impressed.”

“Fuck, that hurt,” Eren hisses, clenching and unclenching his fist as his knuckles throbs with pain. Massaging his hand, he replies to your comment, “Yeah, I took a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu class one time out of curiosity. That’s the only move I know how to do. Didn’t think it would work.”

“Well, you did great.” Now that you’re just an arm’s reach away from him, you gently take a hold of his wrist, bringing it closer to your face so you can inspect it further. You can feel him stiffen under your touch but none of you act on it. “This is gonna bruise tomorrow. You better treat it before you go to bed. Wrap an ice pack in a towel and leave it in place for about ten to twenty minutes. That will help you reduce the swelling.”

Eren watches the way your fingers move delicately against his, the material of your spandex gliding against his skin as you try to soothe his pain. His heart throbs again but it has nothing to do with the amount of adrenaline that rushed through his system merely a minute ago. 

“Thank you,” he says, his voice as quiet as the rain that still pours lightly above you. “For saving me.”

“Yeah, you have a knack for getting into trouble,” you snort, acting aloof as you don’t want him to witness the amount of relief that washes over you.

“Well, fortunately for me, you seem like you have a knack for saving my life.” Seeing you here, hearing your voice, Eren burns with fierce joy. He turns a bit playful, his heart grows enamored at the sight of you. 

You can sense the changes in his tone and the way his fingers move slightly against yours as if he’s trying not to be so obvious but also giving you a hint that he wants you to hold his hand tighter—to touch him longer.

You release him, not wanting to be ensnared by his spell even further than you already have. You relocate your hand to your hip, scolding him like a mother. “Seriously, I left you for one night and you almost got stabbed to death. Can’t you give me a break?”

“It’s not like I was looking for trouble. Shit just happened.”

“You’re lucky you have me saving your ass.”

“I am. I’m glad I have you with me.” The corners of his mouth turn up, bedazzling you with a saccharine smile until he leaves you dumbfounded, the rest of your body immobile save by the delightful swirl dancing in your stomach. “Seems like I have a superheroine stalker.”

Why are you looking at me like that? You muse, your eyes taking in every bit of his expression from behind your lenses. Why do you look like you’re… Your thought is left unfinished when your memory resurfaces. Eren is displaying the same gaze he showed you when you talked to him for the first time on the day the cherry blossom petals were dancing in the wind. That dazed, besotted look on his face as if you were the most gorgeous thing his eyes had the pleasure to revel in. But why? You’re not the most gorgeous thing he’s seen, at least not now when you’re buried underneath your costume. He should’ve had this look when he bid his farewell to you an hour ago, but he didn’t, did he? You made his heart resonate with joy when you granted a kiss on his cheek but he didn’t even hold your hand to stay longer. He didn’t perceive you with this gaze. He doesn’t look like he’s madly in love with you. Not like this. Not like now.

You’re paralyzed for a second when it dawns on you.

Oh, shit.

He likes Spider-Girl. 

And everything clicks. The way he seems perplexed when you kissed him on the cheek, the way he didn’t ask you to stay longer. Perhaps it’s also the reason why he’s no longer wearing your scarf. 

No wonder he looked so distraught before! He was trying to sort out his feelings, wasn’t he?

When you told yourself a couple of months ago that it would be funny if Eren fell for you and Spider-Girl at the same time, you didn’t think it would come true. Because why would he? Why would he be in love with Spider-Girl? He doesn’t know your true identity. He’s never seen your face, never seen you in other clothes except for this skin-tight spandex you’re wearing. You’re like a comic book character, walking in real life and spouting cliche lines as you save little kids from the street. If what he feels is simply admiration, sure, you can understand that. But that’s not what it is. This is affection. This is infatuation. He’s in love. But how come? All he knows about Spider-Girl is your personality—the true version of you instead of the delicate, feminine young lady you exhibited during the date. He only knows the stories you told about your first kiss and your first biking accident, the fear you faced when you were fighting for your life, or the way you laugh like a child and sit like a man, and—

Oh. 

Your heart pulsates harder. Your joy streaks through you like a comet.

“Hey,” Eren calls, tilting his head a little in concern. The sprinkle of rain makes the little baby hairs that fall out of his bun stick to his temple, droplets of water sliding down from his high cheekbone to his chin. “You okay?”

Your thoughts are loud. The voices in your head are screaming one line after another, telling you this is it. This is the real thing. You have no reason to doubt his feelings anymore. Eren loves the real you. Every little part of you. He loves you despite not knowing how you look. He loves you simply because you’re… you.

“I, uh—” Never have you felt so much joy expanding within you before. “Sorry, I have to go.” I can’t talk to you right now. I already feel like I’m going insane just standing right next to you like this. 

Because you know if you stay even a minute longer, your mouth will betray you and you will tell him the truth. You will tell him everything: how you’re the same girl he was with an hour ago. That you’re the same kid he was spending his blissful days with when he was a lonely child sitting inside a hospital ward. That you’re the same girl who saved his life and whose heart was saved by him. And that you feel the same way about him, that you fell for him twelve years ago, that you fell for him that night on the rooftop, that you fell for him again just a few hours ago, and how you fall harder for him now. And how much you want to come out clean, take off your mask, and bury your face in his warmth.

I can’t do this. The moment’s not right. I’m just going to freak him out if I do this now.

I need to prepare my words carefully. The last thing I want to do is upset him.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” you say in a hurry. Not giving him a chance to react, you stretch out your arm toward the sky, shoot a rope of web from your wrist, and lift your body off the ground.

“Wait!” He shouts from below, head facing the black clouds as he tries to locate your figure, your body concealed by the night and the fine rain. He’s calling you again and there’s something in his tone, desperate and frantic, that steals your heart and possesses your body to move back into the light. Chewing on your bottom lip, you decide it’s not fair if you just leave him like this. Perhaps it’s okay if I just listen to what he has to say? 

With an uncertain heart, you spin a web and reel yourself down to street level, your body descending until you have your face hanging a few inches away from his. You’re clinging upside-down on a rope of web with the balls of your feet locked around the silvery threads.

“What?” You question him, trying to keep yourself reticent even if the words, “Eren, it’s me!” are rising threateningly close to your lips. 

You see him drawing a sharp breath. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he clenches his fingers into fists, gathering as much courage as he can.

Okay, what do I say to her? Eren muses, his thoughts running like a bullet train piercing through the wind. Should I just tell her the truth? Say, ‘hey, this might sound weird, but I was on a date today with the girl whom I thought I was in love with but I couldn’t stop thinking about you and now I’m thinking that maybe I like you too—I like you much more than I’m supposed to—and I’m low-key freaking out because I don’t want to be that guy who’s in love with two girls at the same time but I really feel like I am. I’m in love with you.

“Eren,” you urge him gently. “I really have to go…”

Fuck this, he curses inwardly. Just stop thinking for a second. You’re an idiot, thinking wouldn’t do you any good. Just do what your heart tells you to do. Just… 

Try.

“Can I…” He wets his bottom lip, his voice quavering. “Can I try something I’ve never done before?”

With your heartbeat blasting in your ears, you feel like all of your senses are screaming at you at once, your blood boiling in anticipation. You can feel it in his voice, the desire and longing he holds for you, the same ones that match the intensity of your own. 

Eren removes his hands from crumpling the side of his jeans, shaky fingertips reaching forward to touch you. He stops mid-air when he sees you stiffening. “Do you trust me?” He asks, barely audible.

“I…” Even upside down like this, face glistening with rain, Eren still looks breathtaking. “I do.”

At your permission, he curls his fingers into the seam at your throat, slipping them beneath the fabric to graze the underside of your jaw. You shudder, breathless as soon as you know what’s going to happen. If he takes off your mask, then so be it. You don’t care anymore. You want him to find out. 

Slowly, Eren rolls back the fabric of your mask, revealing a portion of your skin and your lips. He stops right after your nose, careful not to go any further.

You have your lips slightly parted, so inviting and smooth, with his name resting heavily on your tongue, itching to be spoken. Both of you are coated by the drizzle that pours over you. “Ren—”

Eren leans in, eyes drooping as he rests his hands on each side of your head, pressing his lips tentatively across yours. It’s a chaste kiss, rain-wet and cool, and you feel your breath strangled in your throat even when his lips only brush lightly. He misses the spot, just by a few millimeters, his body so tense, his lungs forgetting how to breathe for a few seconds. 

Eren has always imagined that his first kiss would feel like a dream. Something magical, something that he wants to last forever, something that he’d share with the love of his life at the end of a perfect date. He thought that moment when you bid him good night under the lamppost—that was it. That was the perfect moment to have a perfect kiss, but even if his body wanted it, his heart told him to stay still. His body wanted you, but everything else belonged to Spider-Girl.

You, right now, are the girl who owns his heart. Because kissing under the rain in an abandoned alley with a girl in a superhero costume is the exact opposite of everything he has imagined and yet, this… This right here… This feels right.

This feels like it’s everything he’s ever wanted.

His lips only stay briefly, but even then, you’re having the hardest time opening your eyes. It’s as if you had fallen into a deep sleep and you’re suddenly pulled back into reality. His thumb strokes your cheek, his next words not more than a whisper. “Was that… okay?”

You wet your lip, unintentionally making it harder for him to stay still and listen to your answer before he leans in again. “Kiss me again, Ren,” you murmur, your voice almost drowned by the rain but he can sense the yearning within you and he’s only eager to let you find out how badly he wants you too. 

The second kiss has more zeal, lips parted and teeth threatening to clash. Once it gets a bit intense, Eren finds the strength to break away, his mind reminding him to check on your reaction before he goes even further. But neither of you wants this magic to shatter, not yet. He pulls away only to dive back in with more emotions, more honesty in the way he moves his lips. Splaying his fingers to trap your face, he closes the distance with a soft groan erupting right at the second your lips collide once more. He has his eyebrows furrowed as he sets you ablaze with his avidity, applying more pressure to his lips, more yearning, more burning desire. He lacks experience, but he makes it up with his passion. When you gasp slightly in surprise, Eren captures your bottom lip between his. His kiss, though arduous, is also gentle—just like how he is as a person. It’s sweeter than the ones you’ve experienced. Addicting. Intoxicating. And maybe everything feels this way because you have blood pooling in your brain, but you don’t care. Just like him, this moment feels right.

It’s only when you hear the siren of a police car passing down the street that Eren stops, pulling away but remains close enough for you to have his warm breath caressing your skin. “Shouldn’t you go?” He asks, voice sounding hoarse as if he hasn’t spoken in years. But despite his words, he closes his lips around yours again, clamping around your top one this time.

“Yeah,” you breathe out between heavy kisses. “Kiss me again.”

You part your lips wider to welcome him deeper, and you can feel just a little bit of his tongue swiping along the seam of your lips. Your stomach flips, a faint moan escaping you and Eren tastes the rain, tastes the flavor of your chapstick, tastes you. 

The siren blares through the night again. “They need you,” he whispers.

You have one hand framing his face, stopping him from ending his kiss. “There are other superheroes in town.”

Eren chuckles, kissing you a couple of times more before he leans back, his teeth catching the corner of his bottom lip, his eyes hazy as he watches the way his thumb glides across your lips. You’re about to close the gap again when he titters. “Baby,” he says, the pet name he gives you sends shivers down your spine. “You should go. We can do this a million times more when the city is safe.”

Your smile is about to break on your lips but you quickly replace it with a pout. “I hate you, Tarantula Boy.”

You pull on your web, your body returning to the air before you swing away and disappear into the night. Eren watches you still, his smile perpetual.

His lips, even if it’s only in a whisper, they form the words he’s been dying to say.

“I’m in love with you, Spider-Girl.”

***

AN: Hey, everyone, thank you for reading another chapter of my spider-girl AU ❤️ I'm so sorry if this is bad writing Ice & Fire gives me zero energy to write eren x reader fics these days 😭 but I hope you still enjoyed it hehe

Tagging: 

@l6ffys @vivi-et @halparkebitch @fwess @littlemochi @thebeardedmoon @didiyogo @coyloves @erenbean @tehehebri @justasketch @infnteen @naiomiwinchester @spiderlingh @doyochii @ahornyenby @aengelren @sakurashell @princess-jaeger @resonancesoul @blrqt @cacapeepee @persyhange @jaegersdiary @erentoes @trashygremlin04 @meed18 @j0livi0ni @snowflake-201 @jaymihawk @eva-gates @claudevonstrukesblog @sofijaeger @rinsie @blanccofiie @ereninbunu @natanialora @khinjito @jaegeriess @watermelon-online @tropicsoda @damselofblueroses @alexackrman @bblgumz @jurrasicpork @erenjaegercult @holycandypizza

[gaelic-symphony]

pls infodump about your latin WIP (helmsuda forever despite the news that yasuda is being written off)

YESSSSSSS I WILL GIVE HELMSUDA THE LOVE STORY THEY DESERVE EVEN IF CANON WON'T!!!!! Anyway I LOVE this fic, even if the actual writing process is...slow going at best. The parallels between the surgical internship setting and the law school setting practically write themselves, so it's easy to fall back on my usual writing method of intertwining canon events and dialogue with the story I want to tell. For a little preview, here's the scene where Taryn and Mika first meet. (Under the cut because it's long)

            Mika was determined to win, but she wasn’t going to beat Benson without a little help, so after study group that evening, she went across the street to Joe’s Bar and asked a busboy if Taryn Helm was working that night.  The busboy pointed her towards the bar, and that’s when Mika saw her.  She was short and blonde and pleasingly plump, with soft features and bedroom eyes.  Mika reminded herself that she was here for business, not pleasure, and she walked up to the bar.

            “Are you Taryn Helm?” she asked.

            “Who’s asking?” Taryn asked right back.

            “Mika Yasuda.  I’m a 1L in Levi Schmitt’s section.”

            Taryn nodded.  “Did he send you here?”

            “Not exactly,” Mika said, “But, um, he did mention that I might find you here.  I came to ask for your help with something.”

            “Well, unless I can serve it to you in a glass, you’re in the wrong place,” Taryn said, “I’m a bartender.”

            “You’re also one of the top law students in your class,” Mika replied, “And I need Bluebook help.  Because whoever scores the highest on this assignment gets their grade bumped up at the end of the semester, so—”

            “You’ll be fine,” Taryn dismissed her, “Legal writing’s not a very hard class; pretty much everyone gets at least a B.”

            “I need this,” Mika said, “I need a win because I don’t have anywhere to sleep tonight, and Seattle is outrageously expensive, and being a law student is exhausting to the point of nearly impossible, and I just really need to give myself a reason to keep caring.  And if Blue wins, I cannot take the gloating.”

            “Blue?”

            “Like the ribbon.  And this is a nickname he perpetuates.”

            “Wow, that is arrogant,” Taryn said.

            “Right?”

            Taryn wiped her hands on a bar towel and looked Mika up and down.  “Twenty bucks.”

            “My house was towed this morning, so I don’t have twenty bucks,” Mika said, “But if I win this contest, I will barback for you on Friday night for free.”

            “You’ve been a barback?” Taryn asked.

            “No,” Mika admitted, “But I’ve been a cater waiter, and I’m excellent at chopping limes.”

            “Deal,” Taryn nodded, “Wait—did you say your house was towed?”

            “I’ve been living in my van—”

            “Seriously?”

            “It’s all I can afford,” Mika shrugged, “And apparently, I can’t even afford that, because now my van is stuck at the tow lot.”

            “How much will it cost to get it back?”

            “300 bucks.”

            Taryn sighed.  “If I pick up an extra shift this week, I could swing a loan…”

            “Oh, god, no, I can’t ask you to do that!” Mika protested, “I mean, you just met me!  I’m not here for money, just Bluebooking help.”

            “I know,” Taryn said, “But right now I’m going to give you the help I wish I’d gotten.  You won’t last long in law school if you can’t meet your basic needs, and for you, that clearly means getting your van back.”

            “You really mean that?”

            Taryn nodded.  “I’ll drive you to the tow lot in the morning, and you can crash at my place tonight—Levi won’t be there.”

            “Oh…you and Levi, you’re not—are you…”

            “God, no!” Taryn laughed, “Gay best friends.  But he’s at his boyfriend’s tonight, so we’ll have the place to ourselves to work on winning this Bluebook contest.”

            “Thank you.  Seriously,” Mika said, “But…why are you doing all of this for me?  You don’t even know me.”

            “I may not know you, but I know what you’re up against,” Taryn said, “I know what it’s like to feel like the whole class has a leg up on you because you’ve gotta spend so much of your time and energy just trying to get by.  I’ve been where you are, and nobody helped me.  So, I really want to see you get this win.”  She picked up a dishrag and smiled down into the glass she was cleaning.  “Besides,” she shrugged, “You seem like a good person…I dunno…I guess I kinda like you.”

            She looked up at Mika, and Mika smiled back.  For the first time that day, they both felt like they had a reason to keep caring.  No matter how the Bluebook contest turned out, Mika already felt like she’d gotten her win.

[wandaluvstacos]

THE ONLY SECONDS THAT MATTER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE IS UP!

Genre: Contemporary Romance Rating: 18+

Includes: Extensive horse nerdery + cowboys, mxm romance (1 trans + 1 cis), some discussion child abuse, some instances of trans/homophobia (it is rural Oklahoma, y'all), depression, occasional sex scene (but it’s a slow burn for sure)

Victor Ortiz-Bennett had some reservations about moving to Oklahoma, but his late aunt willed him a 70-acre horse farm, and he decides to fulfill his dream of running and operating his own training facility. Victor’s been around the reining horse show circuit for a while, and he’s ready to settle down, travel less, and spend more time with the horses he loves and away from the people he can do without. That is, until he picks up a horse at an auction with a bucking problem he can’t fix, and he has to take her to the one guy who can ride anything– Johnny Stearns, a retired professional rodeo rider.

Johnny Stearns is loud, chatty, eccentric, and fears nothing, exactly Victor’s opposite. However, Victor finds himself sinking into an odd friendship with this new foul-mouthed cowboy without a filter, diving deeper into the mess that is Johnny’s life until there’s no way to extract himself from it. Johnny may talk a tough game, but there’s more to him than he’ll let most people see. Victor knows getting in too deep will mean a rough ride, but if there’s anything Johnny’s taught him, it’s how to stay in the saddle.

Excerpt:

“I still gotta live in this goddamn house.” Johnny glanced around the living room with wild eyes. “This house where my dad beat me in every room but the one I currently sleep in.” His voice broke toward the end and he took a moment to compose himself, swiping a hand under his nose. “I think he’s the devil inside me. The only way I keep him quiet is by drinkin’.”

“Your father was an abusive asshole. Sell the house and live the life he would have hated. Make him spin in his damn grave.”

“You say that like it’s easy.”

“Is this easier?” Victor snapped. “Is losing yourself in booze and trash while the people you love abandon you easy?”

“Of course it’s not! But fuck, it’s all I know. I know how to survive with barely nothin’ and that’s it. You wouldn’t get it. You grew up with money and parents who loved you.”

“I don’t have to understand this to be against it. I—I care about you, Johnny. More than I should. More you than you deserve, maybe. I don’t want anyone I care about to live like this, and I don’t want to see them the way I saw you last night.”

Johnny shrunk backward, slightly hunched. “I don’t deserve that consideration. I know that. I’m a real piece of shit sometimes.”

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for yourself. I want you to feel like you deserve better. Better than Daisy, better than being cheated on. I want you try to be someone who doesn’t just—” Victor considered his words, but pushed ahead anyway “—someone who doesn’t break my damn heart all the time.”

Johnny’s face twisted with hurt before he looked away, then down at his feet. His Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed, but for once he had nothing to say.

“You’re the most frustrating person I’ve ever met,” Victor continued, “so if I didn’t care about you, I would have been gone months ago. Even with your flaws, you’ve got a big heart that’s always in the right place, and that’s not an easy find. I mean Christ, my own mother had a worse reaction to me coming out than you did. I didn’t talk to her for months.”

“Vic, I…” Johnny began, then trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck. “I know I talk a lot but I ain’t very good at talkin’ ‘bout my feelin’s and all that… so maybe I won’t say this right, but half the reason I tried as hard as I did to get sober is cuz your reaction to the state of my house felt like a real kick in the nuts. I didn’t want Sarah or my sister knowin’, but to be honest, I’d already disappointed them both a thousand times over. But you still held me in high regard, and I hated that I fucked that up. I hated that you had to see my life for what it was. This feels like that again, ‘cept now I’m worried you’ll leave me once and for all and I’ll have no one. I want to fight, but most of my fightin’ spirit’s gone.”

“I don’t want you to fight. That’s your dad talking. Not everything has to be a damn fight. I want you to give up, actually. I want you to stop being so damn proud because it’s killing you. You’re trying to be this person you aren’t.”

[lexpape]

⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝐕 ˚ @serpentsexile 𝐒𝐇𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐊 : ❝ i took 20 bucks out of your bag last night. ❞ (.... vainglory)

➺  •║ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓 ║• One could assume the man leaning against the wall was going through something. His hair was far more untame than normal, eye bags darker and posture just that little bit more sunken. To the untrained eye he may have looked like a middle aged man who just got served divorce papers, or something of the likes. Or, to those who knew the truth such as the obnoxiously blue woman before him, he appeared to be incredibly hungover.

➺  •║ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓 ║• ... Not entirely a hard conclusion to come to, given the state he was in last night. Memories would resurface of the man, shirt unbuttoned enough to make some European man seem modest (( he was missing the gold chain, but he had enough metal implanted into him that it surely didn't matter )) . At some point he even awkwardly slumped against Vainglory, chuckling as he made some barely distinguishable comment about a tail... Before he immediately got upset and apologised for dare objectifying a woman in any way, shape or form. To which he also added "no you can kick me. You should kick any man who says something like that."... So it's quite easy to assume stealing from his wallet was also deserved.

➺  •║ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓 ║• Not that he remembers any of this, of course. He got into his car in the morning and was rudely awakened by the sorry state his car was in. Seriously, how does lipstick travel that far ?? It's like he breathes near her and he can suddenly demonstrate how cross contamination can occur based on how blue he and his possessions wind up by the end of the day. And of course, while breaking his latest promise to quite smoking, he heard that damn voice as well.

➺  •║ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓 ║• ❝ To that I simply say... No you didn't. Last night did not happen. ❞

➺  •║ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓 ║• ...Even though his words promised that he did not care, there was indeed a visible twitch to his eye, still sporting faint hints of eyeliner he likely never wiped off before sleeping. And if that didn't give away that he cared, he was now also rummaging through his wallet to count every bill in case she gave him a strategically worded statement. Sure she could have taken a twenty dollar bill, but what if she took more as well ??? Of course, he couldn't demand it back (( he couldn't even prove it wasn't him who spent the cash )) so he could only loudly complain. Besides. Vainglory is Vainglory. He might actually get himself killed if he tried.

[ionlytalktodogs]

POV I am your intrusive thoughts about mobility aids:

Most CVS-like convenience stores have canes for around $20 or sometimes $25. You can try out all the different options, maybe they even have folding ones or different patterns. I got my first cane from CVS for 25 bucks and it has flamingoes on it. And maybe you’ll try it and and decide it’s not right for you but it can’t hurt to try right? Maybe they’ll have one in your favorite color. Yeah maybe you don’t need it all the time but what about that time you took a really long walk and had to lie down for three days afterward? Maybe you wouldn’t have had to lie down if you had a cane. A cane for 25 bucks from CVS or a similar convenience store near you. Stop saying you aren’t disabled and you don’t want to be ‘offensive’ to disabled people. Buy the cane. Just do it.

[scuttling]

Paper Rings

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 10,191 Tags: SFW, Fluff, Literature, Friends to lovers, Everyone thinks they're dating, There was only one bed, Some angst with a happy ending, Confessing love in the rain, TW fire and blood/wound Summary: Some of my favorite tropes rolled into one cute fic inspired by Taylor Swift's Paper Rings. (lyrics and music) Link to A03 or read below! “Good morning, my friendly neighborhood crime fighters,” Penelope says as she enters the briefing room, wearing a dress that is bright bubblegum pink, with fingerless gloves and glasses to match. You, Derek, and Spencer groan your replies, because you just got home from a case last night, with less than seven hours between arriving at your apartment and returning to the office, and that is everyone’s least favorite thing.

You can’t deny that her typical sunny disposition makes you smile a little bit brighter, but you’re still exhausted, and even your usual extra large travel mug of breakfast blend is barely taking the edge off.

That’s probably why, when Aaron enters with trays of steaming espresso drinks from the cafe down the street, and a striped box of donuts, you act like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Oh my god, I love you. Thank you, I love you.” He got an array of basic drinks based on everyone’s usual orders, and you scan for one that has something with latte, but he takes one out and hands it to you, smiling when you take a sip and sigh—okay, he’s smiling with his eyes, but you are well versed in his body language and facial expressions, and he’s practically grinning at getting your order (triple one pump hazelnut extra hot latte) correct.

You are not the only one to notice.

“Get a room, you two; it’s just coffee,” Derek says, taking the white mocha from the tray and drinking half of it in one sip. “Now if you tell me there’s a bear claw in there, I’ll confess my undying love too.”

“I don’t know; I asked for an assortment,” he says, and it’s clear he did, but your cup has your name on it; you cover the ink with your hand and take another grateful sip. “I do know there’s a plain glazed in there, though,” he says a bit lower, just for you, and you smile, give his wrist a squeeze, and dive for it before Jennifer Jareau can get her hands on it.

That’s all the morning meeting consists of—bickering and bantering and caffeine and carb consumption—and when the group disperses, you follow Aaron to his office and sit down in the chair across from his.

“Thanks again for breakfast. You definitely raised the morale of the troops,” you say with a sip of your perfect latte, and he shares the hint of a smile.

“You’re welcome. It helps that you’re all so easy to appease.” He flips open his bag, pulls out a small, worn, paperback book, tosses it toward you. You pick it up, run your hand over the well-loved cover, and hum.

“The Call of the Wild—this made it into the Aaron Hotchner Nightstand Collection?” He arches a brow.

“It’s so overrated that it’s underrated; no one ever actually reads it, they just assume they know what it’s about. It’s a great book, if you’ll give it a chance.”

“Hey, you’ve read all of mine without complaint; of course I’ll give it a chance.” You take the last, sad sip of your latte and stand up, point out the door with your thumb. “Speaking of, mine’s still downstairs on my desk. I’ll be right back.”

Exchanging books started as an offhand comment one night, on a flight home from Georgia, when he’d mentioned that he never buys new books, only cycles through the same ten or twelve he’s been reading since college. He knows what he likes, finds something different in the text each time he reads, and you’d found something so profoundly beautiful about that that you’d asked for the list. You wanted to know more about the books that tug at his emotions enough that he’s read them day in and day out for over twenty years with no boredom in sight.

He’d done you one better, said he’d be happy to lend them to you, if you’d like, and that was an offer you couldn’t refuse. Seeing college-aged Aaron’s notes in the margins of battered paperback novels was a prospect too good to be true.

Of course, you couldn’t accept the gesture without returning one of your own, so you’d offered to share your favorite books with him too, only... you don’t exactly give him your favorite books. You purposefully buy the cheesiest romance novels you can get your hands on, pass them off to him while he hands you poignant, classic novels that have won literary awards and Nobel prizes.

Today’s is called Lord of Scoundrels, complete with a shirtless man on the cover, kissing a woman with dark, flowing hair and a light blue dress; you snicker the whole way to your desk and back up to his office—earning curious glances from the rest of the team—and when you drop it on the desk in front of Aaron, you watch closely for a reaction.

As usual, he doesn’t really give you one, just flips the book over, skims the summary on the back, and nods.

“Sounds interesting,” he says, and your heart does a little flip.

He could easily hand the book back, laugh in your face, refuse to read something so clearly out of his wheelhouse, but he thinks these novels are important to you, and he never fails to read them, offering his favorite parts the same way you do for his.

The world probably doesn’t deserve Aaron Hotchner; you definitely don’t.

“I think you’ll really like it. Sebastian and Jessica start out kind of indifferent toward each other, but the more they interact, the more they find they have in common. It’s very acquaintances to friends to lovers, if you’re into that.” He looks up with an expression you place as uncertainty, even if you’re not quite sure the reason for it. You smile softly. “I should get to work, but thanks for the book. I’ll see you at lunch?”

It’s been so nice lately that you started taking your lunch outside, sitting on a bench beneath a huge, shady oak tree, and Aaron had taken to doing the same; you both quickly realized it was stupid to sit outside together, apart, so you meet up in the bullpen now and walk out side by side, spend the hour talking about your books or the team or Jack or life in general. He shakes the uncertain expression, nods his head.

“Of course. Thank you,” he says with a wave of the book, and you head back downstairs to start your day.

You’ve become mostly accustomed to the feeling, but it still surprises you a little when all that gets you through the day is thinking about your next conversation with Aaron. A week later, you’re on a case in Pittsburgh, and you and Aaron are paired up to room together. That’s nothing unusual—it seems like you’ve been rooming together more often than not lately, which is fine by you; he’s tidy, quiet, always interested in a late night snack, pretty much the perfect roommate—but when he opens the door and you step inside, the single king size bed in the middle of the room takes you by surprise.

“Uh… do you think it’s a mistake? Or maybe they just ran out of doubles?” you suggest; he's kind of frozen in place, and while it’s not ideal, you know it’s not actually going to be a problem. You’ve shared a bed with JJ before, and Spencer, and even though you don’t feel the same way about them as you do about Aaron, you think you can manage a couple nights in close quarters.

“Probably just ran out of doubles,” he agrees after a moment; he doesn’t bring up calling the front desk to ask for another room, so you don’t either, just hang your clothes and head into the bathroom to change into your pajamas and do your nightly routine.

It’s a little awkward at first, and you don’t know why; over the last six months or so, he’s actually become your closest friend on the team, and conversation usually comes easily, but silence settles over the room uncomfortably as you slip between the sheets on your side of the bed.

He goes into the bathroom, does his own nightly routine, then comes out in his pajamas and turns on CNN.

You take out your book, pay no attention to Aaron, but the longer he sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the news ticker on the television screen but not actually watching it, the more you wish he’d just get over himself and come to bed. If he’s trying to wait for you to fall asleep, he’s going to be waiting a while.

“So you were right; I love Buck,” you say as a way to start some conversation, to bring some normalcy to this unusual situation. You hold up the book you’re reading, the one he let you borrow. “His struggle between remaining loyal to his owner and answering the call of the wild—I love dogs, but I never imagined a book about a dog could be so moving.”

He turns back with a soft smile, then switches off the tv and heads over to his side of the bed; he pulls back the comforter, slides between the sheets, meets you toward the middle of the bed.

“I told you you’d like it; what chapter are you on?” He leans over to look, so close it wouldn’t take much to lift a hand and brush it over his hair; it looks unfairly soft, and part of you wants to card your fingers through it, to tug on it and mess it up a little. He probably wouldn’t even mind if you did.

“Chapter 7—I only have a few pages left.” You snuggle more comfortably against your pillow, lean into his shoulder, and move the book so it’s more evenly between you. “Want to finish it with me?”

He does, and you read silently at a similar pace; he reaches up to turn the pages, and you think about how these hands have flipped through this book so many times before, what he might have been thinking, feeling, while reading. It’s a more intimate act than you’ve shared with anyone in a really long time.

When you finish the book, you sigh, let the feeling of reading a really great story envelope you; you turn to face Aaron, and he’s looking at you… and then there’s a knock at the door that startles you both.

He gets up, walks over and checks the peep hole, then opens the door.

“Are you sure?” you hear JJ ask, and he steps back so she can enter the room; when she sees you tucked snugly into the middle of the bed, she shoots you a soft smile and mouths you’re welcome, which makes absolutely no sense without context. You’ll have to bring it up to her later and ask what exactly you’re supposed to be thanking her for.

“So you said the detective called?” Aaron prompts her, and she looks away from you, nods.

“Yes, he wanted me to ask if we could have a few agents meet him at the second crime scene tomorrow instead of the precinct, figured it could save a little time.” Aaron looks confused, like he doesn’t see why this couldn’t have waited until tomorrow, but he ultimately agrees.

“Sure. You, Reid, and Prentiss can head straight there, if that’s what he wants. I’ll let them know in the morning.” JJ nods, and looks over at you, and then back at Aaron, who makes a kind but curious face. “Was there something else?”

“Huh? Oh, no, that’s it. I just didn’t want to forget. I’ll let you guys go—enjoy the rest of your night,” she says with a smile and a wave, and when he closes the door behind her, you both exchange a look.

She’s definitely acting a little weird, but it’s late, so you give her the benefit of the doubt.

You scoot over to your side, put the book on the nightstand and switch off your lamp; Aaron climbs back into bed and switches his off, too, and he turns to face the wall while you lay on your back and stare at the ceiling.

It takes about half an hour, but he falls asleep first; you turn to face him, watching his back, following the rise and fall as he softly breathes in sleep, and the peaceful rhythm lulls you into submission, and you drift off as well.

When you wake up a couple hours later, he is on his stomach with his face pressed into his pillow, and you are draped over his back with your cheek against his t-shirt. It’s soft, and warm, and smells like him, and you glance at the clock and realize it’s too early to do anything but get comfortable and fall back asleep, so that’s exactly what you do.

The next time you wake up, to light creeping in between the curtains, Aaron is no longer in bed, but you’re holding his pillow, still warm beneath your cheek. He doesn’t act weird when you get up and start moving around, just pops out of the bathroom with his toothbrush dangling from his mouth.

“Got you a latte,” he says around it, gesturing to the desk and the pair of paper cups that sit on it, and you grin.

“Seriously, you’re my favorite human,” you answer, and you grab your coffee and lean against the doorframe, sipping and sighing until you’re a little more clear-headed. “Sorry if I crushed you; guess I was restless last night. I usually don’t move around that much.”

He just shrugs, spits out a mouthful of foam into the sink.

“You didn’t crush me. I’m pretty solid, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed,” you tease, looking at him over the lid as you take another sip. “Now hurry up and quit hogging the bathroom if you want to leave here at a decent hour.” He rinses, zips up his toiletry bag noisily for dramatic effect, and slips past you, rubbing a hand over your unruly bed head as he goes. The day passes quickly, with lots of interviewing witnesses, following dead-end leads, and bad police station coffee. When Aaron calls it and tells everyone to get some dinner, you all split off into smaller groups—Spencer and Derek go for Chinese, JJ and Emily opt for pizza, and you and Aaron end up at a retro diner with burgers and milkshakes and a plate of fries between you to share.

“I think we should be focusing more on the docks,” you say, dipping a fry in ketchup and taking a bite. “Even if that’s not where the bodies end up, it seems to be where the unsub is meeting with the victims. We could stake it out tonight, maybe. If you want.” You never want to step on his toes, because he is the boss, the leader, even if you’re friends too; you try to be careful how you phrase things, especially in front of other people, because you don’t want your comfort to look like disrespect, however unintentional.

“That’s a good idea. You and I can head down there after this; I’ll let the others know to patrol nearby, in case we need backup.”

He dusts off his fingers and pulls out his phone, types out a text, and you look around the restaurant—the place looks like it was ripped right out of the 50s, with a checkered floor and lots of red vinyl, a shiny jukebox in the corner. Out of place is a flatscreen tv behind the counter; during the day, when it’s busier, it might play news or sports, but you two are the only ones here at the moment, so the staff is hanging out beneath it watching a movie. It’s Titanic, you realize, when the iconic ‘Rose floating on a piece of debris’ scene plays, and you snort, take a long drag of your chocolate shake.

“I always hated this part. They could have found a way for him to survive, too. Unnecessary death for the heartache factor,” you say, and Aaron looks up from his phone to the screen, makes a sound of contemplation.

“I always thought it was kind of romantic. When you love someone, you’d do anything for them to be okay, even at your own expense. Even if it’s stupid.” You look over his face, study the features you know like the back of your hand, and you guess you can kind of see that, but you can’t say that, so you just sigh.

“I suppose you think Romeo and Juliet is romantic, too,” you tease, and he looks back at you, rolls his eyes.

“It’s very much of its time; it's a lot harder to suffer a miscommunication like that these days. And there is something to be said for star-crossed lovers—people who shouldn’t be together, for one reason or another, but can’t help but drift close anyway.” You swirl your straw in the metal cup, thinking briefly of how that happens to describe the two of you, and when you look up at him, you think you see a hint of that same thought on his face.

More likely, that’s just wishful thinking.

“I like the sword-fights,” you say to lighten the mood, and he laughs, and you both polish off the rest of your food and then head for the docks.

Two hours in and absolutely nothing has happened, but just when you’re ready to complain, or suggest playing I Spy or something, there’s movement from one of the shipping containers to your right. You nudge Aaron, point to the container, and you both creep closer, trying to make out the situation.

When you’re just around the corner, it’s clearly two men fighting, but you obviously don’t know if this is your unsub, two random guys having it out on the docks, or what, so you mutually agree to wait until you have some kind of sign that this is your guy. When one of them pulls out a hunting knife that looks vaguely similar to your murder weapon—as close as you can tell in the dark, anyway—you raise your guns and identify yourselves as FBI.

The unsub drops the knife, but fists his hands in the other guy’s jacket, manhandles him to the edge of the dock, and shoves him into the water, then jumps as well. You swear, and Aaron takes off his jacket, throws it on the ground, then his phone on top of it, and looks back at you.

“Stay here and call for backup,” he instructs, and then he jumps in too; you call the team from your comms, get a response from Emily, and then toss your phone onto Aaron’s jacket and follow him.

He, of course, went for the victim first, so you look for the unsub, who is not visible above the water. You completely submerge yourself, feeling for more than looking for him, because the water is cloudy on a good day and pitch black at ten o’clock at night; when you pop your head up for air, you see Aaron getting the victim up onto the dock, and the unsub bobbing a bit further out. You swim to him, limbs aching, and he seems to know it’s time to give up.

He’s winded, gasping for breath, so you keep him above the water to your own detriment, dragging him by his wet jacket instead of cuffing him, because you’re not trying to kill the guy or lug his unconscious body back to shore. You just barely keep your own head above water most of the time, coming up for big gulps of air when absolutely necessary.

You finally make it to the dock, and your team has arrived, so Derek pulls him out of the water, makes sure he’s alright, and puts some cuffs on him. Aaron’s hands are on you right after, getting you up on the dock, wrapping a towel around your shoulders.

Despite the warm spring breeze, the water was freezing, and you can feel your teeth chattering. He rubs your arms for warmth, crouches down to look you seriously in the eyes.

“Thought I told you to stay here,” he says with an arched brow, a scowl you can tell is more concerned than angry. You wet your frozen lips and try your best to smile.

“You jump, I jump, Jack.”

He looks at you like you’re an idiot, but fondly, if that’s possible, then hugs you so tightly, guides your face to press against his warm neck. How he’s not teetering on the edge of hypothermia is anyone’s guess.

“Your lips are practically blue. Stupid,” he murmurs, but his mouth dusts over your temple in what is unmistakably a kiss, and when you’re able to feel your lips again, you reciprocate, press them a little harder against his throat while you shiver in his arms.

It doesn’t mean anything except I’m happy we’re both alive. Probably.

That night in bed, he faces the wall, and you stare at the ceiling, but you wake up with your nose against the back of his neck. The way he’s breathing tells you he’s not asleep, and when you wrap your arms around him, he holds them tight. Things don’t change after Pittsburgh, and that’s okay. You are comfortable with the way things are, and you love what you have—lunches under the oak tree, the exchange of books, late night texts when you both can’t sleep, hands brushing when you walk to the parking garage, glances shared across the jet. All those things make it easy not to focus on what you don’t have, what you’re not even sure Aaron would want anyway.

You exchange books again on Friday at lunch: he hands you Beloved by Toni Morrison, a book you already know and adore, and you hand him Ravished by Amanda Quick.

“Dubbed the Beast of Blackthorne Hall for his scarred face and lecherous past, Gideon,” Aaron shoots you a glance—“that’s purely coincidental”—“was strong and fierce and notoriously menacing. Yet Harriet could not find it in her heart to fear him. For in his tawny gaze she sensed a savage pain she longed to soothe... and a searing passion she yearned to answer.”

You hold back a smile.

“It’s a modern retelling of a classic story—Beauty and the Beast,” you add, taking a bite of your sandwich. He looks you over like there’s something he wants to say, but he just tucks it under his arm and steals a piece of melon from your lunch.

“I have Jack this weekend, so I probably won’t get to read much, but it sounds intriguing.”

“Well I hope you like it when you read it. Tell him I said hi; it’s been too long since I saw him. I bet he’s looking more like you every day,” you say, popping a piece of melon into your mouth. He smiles softly.

“A little, but Haley says she sees her father in him, and I have to agree. We may have to wait a few years until he looks like me; he’s too cute for that now.” He doesn’t sound self-deprecating, just fond, but you can’t let a comment like that stand, regardless.

“You’re cute; the difference is that kids are cute all the time. You’re an adult, so sometimes you’re handsome, sometimes you’re cute, sometimes you’re hot… it can be hard to reconcile.” This time, he looks you over with something light and playful in his eyes, and it’s something you want to explore, but the timer on your phone goes off, indicating that lunch is over, so you just exhale softly and pack up your things.

You don’t talk much after that—his Fridays are usually busy with meetings, and he leaves in a hurry to pick up Jack, which is understandable.

Emily, JJ, and Penelope invite you out for drinks and dinner—“because we know Hotch is busy,” Penelope says, which has literally nothing to do with your weekend plans, but you don’t correct them—so you don’t linger either.

You go out for Italian, so you are sleepy and full of wine and pasta by the end of the evening, and you smile at your friends.

“Thanks for inviting me out tonight, guys. I had a really good time.”

“Of course,” Emily says, taking her last sip of Pinot Noir. “We barely see you anymore; it was long overdue.”

“Definitely,” you agree. “I should really try to drag my ass out of bed more often.” You can’t help it, though, that after a long day, your bed and a good book just call your name. You’ve always been introverted in that way. JJ laughs softly, chin in her palm, elbow on the table.

“Honeymoon phase. Give it another couple months and you’ll be past that.” You do have a new memory foam mattress that has made sinking into the pillows and blankets all that more indulgent, but you didn’t think JJ knew about that. And you’ve never heard of a honeymoon phase for a mattress before.

“Eh, I don’t think so. There’s literally nothing more satisfying on this earth.” The three of them exchange an amused look, but your phone vibrates, and that catches your attention; you smile when it’s Aaron, sending you a photo of Jack with a toothy grin and his hands covered in fingerpaint. You look up to the sound of chairs scraping against the floor.

“Alright, we’ve lost her. See you all Monday,” Emily says, pulling you in for a hug; when she steps back, she smiles. “And tell Hotch we said hi.”

“I will,” you promise as you hug the other two. You hang back a moment, type out a reply—Looks like you’re having lots of fun without me!—and get into your car to head home.

You change into comfy clothes, drink a glass of water, and climb into bed with Beloved, and at around 9:30 you receive a reply.

Having the most fun we can without you. Maybe next time Jack is over, we can tempt you with dinosaur chicken nuggets and fingerpaint?

You smile, the happiest you’ve been all night—and that’s saying something, because you really did have a great time—and send back, It’s a date. Come Monday, you’re feeling pretty good, well-rested and relaxed from probably too much time in bed, but Aaron looks upset when he walks into the morning meeting. He keeps it short and sweet, and everyone disperses quickly, giving you sympathetic looks as you hang back to try to have a word with him. He clears off the white board, tidies up the table that doesn’t need tidying, and you place a hand on his back, gentle and comforting. He sighs, and you can feel the tension leave him almost instantly.

“Hey. What’s bothering you?” you ask softly, leaning around to try to catch his expression; he looks tired, sad, and maybe a little conflicted, leans into your touch.

“Taking Jack back to Haley’s was rough last night; it always is, but yesterday was really bad.” You know a little about this from weekends past, how Jack always cries when Aaron has to leave, how he feels terrible about it for the rest of the evening, but it must have been extreme for him to still be so upset. “And Haley…” He sighs again, runs his hand through his hair. “It’s like it’s one step forward, two steps back with her sometimes.”

“Why don’t we go sit in your office and you can tell me more?” You want to continue discussing this—that’s what friends are for, and he’s clearly in a bad state emotionally, you think it could help—but he just shakes his head.

“No, I… it’s okay. I don’t want to weigh you down with my problems.” You take your hand off his back, lean a hip against the table and look up at him.

“I’m not just your friend when it’s all easy breezy, lunch in the sunshine, talking about our favorite books,” you say with a sad smile; he reciprocates a little, which is more than you expected. “I’m here when things are complicated, when you have bad days, too. The Monday blues especially.” One of his hands rests on the table, and you cover it with yours, lean in to press your forehead to his shoulder. “Let me be here, okay? Even if all you need me to do is listen.”

It takes a moment, and his eyes are wet when he finally responds; he inhales deeply, nods, and brushes his free hand over your head in something of a hug, murmurs a rough, “okay.”

You sit in his office for an hour—which, again, is more than you expected—listening to him talk about his weekend with Jack, how heartbreaking it was to take him back to Haley’s, how he tried talking to her about taking him more often and she just wasn’t sure she could trust him to do what he says he’ll do. He understands where she’s coming from, knows he’s been unable to keep his word in the past, thinks he doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt; he hasn’t asked for advice, seems to just want to vent, so you just listen.

“Then I mentioned you, that you might come for dinner next time he’s over, and she was worried about that,” he says, exasperated, and you frown.

“Why would she worry about that? I’ve been around him lots of times.” It doesn't make sense, because Haley has always been nothing but sweet to you; Aaron looks up at your question, and it seems a little like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that part, though you can’t imagine why.

“It’s just different now… because he’s older,” he says after a brief moment of hesitation. “She doesn’t want him getting attached to someone who might not always be around, you know.” You sigh softly, because if that’s all it is…

You lean forward, take his hand, squeeze it tight.

“I’m always going to be around, Aaron. I can talk to her, if you want, tell her that.”

“No, it’s—you don’t have to do that.” He squeezes your hand back, closes his eyes for a beat. “Just hearing you say it, it makes things easier. I’ll talk to her again next time.”

You talk a little more, and he seems a lot better afterward, even if he is a bit less expressive during lunch; you figure any progress is good, but it makes you sad to see him so down, so naturally, you formulate a plan to help get him back to the Aaron you know and love.

At the end of the day, when he makes his way to the bullpen, you spin around in your chair, take him by the sleeve.

“You’re coming home with me tonight,” you say in no uncertain tone of voice. “For a few hours. I’ll bring you back for your car.” He agrees with a fond look, and you lose yourself in the expression for a moment, then stand up, grab your things, and walk with him out to the garage.

Rush hour traffic is what it is, and you leave Aaron in charge of the music, which means you get The Beatles and The Who, Rolling Stones and Neil Diamond, and you’re both singing along and so much happier by the time you pull into the parking lot of the bodega nearest your apartment.

“Just running in for provisions—be right back,” you say with a grin, and when you return with two paper bags of loot, he looks at you like you might be his favorite person in the world with an age in the double digits. It’s a look you love putting on his face.

“Do I get to see what provisions you’ve acquired?” he asks, teasing, but you shake your head and tell him he’ll see it when you get there.

With a pit stop in your apartment to grab a blanket and a few throw pillows, you take him up to the roof and get things ready for your makeshift picnic. There is white wine, still mostly chilled; cubed cheese, far from gourmet but no less delicious; crusty french bread that was fresh this morning but at this hour is a little extra crusty; blueberries, because they didn’t have grapes; dark chocolate, because you share a fondness for it; and paper cups for the wine.

Aaron takes a look at your bounty, spread over the blanket, and smiles the first real smile you’ve seen all day.

“Fancy,” he teases, and he takes off his jacket, gets on the ground with you. You pour each of you some wine, pop a blueberry in your mouth.

“No, but I thought a meal—and I do call it that loosely—under the stars might do you some good.” You lift your paper cup and tap it against his, brush your fingers over his hand. “To the best boss, best dad, best friend I could ask for.” You take a sip, but he doesn’t at first, watches you with something simmering behind his eyes.

“Do I get to make a toast?” he asks after a few beats, and you smile, nod, and hold up your cup. “To the only person stupid enough to jump into a freezing cold river after me. To the only person I would consider eating a bodega dinner with. To the only person who sees me the way you do.” You both take a sip, which is hard to swallow around the lump in your throat. He looks into your eyes, then breaks the dark chocolate into slivers and hands you a piece like he didn’t just say the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to you before.

You eat, and talk, and drink, and when you’re done with dinner you put everything back in the bags and lay back on the blanket, side by side, and stare up at the stars. The moon is high and full, shining while the stars twinkle around it, and you can’t think of a single time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“This was really perfect,” Aaron says, almost a whisper, after about twenty minutes of companionable silence. “I can’t thank you enough for being there for me today.” You turn to face him, hands curled up under your chin, and he turns toward you as well. He’s so handsome in the moonlight your heart almost aches.

“You don’t have to thank me. I just wanted to see you happy.” You feel your eyes well up with tears, because he deserves to be happy; you sigh, blink them away, and he leans in and presses his lips to your forehead, rests them there for a long time. When he eventually pulls back, you bring a hand to his hair, brush it back at his temple, and then the creaking of the door makes you pull back, sit up.

It’s your neighbor from 422, who you’ve seen on the roof a handful of times, sneaking away from his wife to smoke a cigarette. He squints in the dark, recognizes you, and waves.

“Hey, 418! You’re not alone tonight.” Aaron sits up too, and you laugh softly.

“Nope, but we were just leaving. The roof is all yours.” Aaron stands, pulls you up, and you grab the blanket and pillows while he grabs the bags, and the two of you head back down to your place.

It’s after ten when you get the groceries put away, and you stand next to Aaron in your small kitchen, contemplating what you want to say next. Your mouth betrays your brain, says what you’ve been thinking but weren’t quite sure how to approach.

“It’s late; I know I said I’d take you back to your car, but you could stay here if you want. I have a spare toothbrush, and I know you have a spare suit at the office, and it’s not like it’s the first time we’ve shared a bed before.”

You’d completely understand if he’d rather go home—you hate when your plans are changed at the last minute, and you prefer to do your full nightly routine for your sanity’s sake—but he only nods, and you lead your way to the bedroom, show him the master bath.

You are in your pajamas, tucked into bed, when he comes out in his boxers and undershirt; he hangs up his suit in your closet where you’d left him some space, then climbs in beside you. He looks over at you, then past you, at your nightstand, which has a stack of books on it—none of them romance novels. You grin, busted after months of book exchanges, and he leans over you to look at the titles.

“Persuasion, To Kill A Mockingbird, One Hundred Years of Solitude—Beloved.” He looks from your copy of the novel to his, which you hold in your hands, and you shrug sheepishly.

“I like reading the notes you put in the margins,” you say meekly, hoping he’s not angry, but all he does is laugh.

“Let me guess: you don’t actually like romance novels.” He leans back against your pillow, and so do you, resting the book on your lap.

“I mean, I don’t not like them… but I’ve been buying those just for you.” The smile on his face is brilliant, and only makes you yearn for him more; things you have been purposefully not feeling are flooding your heart and mind and body now, with him so close, laughing over this stupid secret you’ve been hiding for so long. “And you, sweet man that you are, have been reading them, and discussing them.” You put your hand on his shoulder, and he ducks his head to laugh again.

“Since we’re being honest… I didn’t read all of them. I tried,” he says when you act offended, shoving the shoulder you’re resting against, “but some of them were so bad. I just flipped through, found something I thought could pass as my favorite part, and hoped to hell you didn't ask too many questions.”

You both laugh until you’re breathless—he is so different from how he was this morning it makes you want to cry—and when your laughter dies down you look at each other, sharing breath, two heads on one pillow; is it any wonder you bridge the distance, pull him close for a warm, gentle kiss?

When you break the kiss, you are instantly worried about what Aaron will do—you aren’t drunk, aren’t even tipsy, so you know he can’t be, so much bigger and more solid than you, but will he think it’s a mistake? He kissed back, you’re pretty sure, but maybe that was an accident, something done on autopilot—

He leans in for a second kiss, mouth deceptively soft, and you curl your arm around his back, press into it with lips desperate not to let this end now that it’s started. When you separate, you are both looking into each other’s eyes again, breathing a bit heavily, and you meet in the middle for a third kiss, the best kiss you’ve ever had in your life.

That kiss ends when you yawn in his face, and he chuckles softly, leans over and switches off your bedside lamp; you smile at the ceiling, and he wraps his arms around you, presses his lips to your shoulder, and tells you good night. The next day, the two of you arrive at work early so he can shower and change into his fresh clothes without anyone on the team noticing—not that you think they would really care, but they’re nosy, and a little annoying, so you both agree that’s probably for the best.

You don’t talk about the kisses, even though they’ve been the only thing running through your mind since they happened; you promise to discuss it at lunch, though, and that’s such a sweet, romantic prospect that you think you prefer it better that way anyway.

Only, you don’t ever get to lunch, because there’s an urgent case in Minneapolis, an all hands on deck situation, meaning even Penelope joins you on the jet. You debrief on the flight, hunker down in the conference room, and split up to cover more ground; you barely get to speak to Aaron the whole time you’re there except to be given instructions and to fill him on what, if anything, you’ve learned.

You don’t even make it to your hotel that night, working around the clock to catch the people responsible for terrorizing the city. It takes not one, but almost two full days, and when you board the jet on Wednesday evening, everyone is dead on their feet. You barely remember the flight or the trip home, and you fall onto your bed fully clothed and crash just like that.

Thursday is your birthday, which you almost forgot, and so you assumed everyone else would too. You should have known better, because even if your team can be annoying, they are still your friends, and they love you, so you are well and truly spoiled.

You are treated to a latte and bagels from Emily, purple cupcakes with silver sprinkles from Penelope, a piggy back ride from Derek, a book of poetry you’ve had your eye on from Spencer, and a card from JJ—really, it turns out, from all of them.

“Enjoy a romantic getaway on us?” There’s some kind of certificate in the card, and when you flip it over, you discover that it’s for a hotel and spa that offers couples massages, mud baths, intimate aromatherapy? You arch a brow. “Uh, thanks, guys. Are you trying to tell me something here?” JJ’s face falls a little and she points to the card.

“It’s a romantic getaway. For you and Hotch? Since things have been so hectic lately,” she says, but your ears are kind of ringing and your brain is stuck on the for you and Hotch part.

“Oh. Um. Sorry—it’s just kind of soon, I think? How do you guys even know about that?” you murmur. The two of you haven’t had time to discuss Monday yet, and you haven’t spoken a word to anyone; you wouldn’t have guessed Aaron would have either, but there is a gift certificate for a romantic getaway in your hands, and you’re kind of spiraling.

“Well come on, we haven’t exactly been pretending we don’t know,” Emily says, and you can feel the confusion in your features when you look up at her. “And you guys haven’t been exactly secretive. We’re happy for you, though.”

“I mean, we haven’t been secretive, but we haven’t really had a chance to talk about it yet. It’s only been three days.” You are met with looks similar to the one on your own face.

“What do you mean, three days?” Spencer asks with a frown. “You and Hotch have been dating for almost two months. Right?” he says, looking at the others, and they nod, but it’s tentative. Your first reaction is to flush, and you close the card, fan your face with it.

“You guys think… You guys thought…” You look at them, then up at Aaron’s office; there’s no way he can know that you’re having a moment, but he chooses then to come downstairs, coincidentally. He’s smiling at first, but it falls when he looks at your face.

“Hey. Is everything okay?” He presses a cool hand to your hot cheek, flicks his eyes over yours, and JJ makes a noise; when you glance over at her, she’s gesturing between the two of you.

“I’m sorry, we were wrong? What were we supposed to think?” Aaron frowns, not following, and you take a deep breath.

“They got me a gift certificate for my birthday. To a spa. For you and I to have a romantic getaway, because they were under the assumption we’ve been dating… for two months.” The way he pulls back quickly makes your stomach ache a little, but you say nothing. You should have known.

“You say I love you,” Derek begins like he’s listing evidence. “You have lunch together every day. You’re always smiling at each other.”

“Seriously, some of the softest, gooiest smiles I’ve ever seen,” Penelope adds.

“You eat together on cases, you’re texting all the time when you’re not together.”

“I’ve been pairing the two of you up in hotels since I first figured out you were dating,” JJ says, and the whole ‘you’re welcome’ thing suddenly makes some sense. “I booked you that room with just the one bed so you’d maybe feel more comfortable about us knowing, so you’d see that we don’t mind.”

“You’re always looking at each other, always touching,” Spencer says. “In Pittsburgh—that was the first time you really hugged or kissed each other in front of us. We were trying to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, but it was kind of a big deal.”

You look over at Aaron, try to gauge his reaction, but for the first time in a long time you can’t tell what he’s feeling. You can’t really tell what you’re feeling, either. Sadness. Worry. Loss? But what have you lost?

“We’re friends,” you say, even if it sounds weak to your own ears. “We’re… close.”

“We wouldn’t exactly make sense as a couple, would we?” Aaron asks rhetorically, and your heart clenches when he says that. He told you this morning that he’d made dinner plans for you, both for your birthday and to discuss the kisses, what they mean, where you go from here, but that doesn’t sound very promising anymore. “We’re just—”

“Star-crossed,” you say, but you feel like your eyes are vacant. You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You’re stupid for kissing him, for letting yourself think he could feel the same way you feel, have felt for a while. Isn’t friendship enough? Don’t you already have this special bond so unlike what you have with anyone else in your life? Why press your luck? You know better than that. “We should get back to work.”

You don’t look at Aaron, so you don’t know whether or not he looks at you. JJ does, and you can tell she knows you’re upset, but she just nudges everyone on their way, and you take a seat at your desk—it’s covered in balloons and streamers, the Penelope special.

You’ve never felt less like celebrating.

At lunchtime, Aaron stops at your desk, and the two of you walk out to the bench, open your bags in silence. You’re almost halfway through the hour before he tries to speak.

“Uh. I. About earlier,” he finally gets out, looking down at his sandwich, and you shake your head even though he’s not watching you.

“It’s fine. We don’t have to.” You take a bite of your salad even though you don’t taste it. “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense. You are who you are,” smart, sweet, handsome, tender, caring, “and I am who I am.” Too quiet, too young, too impulsive, too silly, too emotional. He nods, looks at your face for the first time in a while, swallows.

“Right.” You’re due to exchange books back—his is on your lap, yours is on his—and he picks them both up. “I’m like this,” he says, holding up Beloved. “Faded cover, dog-eared pages, scribbles in the margins: middle-aged, divorced, a little broken, barely holding it together for the kid I don’t get to spend enough time with. You’re like this,” he says, holding up Ravished. “Fresh and glossy and shiny and new, with your whole life ahead of you, the whole world ahead of you. You could do anything, with anyone.”

You frown, because this is not what you meant, at all. How could he think that about himself, when the well-loved cover and the dog-eared pages and the scribbles in the margins are all the best parts of him?

“Aaron,” you say, but it sounds like pleading; you reach out to put your hands on his arms, but he pulls them back. His eyes are rimmed red, lips pressed together to hold back everything he’s not saying.

“I think lunch is almost over.” He packs up his things, leaves you with tears in your eyes and a wilted salad and a brand new romance novel you’re never going to read.

Later, he cancels dinner, says something came up, and you go home to your empty bed and watch Titanic and bawl your eyes out when Rose tells Jack she’ll never let go. Friday, you get another case. Weekend cases are no one’s favorite, but especially not yours, when you desperately needed that buffer of time away from Aaron to sort out your feelings and get back to some sense of normalcy. Instead, you’re flying to a small town outside of Nashville to catch a serial arsonist, and when you get to your hotel, you and Aaron are sharing a room.

At least there are two beds, this time.

You go with Emily and Spencer to a crime scene, walking around a house that was once picture perfect and is now all charred wood and ash, and you quickly tell yourself to get a grip and not look for metaphors for your own life while trying to solve a case. What kind of investigator are you? Pathetic, apparently.

You work until evening, and when it’s time to break for dinner, you buy a sad looking assortment of items from the police station vending machine and eat in the conference room by yourself.

It’s a good thing you do, because they get a call about the fire while everyone is still away, and you and a few locals are the first on the scene.

It doesn’t start out bad, mostly located in the back of the house, but you know how quickly these things can spread, and the fire department is working hard to put it out. One of the officers is talking to the family, and the mother is crying, so you come closer to figure out why.

“She said the daughter was supposed to be staying at a friend’s, but sometimes she changes her mind at the last minute and comes home. She can’t get ahold of her,” the officer says, and you nod, thinking.

“Where would she be? The front or the back?”

“Her room is in the front, second floor; if she’s here, that’s where she’d be,” the mother says, wiping her eyes with a tissue, and you tell the officer to stay with them, that you’ll take care of it. You talk to the firefighters—this town is so small there are only two that were able to respond, and they’re both busy trying to put out the fire, but they clear you to go in if you stick to the front of the building and get out of there as fast as you can.

Your team isn’t here yet either, too far out for comms to be effective, and you can’t get ahold of Aaron, so you make a judgement call and head inside.

The front of the house is so eerily normal it’s almost easy to calm your nerves and pretend the back isn’t in the process of being destroyed. You open the front door, run up the staircase, and call out for the girl; she answers, not from the front of the house, but the back—a bathroom maybe? Flames lick up the wall beside it, but you can get to the knob, and she comes rushing out, into your arms, terrified. You weren't expecting that, and you both fall back: your head hits off the floor, but she seems okay, so you tell her to run out the front door and find her mom.

You press a hand to the back of your head, and it comes back tacky with blood. There’s ringing in your ears for a couple of minutes, and then your favorite voice in the world comes through.

“Where are you? We’re here, where are you?” You’re getting hotter, and when you crane your neck up, you can see why: the fire is getting closer, creeping toward the staircase, creeping toward you. You inhale, cough, and press your walkie button.

“I’m upstairs in the hall; hit my head. It’s not safe.”

“I’m coming for you.” You groan. Stubborn man.

“It’s not safe, Aaron.” You hear the crackle of static, hope maybe he heard your warning and will wait until more firefighters arrive—but knowing him the way you do, that’s just wishful thinking. His voice rings out again, and despite the pain, you can’t help but smile.

“You jump, I jump, Jack. Just stay put; I’ll be right there.” You close your eyes, drift in and out of consciousness; when you see him, all you can think is how ridiculously in love with him you are, and that you really hope you’ll be around to tell him. You are, of course, fine. Your head is the worst of it, even the smoke inhalation was mild, and the fire didn’t touch you, so there are no burns. Aaron doesn’t leave your side the entire time you’re being checked over, looks serious and concerned, though he smiles when the mother comes over and squeezes you so tightly you wince a little. It starts to rain, making the firefighters' jobs a little easier, and it feels oddly cleansing, after the day you’ve had. Someone offers you an umbrella, but you decline.

The fire is successfully put out, and the half of your team that didn’t respond to the scene responded to a call for suspicious activity, which ends up being your unsub. You are all happy no one was killed this time, and since you’re staying the night again, the group decides to grab a drink to celebrate. You don’t have a concussion, but your head still aches, so you pass, and Aaron passes with you.

You head to the hotel, park in the lot, but you don’t even make it halfway across before you stop, a hand on his arm.

“I need to say something,” you tell him, and he looks up at the dark sky like, right here? Right now?, even though you’re both already drenched. You nod, because if you don’t do this now you might never—almost dying always gives you an unhealthy amount of confidence, which you attribute to equal amounts of adrenaline and stupidity. “When we first met, I didn’t think we’d have a lot in common. We’re both quiet, but in wildly different ways, and I’m quick to trust and let people in while your guard is almost never down.”

He looks a little sad at that, and you realize you’re kind of doing what he did, putting the two of you into completely different categories, emphasizing the ways you don’t belong together. But that’s dumb, so you don’t give him time to focus on that for long.

“But being your friend, Aaron—the more time I spent with you, the more I came to feel like no one has ever understood me the way you do. No one has ever seen me the way you do.” Rain is pouring down all around you, beating against the pavement, flattening your hair against your head, but you don’t care. Regardless of his reaction, this is actually kind of perfect. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you—that was an accident, I admit. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” You step closer to him, put your hands on his waist; he doesn’t pull away. “I don’t need shiny, glossy things; you're the one I want—faded cover, dog-eared pages, notes in the margins. I love you exactly as you are.”

He is gorgeous in the rain, water in his hair, dripping off his nose. His expression looks hopeful, and you pray to god that’s not wishful thinking.

“Say something, anything,” you beg, anticipation killing you, and he presses his hands to your cheeks and pulls you close for a deep, passionate, soulful kiss that says it all.

The words are nice to hear, though.

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you either,” he breathes against your lips when the kiss breaks. “I told myself it was just a crush, because someone so young and beautiful was paying so much attention to me, treating me like more than just the guy giving orders. But the more time I spent with you, the more undeniable it became. You are everything good about the world—bright, optimistic, caring, funny, sweet. How could anyone not fall in love with you?”

You swallow hard, lean up to press your lips against his again.

“When you said we wouldn’t make sense as a couple…” He shakes his head.

“That was just me chickening out. After we kissed, I was all but ready to ask you to go steady,” he says, and you both smile, because he’s such an old fashioned dork, but god, do you love him. “And then we found out that the team thought we’d been together for months, and you looked freaked out, so I freaked out. I’m sorry. I should have made us talk about it sooner.”

“Classic pointless miscommunication,” you say with a laugh, and he chuckles too, kisses you again.

“Let’s go inside and get dried off; there’s a birthday gift in my bag I’ve been meaning to give you.” He takes your hand, and you head up, duck into the bathroom to change into dry clothes, squeeze the water out of your hair. There is a small, flat, wrapped present on your bed when you emerge, and you smile, sink down to open it.

It’s Romeo and Juliet, a brand new copy, but when you flip through it, there are blue inked notes in the margins. Aaron comes to sit beside you, touches your face like you’re something precious.

“The course of true love never did run smooth,” he murmurs, and you smack him on the arm with the book.

“That’s from A Midsummer Night's Dream, and I know you know that,” you say with a grin. He nods in admission, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, lean in for a warm, loving kiss. When you pull back, it’s with a soft smile. “Give me my sin again?”

“My pleasure,” he whispers, and you sink into his embrace and promise never to let go. The following week, you both leave work at noon on Friday so you can enjoy your romantic getaway. You drive to the spa, and Aaron reads over the brochure on his phone with a tone you find hilarious.

“Mud bath—I’m not bathing in mud. That’s counterintuitive.”

“It’s special mud; more like clay,” you say, but he snorts, scrolls.

“Seaweed wrap—nobody is wrapping me in seaweed. That sounds like a nightmare.” You laugh softly and take your exit.

“It’s supposed to be rejuvenating. JJ recommended it.”

“JJ weighs fifty pounds. It would take all the seaweed in the Atlantic to wrap me,” he says, and you roll your eyes, jab your finger into his ribs.

“But what if I get to unwrap you?” you ask, eyebrows raised; you briefly glance over and he makes a face of contemplation.

“Okay, that’s a maybe. Intimate aromatherapy—what does that even mean?”

“I think it means we do something that makes us smell good and then we go back to our room and kiss and stuff.”

“Now that doesn’t sound half bad,” he murmurs. “Foot massage? I’m not letting a stranger touch my feet, that’s weird.” You look over at him, squinting.

“You literally plugged someone’s bullet wound with your finger yesterday, but someone touching your feet is where you draw the line? Will you do anything on the list?” He scrolls down it, and his extended silence makes you laugh.

“Meditation. Couples massage,” he says, reaching over to rest a hand on your thigh. “There’s a sauna.” You think of him, sweat-drenched in a fluffy white towel, and take a deep, calming breath. “I bet the room is nice; did you bring a book?” You smile indulgently, reach out a hand to brush through his hair.

“Yep. It’s called A Duke’s Wild Kiss…” He gives you a mildly withering look, and you lightly tap the bridge of his nose. “Just kidding. I brought To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf.” His answering smile is brilliant.

“Are you serious?” You nod, and he gestures to the backseat, where your bags are. “That’s what I brought, too.”

You spend too much of your romantic getaway in your room, but it is really nice; you do the couples massage, though, and aromatherapy, and the sauna, and then you take turns giving each other a foot massage while the other reads To the Lighthouse out loud.

The world probably doesn’t deserve Aaron Hotchner; you definitely don’t, but somehow you get to keep him anyway. A/N: Though I snuck in a few parts of a few different lyrics, two lines in particular inspired this fic: 'Now I've read all of the books beside your bed' and 'I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this.' A lot of my fics lately have incorporated books... guess I better get reading!

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner

[oreomonsterhunter]

“I’m not wearing my sexy underwear tonight”

Pairing: Johnny x reader (or OC)

Word Count: 3988

Genre: fluff, not smut but they both really wanna toe the line

Warnings: language, some sexy kisses (cover your eyes kids)

Summary: Johnny takes his best friend on their first date

A/N: this has absolutely morphed into a long term couple, because apparently Princess has taken the reins 😂 if you like this, check out the rest of their story so far on my masterlist!

You were nervous.  Friends with Johnny since diapers, and somehow you were nervous to meet him in five minutes.  You glanced at the time—make that four minutes.

Pacing back and forth in front of the door, you smoothed down your dress again.  All Johnny had told you was to dress up.  He might be a fashion king, but he wasn’t exactly the best at sharing details.  You’d teetered between twenty different outfits before finally settling on a happy medium.  Couldn’t show up to a museum in an evening gown.  Well, you supposed you could, if you even owned one.  So the little black dress at the back of your closet was the final choice.  Safe enough for just about every venue, since Johnny hadn’t told you where your date would be.

You sucked in a breath, fighting against the nerves tight in your stomach.  Your first date, oh my gosh.  How were you supposed to date Johnny?  You’d done practically everything together already, what made this different from going to the movies together last week?  Aside from the obvious—last week, you didn’t know what Johnny’s lips felt like on yours.

Then you groaned at your sudden realization.  Jeez, you couldn’t do anything right in this relationship with Johnny.  You were about to have your first date but you’d already had a hot and heavy makeout session at an unmentionable hour of the morning.  So much for “will I kiss him afterwards?”  Dating for five seconds, and everything was already out of order.  You wanted to scream, but before your thoughts could really start spiraling, you heard a knock at the door.

You were sweating, oh gosh.  Did you need to reapply deodorant?  You froze, staring at nothing.  Until another knock sounded, this time accompanied by Johnny’s familiar voice, “Yo, are you ready to go?”

You sagged in relief.  Nothing else would have snapped you out of the nervous cycle better than Johnny being….well, Johnny.  And when you finally convinced yourself to open the door, the sight of his easy smile was enough for yours to appear, too.

“Well, uh, hi,” he stuttered, making you giggle.

You slipped on your shoes, grabbed a small purse, and locked the door behind you.  Then you linked arms with Johnny, “Alright, where to, mystery man?  You haven’t told me anything.”

“That’s mostly because I didn’t figure anything out until today.”

Biting your lip to hold back a giggle, you tugged him down the hallway.  “No wonder you didn’t share much detail.  I should’ve known.”

Johnny tightened his grip on you when you stepped out of the elevator, leading you to the car.  He didn’t say much, which was a bit out of character.  Frowning up at him, you tried to meet his gaze.  He finally looked down at you when he opened the passenger door for you to get in.  “You, uh, you look really nice tonight.”

A small smile bloomed, “Not looking so bad yourself, hot stuff.”

* * * * *

Apparently Johnny had picked out a restaurant for dinner.  A fancy restaurant.  You read through the list of entrees with a barely-concealed grimace.  “Do you know what any of these words mean?” you asked him.

Johnny beamed at you, “Nope, that’s half the fun.”

A waiter walked by with a tray destined for another table, and you both gaped at the miniscule portion sizes.  “Those look like appetizers,” Johnny said, goggling at the tiny salad. “Maybe I can order several steaks. I’d need about five of them.” He started eyeing the menu again.

“As long as you’re picking up the tab,” you joked.

“Oh, I thought you were,” he said, all wide eyed innocence.  You smacked his arm with your menu, fighting a grin at his usual antics.  The couple at the next table shot you a look, and you hunched back in your seat.

“Don’t worry, I’m paying.  Order whatever you’d like,” Johnny said, still puzzling over the ridiculous dinner options.

You frowned, reaching for your water.  But shoot, it probably cost five bucks for tap, you thought with no small amount of horror.  You set it back down before you drained more of Johnny’s wallet.

After a few more minutes of torturous silence, trying not to fidget too much, you leaned forward.  “Do we even have a waiter?”

Johnny jerked upright, looking over his shoulder at the man in question.  “I don’t know?”

“I’ve been trying to make eye contact with the staff for five minutes and they’re all ignoring me.”

Johnny blinked at you.  “Wait, are you ready to order?”

“No, I wanna ask if they charge for water.”

“No one charges for water,” he chortled.

“I bet it’s five bucks a glass,” you said, crossing your arms.

Now Johnny was really laughing, and half the restaurant was staring at your table.  “Only if it’s imported from the crystal springs of Iceland,” he said, grinning.

“Wait, really?”

“Hell if I know,” Johnny said, making you snort some of your water.  You shrunk down in your chair, hiding your red face while he kept laughing.

“I don’t know this man,” you said to the people at the next table. They stared at you, whispering among themselves.  Pouting, you turned back to Johnny.  “I can’t believe you booked a table here,” you cocked an eyebrow at him.  “I thought we were burger joint people, not escargot snobs.”

“Do you really not wanna eat here?” he asked, propping his elbows on the table.

You opened your mouth to respond, but your waiter finally showed up to take your order.  “Good evening, can I interest you in anything else to drink?”

“Any Icelandic sparkling water?”  Now Johnny was the one snorting inelegantly.

The waiter laughed, despite not knowing the joke.  “Can I interest you in a bottle of red?  You seem like a red wine woman.”

You smiled politely, reaching for the wine list when he offered it to you.  “Sure, I’ll take a look.”

The waiter smirked, eyes landing on you.  “I’ll have to card you, miss.”

Your brows raised, but you complied, digging out your wallet.  Across the table, Johnny cleared his throat, “Do I look like a red wine guy?”  But the waiter barely glanced at him before his eyes were back on you.

“Your photo doesn’t do you justice,” the waiter commented, handing your ID back.

“No one looks good in those pictures,” you chuckled.

“I beg to differ,” he said, then nodded at the wine list.  “What can I get you?”

You glanced over at Johnny, who was fidgeting enough to shake the table.  Curious.  “What do you recommend?” you asked, twirling a strand of hair around one finger.

“You might be interested in one of our finer vintages,” he began, leaning over your shoulder to point out a few wines on the list.  You heard a subtle sound, and out of the corner of your eye, saw Johnny’s fingers rapping the table at a rapidly increasing pace.  You bit your lip, focusing on the wines again, but not before adding a little more fuel to the fire.  Time to test your theory.  You crossed your legs, brushing one foot up Johnny’s calf in the process.  The man jumped as if electrocuted, his knees banging into the underside of the table.

“How about this one?” you asked innocently, looking up at the waiter again.

“A lovely choice, though it is on the higher range, so I’m not sure—”

“We’ll take it,” Johnny announced, plucking the wine list from your fingers and shoving it at the waiter.

You raised an eyebrow, but the waiter simply smiled at you, apparently unbothered by growly Johnny.  “I’ll bring that right out for you,” he said, taking the wine menu and leaving you to suffer over dinner options.

Johnny cleared his throat, leaning towards you again.  “That waiter’s a bit weird, huh?” he asked, watching the man walk away.  “He didn’t even ask what I wanted.”

You donned your best sparkly-eyed expression, “But he’s being so friendly!  He really deserves a nice tip, he had some helpful suggestions.”

Johnny frowned, “He’s obviously flirting with you.”

“No way,” you laughed, waving him off.

Johnny rolled his eyes, “Trust me.  He’s flirting with you more than I am, and I’m the one taking you on a date.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table.  “Maybe you should start flirting with me some more, then.”

Johnny sent you an indecipherable look.  You wondered if your teasing had worked.  But Johnny seemed to have calmed down some, now that the helpful waiter was out of sight.  

You shrugged, sitting back in your chair.  You changed the subject, giving the man a break.  “Seriously, we don’t need to spend this much on dinner.  I feel bad.”

“I thought you’d like this place,” Johnny said, brows furrowing.

“I will literally go anywhere with you, it doesn’t matter, I just….I dunno, I feel like I don’t fit in here.”  You weren’t quite sure how to express your fear that people would call you a gold-digger or something, only dating Johnny now that he’d achieved success.  Even if the two of you knew better, it still made your stomach twist.  And not in the nice way it did while watching Johnny’s hands playing with his water glass.  Shoot, shoot, shoot, now his fingers were wet from the condensation.  You really didn’t need to know what that looked like.  Had his hands always been that large?  You shifted in your seat.

Johnny’s mouth twisted in a wry smile, “I don’t know if either of us really fit in with the rich old person vibe, but I heard the food is good.”

I’d rather have a bite of you, you thought to yourself, twisting the napkin in your lap.  You’d never seen him in a suit before.  Or at least, not in person.

Johnny coughed suddenly, staring at you with wide eyes.  “What?”

Oh shit, did you say that out loud?  Your cheeks burned.  “Um, I’d be, uh,” you stuttered, trying to cover your mistake, all confidence extinguished.  “We could get burgers, or something.”

Johnny sat back in his chair, eyes on yours.  He smirked, and you wanted to disappear into a hole in the ground.  Oh no, he definitely heard you.

“As long as I get to keep watching you,” Johnny said, voice low.  “You really are beautiful, not just tonight.  Every night.”

You opened your mouth, not sure what to say, but knowing that you wanted Johnny to keep looking at you like that.  Like you were the main course.  “Johnny, I—”

“Your wine, miss,” the waiter had returned.  You bit back a frown, knowing he was just doing his job.  But he seriously couldn’t have waited another minute?

“Thank you,” you murmured, sampling the first sip before allowing the waiter to pour both glasses.

“Can I interest you in any appetizers?” he asked, pouring Johnny’s wine.

You blinked, having forgotten the menu entirely.  Across the table, Johnny pulled out the menu, but before he could point anything out, the waiter was hovering over your shoulder.  “Might I recommend the cheese board?  It will pair beautifully with this bottle.”

“Might I tell you my order?” Johnny said.  His smile was sharper than before.  You might have teased him some more, but you got a bit distracted by Johnny’s jawline as he turned to speak to the waiter.  Honestly, you were having trouble tearing your eyes away from him all night.  It felt like seeing him for the first time, and in a way, you supposed you were.  You’d always known Johnny was attractive, since the time all boys started to look cute.  You’d just never let yourself think about it too much.  Best friend mental boundaries and all that.

Maybe if Johnny hadn’t said anything on that night, you wouldn’t have ever seen him like this.  You wouldn’t have allowed yourself to admire the column of his neck, or his long fingers as they unbuttoned the top of his shirt.  It would’ve been you and your stupid butterflies trapped in the friend zone forever.

Thoroughly distracted now, you bit your lip as you wondered what Johnny’s neck would look like with some new decorations.

“You realize they sell food here, right?  You don’t have to look at me like I’m an appetizer,” Johnny whispered across the table dramatically.  You startled, looking around, but the waiter had left at some point during your daydream.  Oh gosh, did you drool?  You pressed the back of your hand to your face discreetly, relieved to find nothing of the sort.

Then your brain caught up to Johnny, and you looked up at him with a smirk, “You’re too big to be an appetizer.”

Johnny choked on a laugh, covering his mouth to hide his smile when the other diners looked your way.  When he appeared to have himself under control again, he eyed you from head to toe—or at least what he could see from across the table.  He shot you a grin, “You’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?”

You watched him through your lashes, not quite sure what to make of him anymore.  You’d had your fair share of fun with other guys, but never in a million years had you imagined flirting with Johnny so blatantly.  Let alone in a fancy five star restaurant like this.

A sudden presence at your side startled you, and you jumped a little when the waiter reached over your shoulder to set a dish down.  “Sorry for startling you,” he murmured, moving away slightly, but not before brushing your shoulder in apology.  “Should I leave you with this for now, or are you ready to order?”

Johnny’s eyes flashed, and you bit back a curse at the waiter’s truly stellar ability to interrupt.  “We’re fine, thank you,” you said, unable to stop watching Johnny.  Or his hand, slowly tightening into a fist on top of the table.

“Would you like to hear the specials tonight?”

You donned a polite smile, nodding at the waiter to continue.  While he read down the list of fancy-sounding entrées, you turned your smile on Johnny, who was vibrating in his seat again.  You could’ve sworn your water glasses were shaking, and you held back a giggle.  You uncrossed and recrossed your legs, extra slowly to make sure he got the message when you “accidentally” brushed his knee this time.  The vibrations stopped, and his eyes burned into you.

“Thank you, we’ll keep looking over the menu,” Johnny interrupted the waiter, his voice deeper than before.  Your smile only grew.

Once the waiter was out of earshot, you leaned in.  “Can we leave?  I can’t even kiss you here.”

“Yep, yes, absolutely,” Johnny said, standing up the second the words were out of your mouth.  He nearly upended the table, making you snort.  “Right now,” he nodded, striding for the exit.

You scrambled out of your chair, rushing after him.  “Johnny,” you hissed, grabbing his sleeve.  “We didn’t pay yet.”

He came to a halt in the hallway, and you nearly ran into his back.  Then Johnny turned around, and you became very aware of the semi-secluded location as he moved closer.  You squeaked out a panicked, “Not here!”  You backed away until he finally reached out, one hand circling your waist to reel you in.

Johnny’s eyes moved over your shoulder, then back to yours.  He smirked, leaning in close enough for you to feel his lips brushing your cheek as he murmured, “Tell the valet to get the car.  I’ll grab the wine.”

You could’ve sworn you felt his hand brush down your back, lower.  Your cheeks burned hotter.  But when you turned, Johnny’s broad shoulders were disappearing around the corner, and the waiter was hurrying in the opposite direction.

* * * * *

You ended up ditching the car and walking around the neighborhood.  You only looked slightly out of place with your high heels and makeup when you ended up at a tteokbokki joint.  You’d played rock paper scissors between that and burgers, and Johnny won, as usual.

After dinner, you were reasonably close to your apartment, so Johnny offered to walk you home. It felt like another one of your late-night adventures, except you were usually in sneakers. When your feet got tired, you stopped in the middle of the block to take off the killer heels, sighing in relief.  You slung the straps over your wrist, prepared to keep trudging along, when Johnny swooped in.  One second, you were on the ground, the next, you were admiring the top view of Johnny’s ass from where you were dangling over his shoulder.

“Johnny, what the fuck,” you asked breathlessly, dying of laughter.  And from his shoulder digging into your diaphragm.

“Are you crazy?  You could cut your feet open,” he scolded you.

“At least there’s a nice view,” you sighed, reaching down to pat his butt.

Johnny put a little bounce in his next step, and you grunted at the impact.  You could practically feel his smug little grin.  “Hands off the merchandise.”

“How is that fair?  You totally copped a feel back at the restaurant.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Bull,” you said.  “You went all ‘alpha male’ with that nice waiter.”

Johnny huffed, “I wasn’t jealous.”

You grinned in victory.  “I never said you were, mister offering-up-information.  Now put me down, you caveman.”

Johnny’s grip on your thighs loosened, and his hands slid up to your waist, holding you tightly as he helped you back down.  You froze for a second when your feet hit the ground, not expecting to be face-to-face with him so suddenly.  “Wait right there,” Johnny said firmly, finally releasing your waist.

You blinked at him in confusion, watching as he slid his suit jacket off.  Your eyes widened when he reached for you, but it was only to wrap the jacket around your waist, tying the sleeves into a knot to hold it in place.

“There,” Johnny said, nodding at his handiwork.  Then he turned, crouching down slightly.  “Alright, princess, hop on.”

You beamed at him, not that he could see it.  It wouldn’t be a walk with Johnny if he didn’t end up carrying you at the end of the night, you chuckled to yourself.  You were fiercely grateful to Johnny for thinking of his jacket—you weren’t quite sure how long your skirt was, now that you were wrapped around him like a koala.

“Thanks, Johnny,” you mumbled, burying your face in his neck.  “You’re the bestest.”  You left a smacking kiss on his cheek, and he laughed, tightening his hold on your legs.

Finally, you arrived at your apartment building.  You slid your heels back on, balancing with one hand on Johnny’s arm.  “I’ll walk you up,” he said once you straightened.

But when you got to your door, you hesitated, unsure what to say.  Was this the part where you kissed him goodnight?  You were torn, so at odds with the way the night resembled your old friend dates, only now things were different.  What were you supposed to do?

“So,” Johnny drawled, leaning against the wall.  “Where’s my tip?”

You stared at him, incredulous.  “Your tip?” you repeated.

“Johnny’s chauffeur service isn’t free,” he said.  “And if I remember correctly, you still owe me for last time.”

You cocked a hip, smirking slightly.  “Any preferred payment methods?”

Johnny blew you an air kiss, and you made a show of catching it.  “I take cash or card,” he informed you.

“What a shame,” you murmured, dropping your purse in front of the door.  “I seem to have lost my wallet.”

He watched you carefully, barely blinking as you approached him, one slow step at a time.  “Apps?”

You stopped mere inches away, “Not a single one.”

He swallowed, and your eyes tracked the movement.  Your daydream from before came back with a vengeance—you bit your lip at the thought of marking him up.  Then you leaned in, resting one hand on his chest.  His heart pounded through the thin dress shirt.

“Will this do?” you asked, lips just barely brushing his.  Nothing else touched, aside from your fingertips on his sternum, but you could’ve sworn you felt him shiver.

Oh so slowly, Johnny reached out, hands ghosting over your hips.  You smiled against him, then melded your lips to his, bypassing whatever hesitations were holding you back.  What was the worst that could happen?

You felt Johnny teasing at the seam of your lips and gratefully opened for him.  He inhaled sharply when you inched forward, your chest brushing his.  You couldn’t hear anything but your heart racing.  And when his fingers dug into your hips, you fell into the kiss.  He pulled you in like a magnet until every part of you aligned with him.  Your limbs felt molten, burning at the contact.

Johnny pulled away, but not for long.  You gasped for air as his lips traced over your jawline, making their way to the delicate skin beneath your ear.  He pressed hot kisses there until your neck arched back obediently.  And when he nipped at your throat, you whimpered.  Thoughtlessly, your hips rocked forward.  Johnny gave voice to a deep groan, so you did it again.

Growling lightly, Johnny curled an arm around your waist to pull you harder against him.  All of the breath left your body at the feel of his growing hardness against your belly.  You fisted your hands in his collar, tugging him away from your neck.  You caught a glimpse of his kiss-swollen lips and blown out pupils, then dove back in for more.

While your mouth danced with his, your hands dragged southward.  Your fingernails caught on a button or two as you traced the muscle beneath.  Now Johnny’s hips were bucking into yours.  You grinned savagely into the kiss.  You’d just reached his belt when Johnny ripped his mouth away from yours.  “Woah, woah,” he gasped.  “Slow down, there.”

You panted for air, “What’s wrong?”

Both of you were breathing hard, and you were having a hard time ignoring the elephant in the room.  Er, hallway.  “You’re not trying to take advantage of me on the first date, are you?” Johnny asked with a breathy chuckle.

You laughed softly, tilting your chin back to get a good look at him.  “Is it really taking advantage if you want it, too?”  You smirked at him, rolling your hips forward to emphasize your point.

He watched you through half-lidded eyes, and you could’ve sworn you felt him throb.  But Johnny, ever the gentleman, smoothed his hand down your back, resting his head back against the wall rather than picking up where you left off.  “Cut me some slack, I’m not wearing my sexy underwear tonight,” he said with a crooked smile.

Oh no, now you had heart eyes for the man.  You pecked his chin to hide your cheesy grin.  “You let me know when you are, hmm?” you hummed, placing another kiss to the base of his throat.

“Princess, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for you.”

You giggled, leaning back in his arms.  “Am I so scary?”

Johnny sobered, meeting your gaze.  “I just don’t want to mess anything up.  Not with you.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” you smiled at him.  “I trust you too much.”

“Oh yeah?  You still haven’t told me what you wished for on your fourteenth birthday,” Johnny taunted.

You tilted your head, thinking back.  “I didn’t tell you because I was hopelessly in love with you at the time,” you confessed.  “Now that’s out in the open, I guess you can know.”

Johnny blinked, taken aback.  “Even then?”

“Johnny, I think I’ve loved you forever,” you said, staring up at him.  “So of course I wished for the same thing every year.”

“What was it?”

Your smile widened, “Well, it already came true.  You said it, too.”

* * * * *

Masterlist

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Headlights Girl

Genre: Urban fantasy + wlw romance

Words: approx. 8k

Summary: The story of a girl with headlamps for eyes and the moth-girl she meets along the way.

My book 🌸 Ko-fi  🌸 Patreon

--------------------

Most humans carry the night with them. Even during daylight hours, they can shut out the sun, turn off the light, recede into themselves and into that soft secret place behind their eyes.

Did you know certain animals don’t have eyelids? Gecko’s have nothing between them and the violent sun which wishes to cook the colors of their world. They have to use their tongue. Dust and sand and rain, can you imagine? I was obsessed with lizards as a kid.

I stacked up books on snakes and lizards and skinks. I traced the way that sand snakes crested across the dunes, sideways and wrong. I put glue on the pads of my hand and tried to climb the walls of my room— I didn’t even get one handhold up. I went to the zoo and peered into their cages, up on my tiptoes, trying not to smudge the glass or breath too hard. I tried make out their triangle heads and slow tongue-flicks, but they each shrank away deep into nooks and crannies of their cages. Most things do when I look at them.

Most humans carry the night with them, right there behind their eyelids is an entire world of darkness. I have something else inside me, not quite, not soft, not secret. They called me “headlights girl” in the newspapers.

There were even stranger kids born in the Age of Spirits. I checked. Every morning of fifth grade, I scanned the papers for mentions of “oddities” growing into anomalies.

A boy who could breath fire. A girl with leaves sprouting from her head. A kid with antennae that could taste the wind. There are stranger things than me in the age of beasts and magic. My father called it the “Epoch of Bastards,” sons and daughters of flickering fire elementals and wind ghosts who seduced half-asleep ladies from their beds.

He didn’t look at me much growing up. And I knew what he meant. I knew what he was getting at by calling it the Epoch of Bastards. Growing up, I played in my little puddle of carpet on the floor as he blustered in and out of rooms like gale force winds. He’d be looking for his keys or a left shoe or wallet since he was going out, out, out. I think I missed him at first, in the way you miss strangers you’ve never met.

Later, still on my puddle of carpet, still on my island, I would glare at him with that sour, acid taste in the back of my throat. Acrid, smoky, I would barely blink as he passed; he’d jump when he turned too quickly and accidentally fell into my path. Later still, I would begin to wish they were both like that—blustery and calling people names, gone more often than not.

It sometimes felt better than hearing my mom weep to herself on the couch. I wish she’d do it in her room or outside or anywhere else than that theatrical sobbing in the middle of the house, a naked heartbeat to the place. She spoke to her friends on the phone in that same watery voice, handkerchief in hand and sniffling, she spoke to them more than me.

What else am I supposed to do? This isn’t how it was supposed to be. She’d wail, just a bit, and then find a new thing to wail over. They could barely afford to send me to That School. They could barely afford the special doctor’s appointments for my eyes. They barely knew what to do with me.

Sometimes, I wanted to shout right back: It’s not like I didn’t want to be here either!

But she wasn’t talking to me. 

School wasn’t much better. We weren’t the same, not really. None of us were the same age or had the same affliction. Plus, most everyone else stayed in dorms where they bonded with secrets and whispers and hiding from matrons. It wasn’t the same.

They called me The Lighthouse and Car Face and Nightlight. Sometimes they’d give me a few bucks to close my eyes so they could see my face. I did it. They’d laugh and reassure me I was as ugly as you’d think. Or beautiful. Or perfectly average-looking or I had a pig-nose or unibrow. I’d never seen anything but the blinding light of my own eyes in the mirror so I could never contradict them.

A boy with antlers handed me a twenty for a kiss in the 6th grade. I closed my eyes for that too. It was chapped and dry and he ran away with a screaming laugh afterward. There are stranger kids than me, I reminded myself. So why do I feel so much stranger than the rest of them?

I was 16 when I heel-toed my way down the stairs toward the front door. A duffel bag slung over my shoulder stuffed with loose clothes, change, a bath towel, three books with broken spines, all the tampons in the house, and a Swiss-army knife.

I hoped to stuff as many cheddar-cheese sandwiches in my sack as possible before the midnight bus came, but he was at the kitchen table. I don’t think either of us expected it, like running into your teacher at the mart and you’re both buying the same brand of toilet cleaner. There was a beer in front of his idle hands and he still wore his rumpled work shirt. He glanced at the bag on my shoulder for a long minute.

Finally, he sighed like I cut him off in traffic.

“Gimme a moment.”

My father leafed through a wad of cash he kept in a safe. He handed me almost three hundred bucks and we nodded at each other. At the time, I thought there was a kind of satisfaction to that nod, an endnote.

I was out the door before the midnight bus arrived.

Only three people were at the terminal. None of them looked at me with my pack and my knife stuffed in one hand and my eyes glowing. They did look at the glow, but not for long.

Remote and empty like maybe the world had ended and the last bits of if were nothing but strangers not making eye contact.

Finally, I watched the headlights of the midnight bus approach through dense summer night. I was struck by the thought that it was like looking at like, the glow of my eyes against its eyes. Can a bus be your father? Can your father be a man after all this time? Will your mother come looking for you?

I got on the bus and kicked my feet up against the seat in front of me. Scrunched into a ball, crossed my arms over my chest, and watched the trees turn into flickering bodies of shadow with each passing mile. ------------- My feet moved like tides. They tossed me against nameless city streets and toward empty forested slices of land. I stumbled into the painted deserts toward the west. I dipped my toes into the neon districts of the east with lights brighter than my own. I slept on benches and in kid’s treehouses and hunched my shoulders against brick walls of back alleys.

No one touched me. Maybe they’d approach now and then, but I’d open my eyes and they’d see nothing but heaven or devils or an absent lightning-God father that would smite them. I was the daughter of spirits after all.

I found my way to the ocean; beaches where other stragglers gathered and it was easy to stretch out on empty pieces of warm sand. I didn’t talk much by then, I didn’t like to; people stared whether I was speaking or screaming and clamping down on my jaw so hard it ached. Sometimes I get yelled at: Turn that off! No phone lights in here. You’re blinding me, bitch!

I’d never seen a movie in any theatres, but I could imagine what it’s like.

It was crowded, but I liked that ocean city, despite myself. It had pale buildings built into cliffs, narrow winding sidewalks where cars couldn’t fit, reckless bikers, and crushed seashell parking lots. I liked the tang of salt in the air and the way my hair crinkled from the ocean water as it sun-dried. I camp out on beaches and bummed cigarettes and hotdogs off strangers. I was good at taking care of myself once I got into a rhythm.

I had a tent by then and even an enormous sun umbrella to keep any prying eyes away. I still liked to sleep under the stars most nights though.

I often dreamed of sinking to the bottom of the ocean. I dreamed of descending on pointed ballerina-feet to the silted black bottom. I’d be weighted down through the cold and the silence to where no human being had ever been. I’d open my eyes there, open them all the way, lightning-bright, and unflinching. In my dreams, the salt didn’t even sting. I lit up the world, the whole untouched world of whales and fish and terror and maybe I’d do something good then. Maybe I’d do something good and bring the sun to places that had forgotten it. 

I hated those dreams.

I met Mags on the beach after one of those dreams. Mags had one eye and twelve teeth and carried around nothing but string and scissors everywhere. She smelled like seawater and burning kelp, dank and crusted over. Her clothes were neat despite her leather-cracked skin and arms and neck covered in tattoos of shipwrecks. We ran into each other at some bum gathering and she cackled and pulled me aside.

“What’s your name?” Her voice was old creaking wood. I didn’t answer. “I could give you one.” She offered with a grin that was more empty space than anything.

“Nana.” I gritted out. “You want something?”

“Not sure. What do you want, kid?”

I glared openly, my beam of light slanting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come here.”

I didn’t know why I was chosen.

Mags liked me more than I deserved. I pocketed her last pair of socks when she wasn’t looking. She never mentioned it and dragged me down to the community showers to get clean with soap and shampoo. She took me to the soup and salad restaurant for something that wasn’t burnt or freeze-dried or from a convenience store. She cackled, she spat when she talked, people shot her looks as well.

I thought she was normal, not touched by the spirits, but she liked me more than most people and I didn’t know why.

“You like art, kid?”

I snorted. “No.”

“Why not? You broken?” Yeah. Probably.

“How am I supposed to know?” I snapped back.

“Lippy squirt. Come on, I’ll show you something worth your forked tongue.”

She heated the needle before she used it, red hot and untouchable. She dipped it into deep black inks, only black and sometimes red, she called them the only colors that matter. She shows me how to prick the skin and clean it. She showed me how to slowly, painstakingly etch images. I wasn’t sure I liked it, there was something so permanent and intentional about the act.

I watched her lessons though: stick and poke to her right foot, all over those fine little bones that must hurt, in and out, a little bloody.

It took her six hours to make a tiny shipwreck right above her big toe. It was a narrow schooner going under and I was the only witness. She made the waves come to life and crash against its sides and sometimes I forgot to blink. She didn’t seem to mind.

She washed another needle. She heated it red-hot. She dipped it in ink and handed it to me.

I still wasn’t sure I liked the permanence of it, but I told myself I was bored and it was something to do. I decided quickly I did like the bite of it, I liked the focus it took, and the ability to pull something from nothing.

I practiced all over my thighs first, there was enough meat there and it was easy enough to reach: a lizard design that looked like nothing but squiggles, a TV set playing static, a tiny smudged skink with its tongue out. I practiced designs in the sand and then on paper when Mags splurged on pen and paper.

Mags took me to the museum on Sundays. They were always free on Sundays.

Something stirred in my chest, even as the guards yelled at us about how flash photography wasn’t allowed in the museum. Even as I was shooed out of exhibits for ruining the paint. Still, an ache so old it rotted roared to life in my chest.

I stabbed in and out, gentle, a collection of stars right above my right knee. A winding sand snake on my wrist, and then finally, something good, something that gave people pause and reason to stare. I made it in the mirror: a ghost on my collarbone. Shadowed and intricate and yet simple, I put a ghost right above my collarbone and it bleeds more than any of the others.

That was a good year or so; one of the best I could remember.

I didn’t want to leave the ocean city though and Mags said she had to keep moving. She had places to be. She gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“You're a gem, kid. You’ll knock ‘em all to the pavement.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You’ll be back?”

She cackled. “Wouldn’t miss it. You know me.” She winked as she turns to the bus, my second father. “You think I’ll miss your great becoming, kid? I’ll be back.”

I wanted to make her pinky-promise like I was a kid again begging one of the others to tell me if I’m beautiful when I close my eyes. I couldn’t do that; I waved as she tottered up the steps of the bus and was taken away with the tides of her own feet.

A had a moment of thinking it was the end then; I was ready to get back to my real normal. I was ready to disappear again. But even shipwrecks with no witnesses leave things left to be found.

------------ I got an apprenticeship. Technically, Mags talked them into it and I just followed up when I had nothing better to do.

I didn’t think I’d like it much, but couch surfing and camping out was the pastime of the especially young. And I’d lost my giant umbrella.

It was a small shop that smelled like bleach and dried flowers. A tattoo parlor in one of the steep arts districts neighbored by food trucks and beaded necklace shops.

Penguin Davies and Bitch-Annie ran it together. Davies walked like he’d never encountered land before, and Bitch-Annie had a throw-pillow embroidered with “If you don’t have anything nice to say then come sit next to me.”

Davies was covered in nothing but birds and dizzying M. C. Escher house-designs up and down his chest and arms. Bitch-Annie had topless mermaids and pinup girls across her shoulders and legs. She’d been asked to leave a number of stores before the children started staring or thinking thoughts.

Neither of them had ever met someone like me. It was not that type of town. I rankled at most their questions, a cat meeting a steel brush. Where are you from? What’s your family name? What kind of school did you go to? Is your sight better than other people you think?

I brushed off anything more personal than my favorite type of soda. Bitch-Annie called me “Shadow” probably as a joke, probably. Davies said I must be possessed by the ghost of some dead star: a blackhole that takes everything in and lets nothing out.

Neither of them let me touch a needle in those first six months. They had me practice on pig skin and trace designs and stand by their shoulders as they worked. I felt like a dental assistant except I was the hanging light shining into open mouths instead of anything with a pulse. I stood at their shoulder as they drew thick lines and thin dots and made hearts and wolves and names of dead lovers come to life.

They asked me to stand still and stop wiggling the light. I almost walked out several to find a new cliff to crash against, almost. 

No one had ever expected anything of me before. They never expected me to show up somewhere or do something well. No one really cared if I went to school or if I did my homework, if I dressed well or went to bed on time. And no one kept any tabs on me at all after I took that first bus. That’s how I liked it.

I should’ve left, tattooing didn’t mean anything to me, not really. But Bitch-Annie stomped up to my attic-apartment one morning and threw pants at me.

“Get up, Shadow,” she barked. She was sterner than Mags, no hint of humor in her eyes. “I told you 9am so I expect 9am.”

“The fuck!?” I was eloquent in the mornings.

“Pants, shirt, shoes, and bra if you don’t want that desk idiot staring at something other than your eyes all day.”

“Are you serious?”

“Serious as a root canal. Mags swore up and down about what you. Let’s see some of that, up, up!”

I grumbled. I put on everything but the bra. No one ever expected me to be anywhere before and 9am shouldn’t have even been a concept much less a real thing. I told myself I hated it. I’d leave the next week. Or maybe the week after that or in just one more month. I kept a bus ticket under my pillow but every time the date arrived I shrugged and made myself busy.

There’d be no harm in having a savings too and seeing what all the fuss was about with having a dishwasher and a kitchen.

I wasn’t an artist of course. I didn’t understand what everyone else was seeing when they looked at the “old masters” paintings of water or war or lovers pulled apart. I didn’t feel anything in front of stain-glass windows in churches or mosaics on walls. Maybe there really was something wrong with me, my eyes. I didn’t let up though. I put on pants for it after all.

Penguin Davies hovered by my shoulder when I made my first real design.

“Mm.” He rumbled deep in his chest. He’d gone grey at an early age, had tired eyes and quick hands. The desk kid said he’d been in medical school once, a surgeon. It was hard to tell. Davies muttered a lot, stared off into space too much, and laughed like it was always a painful surprise

“Perfectionist,” he muttered at me as I start over on a crappy unicorn design. “That line was barely off. You’re being a perfectionist, Nana.”

I scowled over my shoulder and let the full weight of my light hit him across the face. “Got a problem with it?” I challenged. He chuckled darkly. His grin was crooked like a broken door handle. I tried to hide my work from him with my shoulder. “It’s not done yet.”

“It’s late.” The rest of the street was dark. I knew that.

“I said I’m not done yet! You can go home.”

“Hmm.” He scratched his grey beard.

“What?”

“Look at you. You know who makes the best artists, Nana?” He was always a bit of a philosopher. Maybe he used to study that before medicine.

“Yeah, yeah, shut up. I’m working on it.”

He gave my shoulder a light push. “The ones that don’t quit.”

They let me touch a needle gun after that. I told myself I’d only sign my new apartment lease as an experiment. I didn’t have to actually stay. I’d just run from the ink on paper and hope no one chased after girls with eyes that glow.

I didn’t break my lease. I drew suns and moons, trees and fireflies, hunks in speedos on tipsy college girls who swore they were sober and erotic vampires on the chests of men getting their first divorce. I had to give two refunds for a duck that turned out lopsided and a tattoo of someone’s dog which I swore really was that ugly to begin with.

There was one at the end of that next year though, another college girl with perfectly white piano-key teeth. She asked for a stick and poke, that was what I was best at anyway, she asked for a butterfly. Butterflies were easy, I could do the little ones in my sleep. She wanted one all across her back, she said I could make it look however I wanted. So I did. Wings like fringed shawls and straight heavy lines combined with wispy swirling ones. It was dark, black ink with red highlights and gray shadows under each wing to give it movement and flight.

I hid my smile when I finished and showed her the results in the mirror. She went to my bosses and jumped up and down. She pointed and babbled, ohmyspirits, the best thing I’ve ever seen! Fuck. I should pay you double! Where did you get this girl? 

I held myself perfectly still and studied the ceiling until my eyes dried out.

I took the long way home that night. I stopped once, at the corner where the midnight bus arrived, and watched the the passengers trudge off. I didn’t expect to see Mags again so soon, not really, but sometimes I wanted to show her: Hey, maybe your work wasn’t all wasted. Maybe I did start to become.

---------------- “I’m getting you chocolate.” Annie spat, her thick arms flexing as she cleaned off the spotless counter. “I’m getting you fucking chocolate, Shadow, ‘less you tell me what flavor you actually like.”

I hung at the back of the shop next to the narrow window that faced the road. I let the sun warm my face in thick strips and watched the bicycles pass. “It’s not my birthday.”

“Tell us what your actual birthday is then, you sugar-toasted tart.”

I shrugged. “Not today.”

“Well happy fucking birthday. You’re turning two. You came to work for us two years ago today, washed up from the beach like a deranged feral cat, so this is your birthday now.”

I rolled my eyes which served to look like a flashlight given a shake. Annie spent another minute splashing disinfectant on anything that might have had even a passing conversation with a germ.

“You talk to Birdie?” She asked, but mischievously this time. I responded by setting my mouth in a hard line. “You’re turning twenty-something and you’re not even talking to Birdie, are ya?”

“I’m not telling you what I’m turning. It’s still not my birthday.” I dodged inelegantly.

“Birdie will give you a proper go-around. Even shadows like you must need a little rub now and then.”

“Go dunk your head, Annie.” I huffed.

“Afraid you’ll blind her in bed?”

I turned with a snarl. “I’ll start with you.”

“I’ve seen you flipping through those poetry books, every word about hands or mouths or rosebuds.” She gave me flat a once-over. “You’ve got a sweet tooth in you.”

I dragged myself over to the desk to snarl at her some more, but Annie was already putting her hand up and going toward the backroom.

“I’m getting you a chocolate cake either way.”

There must have been a proper way to get her to never look at my little leather poetry books again, the ones with watermarked pages, the spines broken-in, and words that oozed. No one had to know that I could read, much less that I read that.

The door dinged instead.

“Excuse me.” She walked in. Her. “Is someone, um, named Nana here?” I turned before I could stop myself. That was still my name. And it was still my work.

Twenty-something, curtains of straight black hair falling in her face, pinched nose, thin energetic lips, shorts that gave way to milk-dipped legs that never seemed to end. A slight girl in a university t-shirt. College kids came in often during their breaks, but this one was a bit different. My eyes dragged up and fish-hooked there.

Feathered tendrils sprouted from her head and reached toward the ceiling. Long and searching, a pearly green color that reminded you of leaves or plumage.

I knew within a moment where I’d heard of this: Antennae Girl. The newspapers ran our stories close together along with the boy that breathed fire and the girl with roots growing from her head. We were all born in the same year during the epoch of monsters and bastards.

I think she recognized me too.

We stopped like heartbeats seizing up before the ambulance could make it. A confused, unnatural silence. I glanced at the door and considered making a run for it.

She cleared her throat first.

“Someone said that Misty’s butterfly tattoo came from here?” She blinked once and I noticed how her feathered antennae seemed to twitch. I averted my eyes so I wouldn’t blind her. She took a step forward. “So are you . . . Nana?”

The door was right there.

“What do you want?” I had been spending too much time with Bitch-Annie.

“A tattoo?”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then why are you here?” I grunted. Footsteps came in from the back room. I was examining the smudged off-white tiles of the floor one by one.

“I wanted to . . . hey, you can look up if you want.” She said, curiously, softly. I didn’t look up. “I’m still figuring out the design.” She trudged on ahead.

“Fine.” I pivoted away. “But we’re busy. Come back later.”

A hand slapped across my shoulder. “This is Nana.” Annie stopped me from leaving. “Don’t let her eyes fool ya, it’s her personality that’s actually the problem. You saw her butterfly you said?”

“Yes!” She gushed. “It was gorgeous.”

“It was fine,” I corrected.

“It’s her birthday today.” Annie shared because she could and because she was a failed evil villain still trying to get her kicks in.

“Oh cool, happy Birthday.” A deep pause followed that could fill oceans. “You can look up. I don’t mind.” She repeated.

I opened my eyes wide and lifted my chin in one jerky motion. A beam of fluorescent headlights hit her across the face. “Is this what you want?” Venom dripped from my lips. This was why I tried not to talk too much.

The young woman squinted for a moment before covering her eyes and nodding. “I read about you,” she stated as if it was nothing. “I’m turning twenty-two this year . . . so I guess, you are too?”

“What?!” Delight filled Annie’s entire expression. “Hot damn! Twenty-two?” I groaned deeply. “Hey, you, girlie,” she addressed antennae-girl, “you want to come out for drinks tonight?”

I tried to protest as quickly as possible, but somehow didn’t summon the words quickly enough.

“Sure.” She agreed. ----------------------

The night was humid and clung to us like a second skin. I wandered through the hilly streets with Penguin Davies wobbling beside me. The desk kid—Daft Jeff, said Davies had some inner-ear problem that made it hard for him to keep his balance. Annie said he just didn’t belong on land— he couldn’t walk straight unless something was tilting and rolling under his feet.

Davies made his way up the hill, faltering and missing the musical beats of it. He refused to let me steady him and I refused to have him sing to me. It was apparently my birthday.

“Someone saw your design.” He noted on the downhill.

“Yeah. Some college girl.” I grumbled.

“What’d you think?” He asked in his usual mysterious way.

“She just wants a good look.” I returned in a neutral tone. “She read about me in the paper. All she wants to do is look.”

“She saw your design.” He paused. “And Jeff said she was like you.”

I blinked hard so the path ahead was eaten by shadow and Davies stumbled. “Not all of us have to be friends . . .” I said sourly and didn’t fill in the rest. “I’ve met kids with antlers and frog-hands before. I doesn’t mean anything.”

“Any of them come visit?”

“They’re smart enough not to.” I snark. “But the ones who manage to be pretty don’t have the brains to stay away.”

“Mm.” He made a soft sound. “What kind of tattoo do you think she’ll get?”

“How should I know? A heart or anchor or something dumb like that.” I walked on ahead. “Maybe I’ll give her a quote from some dead poet.”

“You like poetry.”

I huff dramatically, “Not what I mean. Girls like her don’t like my type of poetry, you know I’m saying.”

“What kind of girls?” Davies was patient. I hated that about him.

I stopped at the corner to let him catch up. “Don’t play dumb. Hot ones, college ones, getting a degree in money or music. They don’t watch over their shoulders enough or know when to stay away.” I scuffed my shoe on the ground. “Whatever.”

Davies was still thinking. I considered pushing him over. He finally spoke up again as we approach the bar, “That sea witch ever show up again?”

“Mags?” I snorted. “No. Why?”

“Cause I’m sure she’d like to see this.”

I didn’t say anything else as we reached the doorway. -------------------- The bar was loud. More people than I liked came to my “party.” I should have seen it coming. If the cliff city liked one thing it was an excuse to drink.

I crammed myself up against the bar and ordered a gin and tonic before the rest of the night crowd could arrive. Birdy was holding court at a corner table and waving at me. “There she is! Someone put a blanket over Nana, lights out, party up!”

Her puns usually left something to be desired. She sang “Blinded by the Light” every time she saw me for half a year.

I drank half my gin and tonic in the first gulp as a new stream of townies burst in. They arrived to buy me birthday beers and shout their opinions on the shitty new chain restaurant on 3rd street. I was almost tasting the bottom of my second glass when someone tapped on my shoulder.

I barely looked over.

The girl with sheets of black hair and a practiced-appearance stood before me—like she was at dress rehearsal and expected everyone else to know the lines as well. She carried a baby-blue bike helmet in one hand, and I noted there were two hand-drilled holes in the top.

“You.” I was tempted to shake her hand like I might make this a transactional hello and goodbye in short order.

“Hey.” She smiled, hesitant, like maybe the food on the fork might be too hot. “Nana, right?”

“Yep.” I sighed the word real long and heavy. “Listen, I really can’t give you a tattoo if you don’t know what you want.”

“No, no, I get it. But I want you to know . . . I didn’t know it was you.”

“Uh, okay. Though I’m pretty hard to miss over here.” I was looking at the dirty wine bottles stacked near the ceiling. Her antennae hang over both of us like fern fronds.

“No. I mean, when I saw the butterfly. That’s when I wanted to come here. Not after.”

“After what?” I was gonna make her say it.

“After I found that it was, well, you know, Headlights Girl.”

“Mm.” I was spending too much time with Davies. “You want something to drink?”

She sighed as well, real long and heavy. “Sure.” She took the seat next to me. “I’m Park by the way.”

“Park.” I rolled the name around in my mouth. “And you already know me.”

“I don’t think I do.” She laughed, sharp and bristly like something you can get cut on. “And I’ll have a beer. . . but only once you look up. Come on, I’m not like that.” I looked up. Her face was bright, round like the moon, her grin was sneaky and unearned. “There we go.”

She waved over the bartender Kipp and ordered her dark beer.

“It’s not really my birthday.” I informed her, dumbly. Every word felt dumb and clumsy all at once.

“Why not?” She was teasing. I knew that.

“That’s not how birthdays work.” I informed and wished I could backtrack into hostility again.

“Oh darn,” she winked. “And here I was about to make it my birthday too.”

“Uh, well,” I really should have left when I had the chance. “It’s not too late?”

“That’s the spirit!” She laughed, fuller this time and rounded. I looked her straight in the face and then quickly looked away again. Her grin was aimed at me, somehow, and seemed to reach high cupboards inside me you usually needed a stool for.

“Park,” I repeated the name and shifted in place. “So did you go to Haveryards or Simmons?” There were only two schools in the country for spirit bastards like us. Haveryards was close enough for me to get bussed to—an hour one way and then an hour home.

“Neither. I went to public and then Bakerville Uni.” She rapped on the counter. “Hey, you want another gin and tonic? Or I’ll mix you up something.” Her eyes flickered over everything. “I bartended my way through college so I can make a mean margarita.”

“Oh, Bakerville U., yeah. That ones close.” I stuttered a bit. She was leaning across the counter and trying to get Kipp’s attention a second time. My words were feeling dumber and dumber by the moment, perhaps losing all shape and meaning altogether. “That’s where you went?”

“How’d you guess?” She said playfully and pointed to her t-shirt. She finally got the bartender over. “Right, you want something hard? Vodka maybe? A mule?”

I scratched my chin. “ . . . I don’t care. I’m easy.”

She rolled her eyes and I knew she must feel me staring. “I can’t imagine shopping for you for today then.” She snickered and climbed over the counter. “Happy birthday, how about one chocolate mule for a free tattoo?”

“You wish.” I made a face. “You don’t even know what you want.”

“And you do?” She was still grinning, somehow. “I’ve decided I’m making you the equivalent of all the soda flavors mixed together at once. Close your eyes.”

I closed my eyes and I tried to turn off my thoughts. It was bright as knives inside my skull; I carry the daytime with me. Panic threatened to rise up (for no reason of course), but a soft hand brushed against mine, soft like sheets in fancy hotels and flower petals. I peaked and Park slid a full murky glass toward me.

“Drink up.”

It was sweet. It wasn’t even my birthday. I didn’t care. She called it a chocolate-mule-Park Special and maybe chocolate really was my favorite flavor. -------------- Park started coming around. She rode a sky-blue bike with a white basket and rusting hinges. I couldn’t imagine doing all the hills in the city without any gears, but she managed. She said she was figuring things out after graduating. She said she liked it here.

I grumbled when she came by. I complained like Annie when Wicker the cat visited: Get that thing away from me. I hate that. Smells awful. I’ve got allergies. Put that away, it’ll kill me.

I never said anything when Annie left fish heads out and bowls of milk of course.

Park smelled like sunscreen and breath mints. She had strong opinions on everything from street paving techniques to which sun hats went with which dresses. She invited me on walks. She invited me to help her change a flat tire. She invited me to the corner shop to help her pick out bottle can openers.

I said no. Sometimes I said no. I started to say yes.

“Look at this,” she liked to show me things. She liked to show me pictures of squirrels on her phone and weird pieces of glass she found. She liked to point out new restaurants (that I’d already been to) and play videos of funny traffic jams.

This time she held up a seashell. It was rounded and flat with a swirl in the center.

“I’m looking.” I said carefully.

“Watch how it catches light.” I shun my eyes on it and she moved it back and forth. There were bits of silver veins caught in the cracks of it.

“There’s tons of those.” At this point, I had valiantly refused to be impressed by even her cutest squirrel pictures.

“Ugh.” She pouted. “Are you kidding? I spent all morning looking for this.”

“They're right by the surf. I could find you five bigger ones than this before sunset.”

“Alright, hot-shot.” She jut her chin out and jabbed my shoulder. “Prove it.”

I said yes to that one. I left right after my shift ended with the sun setting in the waters like a stabbed orange bleeding out. I met Park by the parking lot with drooping palms trees lining the sides and lost flipflops everywhere.

“This is where you went wrong.” I announced. I couldn’t help it. “This is the tourist beach. You have to go somewhere real.”

“Alright, alright. You’ve already established you’re the hot-shot here. Lead the way.”

She followed me. I ignored how she lingered by my side. I ignored how her hand wrapped around my arm as she stopped us to look at a tiny horseshoe crab. Her hand was soft, like velvet, soft enough to smother something in my chest.

I found two seashells with streaks of silver and rainbow through them, both bigger than my palm. The sun was a flat line on the horizon before I could find a third and Park hooted.

“You said before sunset! It’s sunset, baby, pay up.” She called. “And you were so sure you were a better seashell hunter than me.” She tsked.

I scanned the ground more quickly. “It’s barely nighttime.” I pointed to the sky. “And I can keep looking. I have the built-in equipment for it.”

“Oh I know.” She planted herself on the soggy crusted sand and sat down in a heap. “But can you find why kids love the taste of not doing that? Take it easy. Take a seat.”

“So pushy.”

“You know me.” It was fond. It had only been a few months, but there was something fond there.

I ran a hand through my short choppy curls. “Fine.” I sat next to her, not too close. “It’s your loss.” We both looked out at the gently lapping waves, foaming and anemic. She let a long breath of air and for a moment I considered brushing her hair back. It was always in her face.

It was a quiet moment, bottled, and pitching toward something. Like the the moment where you miss a step on the stairs and the certainty of the fall was right there.

I was the one that scooted a little closer.

“I’m considering getting a storm cloud,” she commented off-handedly. “Can you do storm clouds?”

I made a sound of consideration. “Sure.” I glanced toward the opposite corner of the night sky. “I think I’ve seen one of those before. Big puffy wet things?”

“Kinda fluffy? You’re getting there.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I’m smiling, which is alright since there’s no way she could see it. She’s silent for another moment longer.

“Or would you make fun of me if I got something like a butterfly? Like your other one.”

“A storm cloud butterfly?”

“No. The cloud would it’s own thing.” She chewed on her bottom lip, ragged and chapped. “I mean, I’ve been doodling some ideas. And tattoos should be personal, right? So I thought a storm cloud might be fitting. Kids used to pay me a couple dollars to predict the weather. It could be a memorial to childhood entrepreneurial spirit.”

I watched her speak and something beat inside my chest like a second animal. I wanted to be closer. I wanted to feel velvet again.

“Why?” I rasped after a moment.

“Uh, why did they pay me? It’s just something I can do. Whenever it's going to rain or storm or be sunny out. I dunno, I don’t know why the rest of you can’t sense it.”

“And you didn’t become a meteorologist?” I smiled a bit bitterly.

She made an indignant noise. “And you didn’t become a professional lighthouse?”

I choked on a laugh. “Not yet.” A quiet consumed us from both sides, I made sure my light didn’t crash into her. I made sure to look at anything but her. She’d have to squint if I did and cover her eyes and I’d be there, ready to run her over.

“Kids in my class paid me too.” I barely realized I started speaking. “They slipped me a couple bucks to close my eyes so they could see my face.”

“You got money for that?”

“There wasn’t always much to do. Teachers were quitting all the time and sometimes it was just the TV. I dunno, they paid me. Then they’d giggle and run away afterward.” My voice sounded automated like the announcer at an airport, informing travelers their flight was canceled. “They always said I had a pig nose or a unibrow or looked like the lead singer of that Minx girl band-- super hot, but you know, it didn’t matter.” The laugh that escaped was high, girlish in a grotesque way. “Since, you know, no one would ever see it.”

“Kids are fucked up.” Park contributed simply.

“Adults are too.” I sniffed. “Everyone wants a light show.”

“Oh.” She said slowly. “Is it . . . is it bad I wanted to meet you then? I mean, I wanted to see the art first, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a factor.”

“No.” I said quickly. I lit up my own lap and empty hands. “Does it matter?”

“I never went to those schools,” she said hesitantly. “My parents fought them, said the schools were unfit. They shouldn’t be able to force us there. And that I wasn’t even dangerous since,” she gestured helplessly upward, “I just have these. So then, well, I never really met anyone else like me.”

“I mean, everyone’s different. It’s not . . . a big deal.”

“You’d think so,” she commented sardonically.

I folded up into myself like a complex origami piece. “Yeah, well, sometimes I wish I was dangerous. Actually dangerous.”

She giggled. “Didn’t you just say everyone’s different? I’d say everyone’s dangerous too. Just gotta find the niche.”

“Oh yeah,” I dared to turn toward her. “What’s yours then?”

“My danger niche? Hmm.” She was leaning now, pitching forward like a wave come to drown me. “I do have a few tricks up my sleeve I’ll admit.”

“You have a pair of wings hidden away?” I stopped breathing as her hand lifted up, strange and all at once. I wasn’t ready.

“Here.” Her skin was against mine. She cupped my cheek with one velvet-hand. It was heated cashmere, tiny feather-light hairs on her palm. “Feelers.” She whispered with a hesitancy there.

“Ah,” I was indulgent. I closed my eyes. I leaned in. “And you want to put a needle over these?” I put my hand over hers, loosely, so she could pull away if she wanted to. Tiny hairs pulsed there with some kind of life all their own. 

“I wanted . . .” She paused and I peaked open my eyes. I could see every detail of her face, illuminated. “I dunno.” She finished. “I guess I just wanted whatever I saw there, before.”

“In the butterfly?”

“In the butterfly.” I turned toward the ocean, but my hand remained over hers. “I’m not sure how good it will be a second time. It’s not like I’m really an artist. . .”

“What did you want to be?” Soft.

“Who knows. I mean, I’m glad my parents didn’t try to fight the schools. Being there during the day was better than being home, listening to my mom crying all the time and my father exploding . . . They wouldn’t have wanted me home.”

Before the sunset, when I was walking over, I thought maybe we’d kiss that night. I thought I’d feel that first electric pulse and maybe we’d climb into the ocean and swim in circles, laugh until the moon rose. I thought maybe I’d get something out of my system and there wouldn’t be anything left to say or do.

I’d kiss Park, once, and she’d be satisfied. She’d understand. She’d go on her college path and I’d go on on mine.

But the words spilled out, unbidden. Park stayed in place, steady and unflinching. That made it worse, so much worse.

“My parents weren’t like yours.” There was an accusatory edge to it. Don’t you know? I wanted to shout. Don’t you know? Even without the eyes or the school bills or the bus.

“Hey,” she cradled my cheeks with both hands now and smeared the tears away from one eye. “Hey, listen, I know. Alright? I know.”

I scowled back at her feathered little feelers.

“It’s not about the damn antenna or head beams or anything else.” I tried to pull away. “Even the kid with the antler’s kissed me and I didn’t stop him. I ran away from home and my mom never came looking. It didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! You wouldn’t even get it. You wouldn’t get it!” I squeeze my eyes closed. “You were wanted.”

Slowly, like an awkward animal burrowing into soft earth, she pressed her forehead to the crook of my neck. I could feel us both breathing in, strong and steady. She was lean and silky, and I swore I can feel her heartbeat hammering through my throat.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. I inhaled her sunscreen scent. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know. But I could.”

“Why are you here?” It was miserable and wet, I hated that my eyes were so different and yet still the same. Could still spill over like theirs. She took a long breath but didn’t move away.

“My last girlfriend broke up with me for being . . . sensitive and I thought maybe if I got a tattoo, I’d stop feeling so much. I’d prove something. I’d feel everything less, you know? It would hurt and then it wouldn’t.”

I took that in a parsec at time. “Are you,” I sniffed. “Are you alright?” Her legs and arms were plastered over mine. “You’re so soft, but, but I don’t want to,” I wipe at my face like it didn’t matter. “Hurt you.”

“I know.” Her face was still pressed to my neck and her lips fluttered across the hallow of my skin. “I didn’t want to hurt you either.”

A stillness settled into my bones. I glanced toward the moon, and it was like looking at like, a terrible moon to another moon. I gathered myself. I took a deep breath. I flattened.

“I shouldn’t have said all that.” My voice had dried up. “We led different lives.” It wasn’t her fault if she was wanted.

“No.”

“I wasn’t thinking . . .”

Her hand wrapped around my wrist. “I talk to Annie sometimes when you aren’t there.”

“Okay?”

“And Davies. And that front desk guy.”

“Daft Jeff. Yes.”

“They all say the same thing . . .” I blinked a couple times. “That I really should wait for you to give me the tattoo. You have a steady hand and an eye for detail.”

“Alright . . .”

“That someone taught you tattooing the right way. They wanted to show you the right way to do it.”

I snorted despite myself. “It’s not that hard. Mags was batty. Who knows why she showed me how to pick up a needle.”

“Don’t you see? They say they wouldn’t know what to do without you.” She was still there. She wasn’t moving, almost in my lap now. “You were wanted.”

“Park?” My voice cracked like a question.

“And you come with me to restaurants and help me buy bottle openers. You find shells for me and help me fix tires.” Her breath was hot and dragged across my cheek. “You are wanted.”

I blocked out her face, her voice, I turned on the sharp white sun inside and for a moment I imagine never opening my eyes back up again. Maybe I could make it night forever inside myself as well. Wouldn’t you rather have something quiet inside?

She wrapped herself around me, fully, one long arm at a time until it was cocoon. Soft. “Listen, sometimes the first people aren’t the right people. Sometimes your first relationship isn’t the right relationship. Sometimes you’re sure the world is one way, and like, always one way . . . and then it rains and the whole world is different again. You know? People pass.”

“My parents aren’t the weather.”

“But they’ll pass.” I should have pushed her off. But even against that, even those words— I liked being held, indulgent as chocolate and twice as guilty. “People sometimes feel forever, especially those kinds of people.” I was off again. “But it rains. And hey, I always know when it’s going to rain.”

I hiccupped; a smile found its way uninvited onto my face, unsure and just wobbly on its feet as Davies. I glanced down after a deep breath. Park grinned back at me and it reached the highest shelves of me all over again.

“So what happens when it rains again? Do you people like you pass?”

“Nah, not me. I don’t know how.” She winked. I didn’t notice that we’re lying flat now, stars and carpet of black above. “You can’t get rid of me. You haven’t given me that tattoo yet.”

The sound of shushing waves filled the midnight air and the moon looked down like that very first bus arriving to get me all those years ago. I wrapped my arms right back around her. She didn’t seem to mind that I was sticky or strange or sometimes kept tearing up all over again even after we’d stop saying anything worth tearing up over. ------------------

It happened. I felt like I should have been more prepared, brought flowers or poetry or earned it through honored warfare. But it happened. I was wearing ripped jeans, a spotty t-shirt and my breath smelled like coffee. We were looking for Park’s lost earring along an overgrown hill she usually biked along.

I found it, one shiny red dewdrop in all that green. Park pointed at some clouds that looked like my last “abstract” tattoo. We lay back in the grass and let the sky pass overhead. She giggled and touched my wrist, side by side. I let her.

“Summer’s almost over.” I mumbled it first.

“Yeah?”

“You find your next step then, college girl?” I tried to keep my tone light. She turned to be on her side.

“Maybe.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Oh, you know. This and that.”

“That does not sound like a college-girl plan.”

“Maybe I’ve got other plans. Maybe I’ve got other priorities, huh?”

“Ridiculous.” A playfully push her shoulder. “A lousy seaside town really isn’t priority material. There’s only one bookshop you know.”

“Two thank you very much. And that’s not my priority either.” Her voice wavered.

“Are you going to share with the class?”

“Is the class ready?” She whispered and I turned toward her as well now, taking in her perfect round face and question-mark mouth.

“I have been.” I matched her whisper. I tremor from my center outward and hopes she can’t tell.

“Do you know what they say about moths?”

“What?” I gave a breathy laugh. It wasn’t what I was expecting. “I’ve heard of them.”

“They tell your fortune.” She was grinning in that way that put out a stool and reached up. “I used to cry a lot growing up, because some kids said that moths are just evil butterflies. I was sensitive and ran all the way home. I threw myself at my mom’s feet and threw a fit about how moths were just evil butterflies. They were just ugly, wicked versions of a good thing.”

“Evil? Well, I suppose you are rather sinister when you haven’t eaten.”

“Shut up. I’m telling you something.” She put a hand on my shoulder. I inhaled deeply and turned over in place to face her. Only the shallow breeze kept us apart.

“I’m all ears . . . though maybe not as many as you.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“What can I say? The sun is adorable. I take after him.”

A finger ghosted over my cheek, tracing the arc of my cheekbone. “Well, you’re not so bad behind those headlights too. Some of us have good day vision you know. And good taste.”

I wished those words didn’t make my chest do funny things. “Thanks.”

“Do you want to hear what my mom said or not?”

“That you shouldn’t worry about evil butterflies?” I wiggled closer. “Because you’ll be really hot and funny and smart one day. So who cares if you’re evil?”

“Yeah, those were her exact words.”

“So?”

“So,” a firm hand took my chin. “Look at me.” I looked at her. I was glad she couldn’t see the flush in my cheeks in any way. “Moths show good fortunes she said.”

“Right. Lots and lots of good fortune.” I breathed, dumbly, of course. She was close and sweet and there was hair in her face. The fronds of her antennae tickle right past my ear.

“They can help you find good fortune. They’re good omens. You know why?” Park’s lips were barely moving as she spoke, hypnotic and unhurried.

“Why?”

“Because they follow the light.”

It happened all at once. Like every cheesy love poem or bad lyrics I wrote in my journals at night. It was every cracked-spine of a book using words like “rosebud lips” and every overdone song about people who find their way to each other.

I kissed her, leaning in with no life vest on or readied crash-landing position. She kissed me and my chest filled with her, breathless, drowning, soft as dreams and stranger than hope. I cradled her and she dragged me closer and closer until it was nothing but floods and brimming.

I’d been nothing before I think, I’d been an island that waits, a bus that leaves, a shadow that hides. And then I had been hers. ----------------- I was strolling home from work along the main road. The thin strip of sidewalk was streaked with bleached sunlight and the salt air was thick enough to burn throats. It was the long way home, but I was in the habit of going back to this corner.

The bus pulled up with little ceremony. It was an interstate one that crisscrossed over empty bellies of land. I stopped in place to watch, just in case, as I had many times before.

A silver head bobbed down the steps and planted herself on the concrete, unbelieving. She took an enormous noisy sniff of the air. “Not so bad!” She bellowed.

“Are you?” That wasn’t meant to be my first word. She was more stooped now and wearing shiny things on her wrist that clanked. She’d lost another tooth. “Mags.”

“Eh!” She yelled and waved frantically as if I hadn’t shot up another inch since I last saw her and started wearing clothes without holes in them. Her eyes sparkled as she tottered over. “So how’d you do, kid?”

“See for yourself.” I smiled. It was nice when the tides came back in. Mags gave me a thorough appraising. “Like this I guess.” I held up my hand. I wiggled my ring finger at her, heavy with a silver band and glittering opal.

“That’s my girl! Always knew you’d find your feet.” She cackled. “Am I too late to give you away, kid?”

I shook my head. She waddled over to me so I could take her hand. I took her home to show her my art and new tattoos, I showed her our terrible one-eyed kitten, Basket (Wicker’s son), and the little house we styled ourselves. I showed her our shoe closet and our queen bed, our messy kitchen and busted screen door. I showed her the moth tattoo over my heart, and Park showed her the matching lighthouse one over hers.

I tried to thank her, of course, I tried to say I owed her more than she knew for picking up an angry, dirty kid and seeing something in her. I owed her everything. But she just patted my hand and said that it’s not about our debts in life, kid. It’s about the becoming.

-----------

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[goddessofmischief]

hello! could you write a bucky x reader where john walker flirts with the reader and bucky gets upset? maybe that scene in ep 2 where everyone's sitting in the car? thanks :)

This is a fantastic request! Also, reader has female pronouns in this.

Team Up - Bucky Barnes x Reader

James Buchanan Barnes.

The Winter Soldier. A fossil. A killer.

And quite possibly, the love of your life.

At least, if he’d let you.

You and Bucky felt the same way for each other - that much had always been clear. You’d met on one of his missions, and been lucky enough to survive. Years later, you met him again - this time, as Bucky Barnes, desperately trying to claw his way back into society. You were his neighbor, back when he’d run from his troubles.

Everything had been fine, until the day Steve Rogers recruited you to help bring him in (and protect him from the Wakandans), and after that day, your life had been one with his.

And you’d begun to understand why Bucky had always kept you at arm’s length.

After the war, he’d cut all contact with you entirely. Hell, you barely spoke to Sam anymore - or, for that matter, anyone from Team Cap. Wanda was AWOL. Ant-Man was taking a break.

Which is why it surprised you so completely when you received a message from an unknown caller.

The caller, as it happened, had been one John Walker - someone who wasn’t quite as shy about asking for your help. He had his wingman. Now he needed, as he put it, his very own ‘Miss Carter.’

You didn’t bother to tell him her name was actually Agent. You sensed it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

Besides, why not? The Avengers were disbanded. Steve was gone. Bucky had abandoned you.

You didn’t owe them anything. And if this John guy wanted to make the world a better place?

Well. You weren’t about to stand in the way of it.

“What’s the plan?” you asked, securing a gun in your holster.

“We’re going after the terrorists,” said Hoskins, Walker’s second-in-command. “We’ll go in first. You need to disable the truck.”

You nodded. Walker stopped in front of you, securing the shield on his back.

“Kiss for good luck?” he asked, jokingly, and you stared at him.

“No.”

He rolled his eyes, jumping out of the helicopter and onto the truck. You followed, taking out the driver. Eventually, though, the truck became engulfed in flames, and you had to jump out, coughing. Walker helped you into a car.

“Was that...?”

“Yeah, Falcon and Bucky. They’re... helping.”

Well, speak of the devil.

You, Walker and Hoskins pulled up alongside Bucky and Sam, walking down the road. Walker honked the horn.

“So,” he said. “That didn’t go as planned, huh? All right, we gotta work together.”

“That’s not happening,” said Bucky, and you bit your lip to keep from smiling. Hoskins noticed.

“I think we stand a much better chance if we all just-”

“Just ‘cause you carry that shield,” said Sam, “It doesn’t mean you’re Captain America.”

“Look, I’ve done the work, okay?”

“You ever jump on top of a grenade?” Bucky snapped. You realized, with a twinge, that he hadn’t noticed you yet.

“Yeah, actually, I have. Four times.”

Walker looked to you, as if for approval, and you shrugged.

“Look, it’s twenty miles to the airport. Get in.”

Reluctantly, Sam and Bucky climbed in.

...And for the first time in months, you and Bucky’s eyes met.

“Hey,” he exhaled, looking throughly beaten. “What’re you-”

You gestured to Walker.

“I’m traveling with them now. He needed my help.”

“Well,” said Walker, broadly, “Couldn’t do anything without my best girl, could I?”

He put his arm around your shoulders, and you let him. Slowly, you realized this actually could be...

Fun?

Bucky deserved it, didn’t he? He was the one who’d left you.

“No,” you answered, gazing up into Walker’s eyes. “No, I guess you couldn’t.”

“So, are you two...” Bucky gestured at him. “Fondue-ing?”

"Oh, you know. Most of it’s for the cameras, but...” you shrugged. “John’s pretty good. Almost as good as the original.”

“You take that back,” said Bucky, quietly, and at that moment, Sam Wilson decided to get involved.

“So. Out of all the women in the world, you choose her to be your... your fake girlfriend? Why?”

“Well, she's...” John trailed off. “Perfect.”

“Perfect, huh? Do better.”

“She’s perfect, she’s... she’s beautiful.”

“Anything else?” asked Sam, skeptically.

John shrugged.

“What else is there?”

Oh, now he'd done it.

“What else is there?” shouted Bucky, and you could practically see steam coming from his ears. Carefully, you removed Walker’s arm from around your shoulders. “What else is there?”

"Easy, Buck,” you said, quietly, standing in front of Bucky and placing your hand on his chest. “Hey, I’m here, okay-”

“Yeah, well, we’re leaving,” said Sam, glaring at you. “Good luck with Walker, Y/N. Hope that works out for you.”

“You know this guy’s a jerk,” said Bucky, looking at you, pleadingly. “So... come on. Come with us.”

“So now that someone else needs me, you choose me? No, Bucky,” you said, shaking your head. “This is where I belong.”

...

Requests open for Bucky Barnes, Loki Laufeyson, Peter Maximoff & Ben Solo!

[capseycartwright]

 “ they don’t deserve you. and i’m not— i’m not tryna be that asshole that says i do. but sure as hell would never hurt you like that. ”

Eddie really, really hated it when Buck was upset. It’s not that he judged Buck, for how open he was with his emotions - no, Eddie had always admired that. Eddie hated it because he never had any idea of how he could help, really help. Fixing Christopher’s tears was easy, mostly - usually a cuddle, a kiss on the forehead, and the promise of ice-cream, or McDonalds, fixed the worst of his nine year old son’s tears.

Eddie’s not convinced a Happy Meal and an extra chapter of his book before bed was going to fix the very forlorn looking Buck who was sitting, slumped on Eddie’s couch, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy from crying.

“What’s wrong with me, Eddie?” Buck asked, sounding completely pitiful. Would one of Christopher’s teddy bears help, Eddie had to wonder?

“Buck…” Eddie trailed off, voice soft. How could he even begin to explain to Buck that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him - that it was everyone else, who was wrong, to not see how good and funny and kind and wonderful Buck was.

“I’m serious, Eddie,” Buck shook his head, twisting on the couch. “Abby - Ali. And now Taylor. Why - why doesn’t anyone want to stay with me? Am I really that - that annoying, and needy?”

No. No.

They were all wrong for you, Buck - is what Eddie wanted to say. He hadn’t known Abby, but he knew enough to know that it was never going to work, with her and Buck - they had been in such different places in their life, and Abby wasn’t going to be the one to give Buck the life he wanted. She went about ending it, in a spectacularly shitty way - but no matter what, Eddie was pretty convinced it was always destined to end.

Ali had been a particularly hurtful one. Being with a first responder, Eddie knew it wasn’t signing up for an easy life - but what Ali had never fully understood was that being a firefighter, it was so much more than a job, it was a vocation, a calling. Buck was never going to be able to walk away from it - and so Ali had walked away first. She had missed out, Eddie thought - missed out on seeing the best guy Eddie knew beat the odds to come back to the job he loved with a burning passion and desire anyone in the world would be jealous of.

Taylor was -

Eddie had complicated feelings about Taylor. He’d come to like her a lot more, in the eight months her and Buck were together. His own relationship with Ana had ended a few weeks after the shooting, and so Eddie had been a regular third-wheel around Buck and Taylor. She’d been good for him, in a lot of ways - brash and bossy and confident and utterly sure of her decision to date Buck for about seven months and twenty-eight or so days - and when Buck had been thinking about a joint-lease, Taylor had been thinking about how to break up with him.

Irrationally, Eddie wanted to be unapologetically angry with her - but she’d walked away before Buck had put his entire heart and soul into their relationship and Eddie was grateful, for that kindness at least. Taylor didn’t want kids - and Buck wanted a house full of them, and so there had been nowhere for their relationship to go.

And so for the third time in the years Eddie had known him, Buck was sitting on his couch, heartbroken, and Eddie didn’t know what to do. Except - except, well, he needed to just say it, didn’t he? He needed to say it and he needed to admit to Buck the truth Eddie had been hiding since the bullet had ripped through his shoulder and Eddie’s life had flashed before his eyes and he’d realised exactly how he wanted it to look, and who he wanted to share it with.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Buck,” Eddie said firmly. “They - they don’t deserve you,” he paused, his breath catching in his throat. “And I’m not tryna be that asshole that says i do, when you’re sitting here, on my couch, completely fucking heartbroken, because that’s just - that’s just bad timing,” he managed to get out in a rush, Buck looking at him, utterly baffled. “But I sure as hell wouldn’t hurt you like that, Buck.”

Buck’s eyes were almost comically wide. “Eddie, are you - are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Eddie swallowed his nerves. It was now, or never, apparently. “I’m saying that I think you’re probably the best person I’ve ever met. You make me laugh, even when I’m feeling stupidly grumpy, and I trust you, with everything that’s important to me,” he paused. “And we want the same things out of life,” he continued. “A - a house, and a family, and more kids than either of us know how to handle, and some pets, probably, and even after all that, I’d still understand why you wake up every single day and want to run into burning buildings, because I know you, Buck. That’s what I’m saying. I know you, and - if you gave me the chance, I’d never leave you.”

Buck was crying again, but happy tears, this time. “Eddie,” he said softly. “Did you just confess your love for me without saying the word love?” he teased, his smile wet, but happy, Eddie thinks - definitely happier than it had been a few minutes ago.

Eddie couldn’t hide the bashful smile that appeared on his face. “I’m saving that,” he admitted. “For when you’re ready to hear it.”

send me a shippy meme

[renecdote]

oooh can i get buddie + "go back to sleep" (congrats on your milestone !!!)

Some 4x14 fic for you 💛

[Read on AO3]

Eddie hasn’t been sleeping well.

Buck hasn’t been sleeping too well, either, but Eddie is the one who got shot eight weeks ago, so—Eddie is the priority. Buck can deal with a few rough nights, a few days spent yawning into coffee, downtime at the station spent catching naps whenever he can. He has it almost down to a science now; he knows just how long to set his alarm for to avoid dreaming and wake up feeling rested, even if it’s only for a little while.

He was okay for a while. Well, he wasn’t okay first, but then Bobby made him take time off work, and Buck started seeing Dr. Copeland twice a week instead of once a fortnight, and he has a prescription for sleeping tablets but he only uses those as a last resort, and—the point is, Buck is coping. Sort of. He was coping well enough to go back to work two weeks ago, anyway, and he’s confident that wasn’t a rushed decision, even if the twenty-four hour shifts without Eddie kind of make him want to crawl out of his own skin.

Dr. Copeland says a little separation anxiety after seeing your best friend get shot in front of you isn’t abnormal.

Buck is just grateful she doesn’t call it codependency.

–––

(Six days after Eddie comes home from the hospital, Buck gets twenty minutes into a lunch date with Taylor before realising he can’t do it. Lunch. Dating. Whatever it is they are trying to do. No matter how much he likes her, no matter how much he wanted this a few weeks ago, it doesn’t feel fair to her now. Not when he always feels distracted, always preoccupied by Eddie, always too deep inside his own head to give her the attention she deserves.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I don’t—I don’t think this was a good idea.”

“Eating sushi?”

“Us.” Buck swallows, eyes dropping before he forces them back up. “I’m not sure I know how to be in a relationship right now. I’m not…” He shakes his head. “Eddie got shot, Taylor, and it kind of broke me. And I don’t—I don’t regret that we started this, I just think… maybe we started it a little too soon. I’m sorry.”

Taylor covers his hands with her own, squeezing gently. “It’s okay, Buck. I’m not going to force you into something you’re not ready for.” There is a pause, weighted, before she adds, “I’m not sure I can wait for you.”

“I know,” he says, and what he means is I wouldn’t want you to. Not when she may be waiting forever. Not when he knows what that’s like and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

“We’re still friends, right?” he asks.

Maybe there is too much vulnerability in his voice because Taylor’s smile is more gentle than he is used to seeing from her.

“Yeah,” she reassures him. “We’re still friends.”)

–––

(Two days after that, Eddie sits on the edge of his bed, looking confused while Buck rifles through his wardrobe, searching for clothes that are soft and comfortable and easy to put on with an injured shoulder. He is idly thinking about the laundry that needs to be done, how bad traffic might be on the way to Eddie’s doctor’s appointment, whether Bobby will bring over a dish of that pasta bake Eddie likes if Buck asks nicely enough.

He’s not expecting Eddie to say, “Why are you here?”

When Buck glances back at him, frowning, he adds,“I mean… You’ve got a girlfriend, but you’re still always here.”

“We broke up.”

Eddie looks like he doesn’t understand. It’s hard to tell how much of that is the painkillers he took not long ago, and how much is just… his unshakable believe that Buck is someone worth loving. Someone who people are crazy to walk away from.

Buck picks out a shirt and tosses it on the bed before standing in front of Eddie, close enough that he can start working on the buckle to loosen the sling. Eddie’s left hand comes to rest against the side of his leg, not really holding on, just—touching. Grounding himself, maybe, or grounding Buck.

Or maybe just wanting—needing?—the contact.

Buck’s voice comes out quiet when he says, “Being here is more important.”

You are more important.

Eddie looks a little bit like he is going to cry, but that’s probably just the painkillers making him emotional as well. He lets Buck help him out of his sling and into the shirt without a word, biting his lip against the pain. When a tear slips out and he quickly dashes it away, Buck pretends not to notice. He focuses on doing up the buttons that Eddie could probably manage one-handed and when he gets to the end, crouched on the floor so he doesn’t have to bend awkwardly, Eddie grabs his hand before he can stand. Buck looks up into his searching gaze, feeling strangely caught, not like a fly in a trap, but like a planet being pulled further into the orbit of a burning star.

“Yeah?” he says.

“You broke up with your girlfriend because of me?”

Eddie sounds—confused, more than anything. Something else, too, something that is a little wobbly and harder to read.

“No,” Buck replies, not entirely sure it’s the right answer. “I mean, not really. I just... You got shot, Eds.” And his voice cracks there, forcing him to stop and suck in a breath before his own eyes well with tears. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to have this conversation if he starts crying. “And I know—I know you’re going to be okay, I know that, I just—” I can’t stop reliving those moments that you almost weren’t “—I need to figure out how to be okay again, too, and it felt like too much to add a relationship to all of that.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says slowly. There is something in his expression, something almost knowing, like he really does get it. But he just says, “Still, it must have been hard.”

Buck shrugs. It wasn’t, really, and that probably says more than he’s willing to examine right now—maybe more than he’ll ever be ready to admit.)

–––

(It’s coincidence, probably, that Eddie breaks up with Ana only a few short weeks later.)

–––

For the last two months, Buck’s routine has revolved around the Diazes. He has practically been living with them, even though neither he nor Eddie have said it out loud in those exact words. His therapy sessions have been scheduled around Eddie’s appointments; there are more of his clothes at Eddie’s house than his own apartment; he spent so many nights on the couch that his back was almost permanently aching, until Eddie sighed and said, “Just… come here, come sleep with me, you know the bed is big enough, and it’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

Buck tried to argue that Eddie wasn’t injured when they shared a bed during quarantine, and he didn’t want to hurt him, and the couch was perfectly fine, and—

He should have saved his breath because he ended up in Eddie’s bed anyway. That night and most nights since.

So Buck knows that Eddie hasn’t been sleeping well, he has a front row seat to it, he just—doesn’t know what to do about it.

–––

(“It’s not something you can fix,” Maddie tells him, sounding too much like someone who is speaking from experience. “He’s talking to a therapist, right?”

Buck nods. He stares down into the tea she made him (after rolling her eyes and refusing to give him coffee after five pm), watching the surface ripple as he turns the mug by the handle, lining it up perfectly with a coffee stain on the table.

“I just wish I could help,” he says.

Maddie squeezes his hand. “I’m sure you’re helping more than you think.”

Buck doesn’t know about that. It just... feels like he could be doing more. Even if he’s not sure what exactly that might be.

He changes the subject and Maddie graciously doesn’t call him on it.)

–––

Being back at work has been an adjustment.

It’s actually been a bit of a nightmare, honestly, in both the literal and figurative sense. When Buck wakes up gasping, heart pounding, the taste of Eddie’s blood on his lips, he can’t just roll over and see that Eddie is okay. He never used to have a problem sleeping in the bunks, but now he finds himself dreading it. And it’s not just the nightmares, it’s the fact that he just… doesn’t sleep well without Eddie anymore. Even the nights he spends at his own apartment, on his own mattress—which is much more comfortable than Eddie’s mattress—he tosses and turns, waking up feeling more tired than when he went to sleep, even when his dreams aren’t unpleasant.

Buck is managing, though. He has to be. And if that means staying late at the Diaz house so he has an excuse not to go home, or forgetting about excuses entirely and heading straight there after his shifts instead of going back to his empty apartment—well. What matters is that it helps.

And maybe it’s selfish, but Buck thinks it’s helping Eddie too. He’s always grumpier on days when Buck hasn’t slept over, the shadows under his eyes always darker, his light a little bit dimmer. It could be a coincidence, it could be Buck reading into things that aren't there, but—what if it isn't?

–––

(Buck talks about it in therapy, sometimes, the way they go to sleep on opposite sides of the bed and wake up curled close together, like gravity itself has pulled them there. He talks about those times when he opens his eyes to sunlight and realises that they both slept through the night, that his dreams were almost pleasant, that Eddie’s must have been too because he smiles sleepily across the pillows, not looking so haunted in the morning light.

Sometimes Buck wonders if Eddie talks about it too. He wonders if he feels it.

And then he’ll wake up on another one of those mornings and Eddie will grumble and press closer, muttering five more minutes, and Buck doesn’t really have to wonder at all.)

–––

Two weeks—sixteen days—after starting work again, Buck sits in his jeep at the end of shift, eyes gritty and brain cloudy with exhaustion. He wants to go home, but he doesn't want to go home, and the feeling is so overwhelming he could cry.

Could, but doesn't, because he's still at the station, and everyone else from his shift has already left but there are still people around, and he's supposed to be okay, and—

It's not really a surprise that Buck finds himself at Eddie's place. He is quiet when he lets himself in, early enough that the house sits still and silent. A quick glance into Christopher’s room shows him to be fast asleep, sprawled out on his stomach with one arm hanging off the side of the bed. It’s a Saturday, so at least they don’t have to worry about getting him up for school. Buck carefully pulls the door shut again and moves further down the hallway, avoiding the creaky floorboard outside the bathroom, being as quiet as he possibly can.

Half of his clothes are in a drawer in Eddie’s dresser. The rest are still in his suitcase, keeping up the pretense that he is packed up and ready to leave at any moment. Buck sets his work bag down quietly and digs out a loose t-shirt and the first pair of sweatpants his hands find. He is almost out of the room when—

“Buck?” mumbled, searching.

The sound of Eddie’s voice immediately makes Buck feel guilty. Waking Eddie is exactly what he was trying not to do.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says, keeping his voice low, hoping it will keep Eddie from waking up any further. “Go back to sleep.”

Eddie hums, agreeable, but his eyes blink open, searching fuzzily until they find Buck’s face. “Coming to bed?”

“Yeah,” Buck agrees, even though he was thinking about going out to sleep on the couch so he wouldn’t disturb Eddie getting into bed. That’s kind of a moot point now. “I’m just going to brush my teeth.”

Eddie grunts—a sound that seems to convey that the practice of good dental hygiene has personally offended him. It makes Buck smile.

“I won’t be long,” he promises.

When he comes back and climbs into bed, there are only inches between them. Eddie is on his back, shoulder and elbow elevated by a pillow, the angle tipping him slightly toward where Buck lies on his side. This close, he could reach out and touch the dark shadows under Eddie’s eyes, wish them away with a gentle caress of his fingers. Buck tucks his hands under his pillow instead.

“Sorry I woke you up,” he says quietly.

“’S’okay,” Eddie replies, and something in his voice makes it sound like I’m glad you did. “Wasn’t really sleeping anyway.”

This side of the house faces north, so it doesn’t get direct morning or afternoon sun. It gets the sharp angles of the shadows instead, cascading shades of darkness that blur the edges of Eddie’s face. They blur a lot of other things, too, like the space between them and the lines of their relationship. Here, in the relative safety of Eddie’s bedroom, in the quiet hours while the rest of the world slowly wakes up, Buck can let himself think about all the things he doesn’t dare to dwell on in broad daylight.

–––

(He thinks about his heart bleeding out on that street.

He thinks about Eddie’s shoulders shaking as he cries against Buck’s chest after nightmares.

He thinks about his own nightmares.

And he thinks about how it might feel to wake up and have Eddie’s face be the first thing he sees every morning.)

–––

"Shift okay?" Eddie asks him.

"It was fine."

Except for the fact that we didn't get a single call all night but I still couldn't sleep.

Except for someone else in the space where you are supposed to be beside me.

Except for how much I missed you.

Buck swallows the words back. “Are you gonna go back to sleep?” he asks instead.

“Mm. You’re staying?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Buck isn’t entirely sure that Eddie means for that word to slip out. His eyes are already closed, the tension easing out of him. He shifts slightly and his hand falls into the open space between them, almost like he’s reaching for Buck. (Almost like he’s reaching across asphalt and blood.) If Buck were a stronger man, he might reach back and grab it, hold on tight and never let go. But this new normal they have settled into still feels too fragile. Sometimes Buck feels like if he even looks at it head on, it will crumble away, and he has already come too close to losing Eddie more than once; he’s not ready to put himself in a position where he might lose him again.

Only when Buck is sure that Eddie is asleep does he dare to cross those few inches between them. Fatigue is like lead in his bones, but he reaches up, fingers ghosting over the dark skin under Eddie’s eyes. Eddie’s eyelashes flutter and he tips his head slightly, like he’s chasing the contact. Buck holds his breath for a moment, but Eddie doesn’t wake up. He just sighs and rubs his cheek against the pillow, rolling a little closer.

When Buck closes his own eyes, he doesn’t think about the distance between them. He doesn’t think about how natural it feels for his hand to rest right beside Eddie’s, their pinky fingers touching. He doesn’t think about how he’s probably going to wake up with his arm over Eddie’s waist and his face against his best friend’s shoulder. He doesn’t think about what it might be like to fall asleep like this every day for the rest of his life.

The only thing Buck is thinking about is how good it feels to see Eddie sleeping so peacefully.

It’s still true that Eddie hasn’t been sleeping well. And it’s true that Buck hasn’t been sleeping too well either. But together—together, they always sleep a little bit better. It’s not a solution, not really, but for now... For now, maybe it can be enough.

(When Buck dreams, he dreams of Eddie, but he doesn’t dream of blood.)

(He wonders, sometimes, whether Eddie ever dreams about him too.)

[the-modernmary]

when you gonna take me out? || derek morgan x GN!reader

Summary: You and Derek have been flirting pretty heavily for the past few weeks. So when his first time asking you out doesn't go as well as planned, he's determined to get you to say yes.

Warnings: mentions of getting shot, allusions to smut

A/N: Chapter title taken from Aly & AJ's "Take Me Out". This was inspired by a scene from the show community, and also because derek morgan deserves more love

~~~~~~~

“No, no, you see, asking somebody out is an art,” Derek explained to a very frustrated Spencer Reid. “And I think with a little practice, pretty boy, you could become a bit of a player.”

Prentiss, who had been listening to Derek trying to convince Spencer to let him be his wingman for the better part of an hour, scoffed from her desk. “Using a cheesy pickup line is an art now?”

“There is nothing wrong with a line!” Derek argued, leaning back in his desk chair. “It’s a knock at the door. And once they let you in, that’s when you strike.”

Spencer scrunched up his nose at Derek’s phrasing. “I think I’m going to leave the whole player thing to you.”

“Come on, Reid, it’s easy.”

“If it’s so easy, then why don’t you show us?” Prentiss shot.

Right at that moment, Garcia and JJ walked back into the bullpen, coffees in hand. “Show us what?” JJ questioned.

“Derek is trying to teach Reid how to flirt,” Prentiss explained. “But I think he’s just all talk. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Morgan with a significant other.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Hey, I don’t pry into your personal life?”

Garcia put a comforting hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Nobody can resist my chocolate thunder. I mean, look at him. He literally looks like he was sculpted by Michaelangelo.”

“I’m with Emily,” JJ chimed in. “I kind of want to see the Derek Morgan in action.”

Derek’s eyes scanned the bullpen until he landed on you, standing in the kitchen area and making yourself a cup of coffee. You were also a profiler, just on a different team that primarily focused on cold cases. It was no secret that you and Derek Morgan had been flirting pretty heavily the past few weeks — longing glances, pet names, and kisses on cheeks were just the start — and you both had a sneaking suspicion that there was an office pool betting on whether or not the two of you had already hooked up.

“Fine,” Derek said, standing up. “Watch and learn, Pretty Ricky.”

Derek sauntered over to the kitchen and leaned against the counter while reaching for a wooden stirrer. “Let me help you with that,” he offered.

You turned to look at him, a smile on your face. “Wow, what a gentleman,” you teased, but you handed your cup of coffee to him anyways. “I didn’t realize you knew how I take my coffee?”

“You learn a lot about somebody when you can’t take your eyes off them,” he pointed out. “Especially with the way you look right now. I mean, wow. Got a hot date tonight? Because he is one very lucky man.”

You arched an eyebrow in his direction. “Nope, no date.”

“Well, you do now, baby,” Derek grinned. “I’ll pick you up at 8:30.”

You stared at Derek, part amused and part incredulous. “Did you really think that would work?” you asked through a breathy chuckle.

Derek’s confident grin fell slightly as his eyes narrowed in confusion. “Wait, what?” he asked, unable to form any other words.

“Derek Morgan, I expected so much more from you,” you mused, snatching your coffee cup from his hand. “I know you can sweet talk better than that.”

It was Derek’s turn to raise his eyebrows, and he tried his best to ignore the barely-suppressed giggles from his teammates. “So is that a no?” he clarified, not used to the feeling of rejection. Although, it didn’t feel quite like a rejection, especially when you were smiling at him with just a hint of your tongue peaking out from between your teeth.

“It’s a… ‘better luck next time’,” you explained, taking a sip of your coffee.

Derek’s normal, confident grin returned to his face. “You’re saying I can ask you out again?” he clarified, because he did not want to be the guy who didn’t know how to take no for an answer.

You walked backwards to your desk, never taking your eyes off Derek. “Sure. It could be fun. But you’ll have to bring your A-game if you want me to say yes,” you told him, and oh, Derek Morgan loved a good challenge.

Derek walked back to his desk, feeling the stares of his teammates the whole way back.

“Like a knock on the door...” Prentiss quoted back to Derek. “So did you just get the door slammed in your face, or was nobody home?”

Derek scoffed and sat down in his chair, already coming up with all the new ways he could ask you out. He had been wanting to for a while, but the timing was always off. But now…

“Oh no, I’m in,” Derek promised, and his eyes were immediately drawn to you. He hadn’t been lying when he said that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. “But I’m playing the long game.”

~~~~~~~

Derek and the rest of his team got pulled into a case shortly after, so you didn’t hear from him for about a week except for the occasional “how is it going?” text. They got back to the BAU in the middle of the day, but instead of heading straight home like the rest of his team, Derek made a beeline to your desk.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he greeted, dropping a quick kiss to your temple. “Hope you didn’t miss me too much.”

A soft blush rose to your cheeks as you shut the file you were looking at, spinning your chair so that you could face him. “I missed you tons, as always. But you knew that.”

Derek’s eyes trailed up and down your body, and there was a softness to his gaze that you rarely ever saw from him. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“Sore eyes?” you questioned. “I don’t know about that. Wasn’t there a meteor shower where you guys were at?”

“Yeah, but no meteor shower can compare to how beautifully your eyes sparkle.”

You tried really, really hard to hold in your laughter. You pressed your lips into a thin line and you bit the insides of your cheeks, but you were only so strong, and even Derek looked like he realized how cheesy and awful that line was.

You broke down into a fit of laughter. “I’m sorry,” you giggled, covering your mouth as you did. “I just — Did you google a top ten best pickup lines list on the plane ride back?”

Derek winced, but nodded in agreement. “That’s fair. Not my best work.”

“No, it was not, Romeo,” you said, patting his cheek. “But we’ll chalk it up to post-case sleep deprivation.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Derek grinned. “When the time comes, you won’t be able to say no.”

You laughed, throwing your head back as you did. “And I am eagerly awaiting that day.”

~~~~~~~

Two days later, Derek all but ambushed you at the elevator. As soon as you stepped out onto the 6th floor, Derek slung his arm around your shoulders, and used his free hand to carry your bag for you.

“Oh, this is exciting,” you mused. You reached your hand up to interlace your fingers with the hand that was draped over your shoulder. “What do you have for me today, baby?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Derek explained. “And you’re a modern, progressive, independent person. I think I’ve been going about this all wrong.”

You nodded in encouragement. He was so close, you just knew it. All he had to do was ask you.

“You don’t want to be dragged down by a bunch of strings. So how about you come over tonight, I’ll put on some mood music, light some candles, and you and I can have one perfect night of pure bliss.”

Or maybe he wasn’t as close as you thought.

“Nope,” you said, moving his arm off of your shoulders. You liked Derek Morgan, but you were not going to be another one of his one night stands. “Not gonna happen.”

“Better or worse than before?” Derek asked, already knowing the answer, and he handed your bag back to you.

“Worse. Much worse.” You paused and turned so that you were facing him. “But I like how forward you were. Keep that up.”

Derek smirked and leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets. “Yeah? So should I keep those candles just in case?”

You pretended to think about it for a few seconds. “With your current track record, baby boy, the only place you’ll be using those candles is in your dreams.”

“You’re already in my dreams, hot stuff,” he promised you. “Every. Single. Night.”

Oh god, that was a very welcome image you would think about forever. You knew that Derek liked you, and you had had your fair share of fantasies involving him in some pretty explicit situations, but him fantasizing about you? It was almost enough to convince you to drag him into the nearest empty room.

Almost. Because if he wanted a chance with you, he was going to have to actually ask you on a date.

Instead, you blew him a kiss and left him with: “And I bet I’m even better than you can imagine.”

Needless to say, the both of you spent the rest of the day incredibly distracted.

~~~~~~~

By that point, pretty everybody on the 6th floor knew what was going on, and they were all invested. More betting pools sprouted up, and even some of the more reserved agents were putting in their two cents, albeit under the guise of disapproval.

That’s why, when a bouquet of flowers appeared on your desk one morning, it was all anybody could talk about as they waited for you to get to work. Even Rossi and Hotch had found an excuse to get themselves out of their offices and into the main part of the bullpen.

“They’re going to say yes today,” Penelope guessed. “They have to. Everybody likes flowers, and this shows the sweet side of my chocolate thunder.”

Prentiss scoffed. “I hope they don’t. I have twenty bucks on at least two more rejections.”

Rossi, who was sitting on the edge of a desk, shook his head. “These are your friends. Don’t you guys feel bad about betting on their love lives?”

“Says the guy who has fifty dollars on ‘they get drunk and leave the bar together’,” Hotch said, not even looking up at the file he was skimming through. Hotch was one of the only ones who hadn’t put money into this whole thing, but he was still very well informed. “You all should really hide the whiteboard the bets are on a little bit better.”

Rossi was about to defend himself when you walked through the glass doors of the BAU. A hush fell over the room and they watched as your smile melted into realization and then nervousness.

You walked over to the bouquet and gingerly took the card, but you didn’t even get to read it when the first sneeze came. Then the next and the next, and pretty soon your eyes were watery, your nose running, and your throat was so scratchy that you sounded like you smoked four packs a day.

You tried to focus on your work, but the constant sneezing and needing to get up to blow your nose was seriously disrupting your productivity. You could barely focus because it felt like a head cold that just wouldn’t go away. Your pollen allergy was something you’d had your whole life, and when they hit, they hit bad.

The flowers were gorgeous and such a sweet gesture, but you didn’t even have the chance to really appreciate them while you could barely breathe through your nose. You were sure you were just a distraction

A hand on your shoulder made you jump, and you whipped around to see Hotch looking down at you with concern. You sighed. “I’m sorry, Agent Hotchner,” you said, your voice nasally. “I usually keep allergy meds in my bag, but it’s not pollen season and I—”

“Go home, agent,” Hotch interrupted you gently. “Get some rest. You can come back tomorrow when you feel better.”

“No, m’fine I just need to—” You cut yourself off this time with another sneeze, and then all you could do was agree with Hotch. “Yeah, I’m gonna go home. Thank you.”

You took the bouquet and walked over to Penelope, handing the glass vase over to her. “Will you please tell Derek that these are beautiful and that I’m so sorry—” You sneezed three times in a row, and by then you were too exhausted to even try talking anymore, so you just groaned and waved goodbye to the rest of Derek’s friends before dragging yourself out of the bullpen.

The next thirty minutes went on as usual, until Derek walked into the bullpen. He had been gone all morning doing a profiling seminar for academy recruits, so he had missed your quick descent into your allergic reaction.

His face fell slightly when he saw your empty desk, and it fell even more when he saw the flowers he had bought sitting on the corner of Prentiss’s desk and his entire team talking amongst themselves.

Derek walked up to them, a frown etched on his face. “Did they not show up for work today?” he asked.

“I sent them home,” Hotch explained, and if Derek didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that he saw the hint of a smirk on the corner of Hotch’s mouth.

Spencer’s smirk, on the other hand, was not even close to being hidden. “Hey Morgan, did you know that pollen allergies affect up to 20 million adults? And sunflowers and flowers in the aster family are considered some of the worst flowers for people who suffer with pollen allergies, since the pollen is so easily dispersed by the wind.”

Realization set in Derek and he cursed under his breath. You had mentioned once in passing that you liked the look of sunflowers, so he had assumed that those were the best flowers to get you. Clearly, he was wrong.

Noticing his dejected look, Garcia quickly interjected. “But they said that they’re beautiful and they looked like they really loved them,” she comforted. “And they wanted me to tell you that they’re sorry.”

Derek shook his head. How did he not know that you were allergic? That seemed like a pretty big thing. “No, they have nothing to be sorry for. I’m going to go wipe down their desk, make sure that it’s clean for them tomorrow.”

The team watched as Derek went over to your desk, taking his time to make sure that there was no flower residue left. They all quickly went back to discussing the bet, changing up their predictions now that they had more evidence to go off of.

Surprisingly, instead of going back to his office, Hotch spoke up. “Morgan isn’t used to being told no. He’s going to break down and beg.”

The team looked at Hotch incredulously. “I’ve never seen Morgan beg for anything,” JJ pointed out, and Hotch just shrugged.

“Well, are you willing to put your money where your mouth is?” Prentiss pressed.

Hotch sighed and shut the file he was holding. “I try not to make a habit out of betting on my subordinates' love lives.”

Rossi rolled his eyes. “He knows he’s wrong, he just wants to be a contrarian,” he told the team, baiting Hotch.

Hotch narrowed his eyes slightly. If anybody else had said that, he would have been able to walk away, but this was Rossi. So Hotch reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty from his wallet.

“None of this goes on any sort of record.”

~~~~~~~

“Derek Morgan, you got shot?”

You stood up from your desk as soon as you saw Derek and his team walk through the glass doors. It was way after hours, but the news of a shoot out at their last crime scene got back to you, and there was no way you were going to be able to go home knowing that Derek got hurt.

The rest of the team all shared a glance and quickly dispersed, giving you and Derek as much privacy as possible.

Derek made his way over to you, trying to look like he was in less pain than he actually was. “Don’t worry, hot stuff,” he told you, slumping down into his seat. “It just hit my vest.”

You stormed over to where he was sitting, worry evident on your face. “Yeah, I’ve been shot in the vest before!” you reminded him. “It still hurts like hell! What were you thinking?”

Derek forced a smile and held your hand in one of his own. “Baby, I’m okay. Really. I could even show you, if you wanted proof. Then you can stare at my abs without feeling guilty.” He took his free hand and started to lift up his shirt, and you quickly yanked your hand away from his.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, already in the process of storming away from him. “I cannot believe that you are seriously hitting on my right now. You just got shot and you’re asking me out? Agh!”

You started to walk away but Derek caught your hand just in time, laughing as he did. “Okay, don’t go, I’m sorry. I just…” he trailed off, suddenly getting serious. “I just really needed to see your smile.”

You mustered up the best smile you could. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Derek let out a long, audible exhale. “So am I,” he admitted. “I’ve never been more glad to be here doing paperwork.”

You rubbed your hands on the tops of your thighs. “I have some leftover takeout that I had for lunch. How about I heat that up and we can share it while I help you with your work?”

“You don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine.”

You shook your head. “No, I’ll stay. I have nothing else to do.”

Derek grinned and kissed the top of your hand. “You’re too good to me.”

You smirked. “I know.”

Pretty soon, the two of you were hunched over his desk, sharing bites of dinner and chatting easily as you trudged through paperwork.

You quickly learned that he liked to read Kurt Vonnegut and that his eagle tattoo was because of a nickname he had gotten in college. You told him about your fear of the ocean and the time you accidentally set off your high school’s fire sprinkler system during chemistry.

It was nice to be able to just talk to him. It felt like you and him had been friends for years and years, not just the past two months. This Derek Morgan was different from any other version of him, and you loved it. If you didn’t already have the biggest crush on him, this just solidified it. You really, really liked him, and you really, really wanted him to just ask you on a date already.

As the night went on, the two of you had moved closer and closer, until your shoulders bumped and your legs were pressed up against each other. If you both turned your faces to look at each other, your noses would brush. And from there, it would only be a few centimeters until your lips would be on each other…

“Thank you for helping me with this,” he said suddenly, breaking you out of your fantasy. He turned towards you, and you could feel his hot breath on your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “You didn’t have to stay, but… it meant a lot that you did.”

You smiled and tried to control your erratic heartbeat. “It was no problem. I’m happy to do it, anytime. Are you feeling any better?”

“A little,” he admitted. “But do you know what would make me feel even better?”

You finally turned to look at him, and his face was so much closer than you expected. “What is that?” you whispered, unable to force yourself to speak any louder.

Derek’s lips quirked up in a smile and he moved impossibly closer to you. His lips were brushing against yours, and all you had to do was lean in just a little bit. Then he met your eyes, and they really did sparkle, and for the first time in his adult life, Derek lost all of his nerve.

“You could kiss it better,” he suggested. “Because you are much hotter than any of the EMTs at the scene.” Derek grimaced internally, knowing that he came off sounding like an asshole. All he had to do was ask you on a date. It should have been easy. So why couldn’t he?

You closed your eyes and sighed exasperatedly, pulling away. “Wow, fumbled at the five yard line,” you teased, trying to hide your disappointment. You had thought that Derek and you were really having a moment, but maybe he really just didn’t want strings attached.

Derek frowned slightly, but tried to laugh it off. It was the first time that he thought he actually had a chance with you, and he blew it. “Yeah, I guess I did, huh?”

You fought a smile as you stood up out of your chair. “Mhm. But there’s always tomorrow. And since you’ve had such a rough past few days…”

You spun Derek’s chair around so that he was facing you, and you placed your hands on the arms of his chair, leaning over him. The two of you kept eye contact for what felt like ten years, and his cologne was making you dizzy. Slowly, you pressed a lingering kiss right on the corner of his lips. Derek’s breath got caught in his throat as you pulled yourself away, albeit on shaky legs.

“And that’s all the lovin’ you’re getting from me tonight,” you teased.

Derek leaned back in his chair, his hand over his heart in what looked to be a dramatic display of affection. In truth, he was trying to calm his rapid heartbeat however he could. “Oh, light of my life,” he cooed. “That’s more than enough. It’s the only win I’ve gotten all week.”

~~~~~~~

It had been a few days since your night in the office with Derek, and he hadn’t tried anything, which worried you. He wasn’t avoiding you, and the two of you still exchanged pleasantries throughout the day, but he wasn’t flirting with you anymore.

Part of you wondered if you were too harsh with him that night, if you should have just kissed him and gone home with him. But within the past few weeks, your infatuation with Derek Morgan had turned into a full blown crush, as juvenile as it sounded, and you did not want to be another notch in his bedpost. So you were willing to wait it out, to see if you would actually say the words: “Do you want to go out with me?”.

As if you had summoned him, Derek Morgan wheeled his chair over to your desk and put down a coffee cup from your favorite little cafe in front of you.

“Iced vanilla latte with oat milk?”

“You know both of my coffee orders?” you grinned. “I’m impressed.”

“Consider it a bribe,” Derek said, and you raised your eyebrow as a response.

“A bribe?”

“Please go out with me,” Derek asked, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “Pretty please. This was fun for a while, but now you are the only thing I think about. I can’t do my job, and I can barely sleep. I feel like I’m going crazy. You are so hot and so smart and so funny. Please let me take you on a date.”

The smile that grew on your face was so big that your cheeks started to hurt. “I’d love that.”

Derek seemed shocked that his attempt actually worked, and he blinked a few times just to make sure he heard you correctly. “Seriously? It’s a yes?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, taking a sip of the coffee Derek got you. “You finally asked me. Of course I said yes.”

“All I’ve been doing the past few weeks has been asking you,” he pointed out.

You hummed to yourself as you scrunched up your nose. “No. You told me that we were going on a date, asked me to have sex with you twice, and the rest of the times, you just used pick up lines. This is the first time you ever actually asked.”

Derek stared at your wordlessly, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to figure out what to say. Finally, he landed on: “That’s all it took?”

“Yup,” you replied, popping the ‘p’. “Although, I do want to hear more about my eyes and the meteor shower.”

Derek let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head as he did. “I will be sure to tell you all about it. And more. I’ll pick you up at 8?”

You were practically beaming as you watched Derek stand back up. “That sounds perfect. Oh, and Derek? I hope you still have those candles out and ready to use.”

“Baby, I never put them away.” Derek winked at you before walking back to his desk. Prentiss was mumbling something about owing Hotch money, but Derek was so high up on cloud 9 that he couldn’t be bothered to care.

“See Reid,” Derek said as he took his seat at his desk. “That’s what we call ‘playing the long game’.”

“Finally,” Spencer grumbled, his nose buried in some book Derek didn’t recognize. “Took you long enough to realize.”

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed together. “You knew?”

Spencer scoffed, flipping the page of the book he was reading. “I knew from the first time they rejected you.”

Derek leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “Man, why didn’t you tell me?”

Spencer finally looked up from his book, his eyebrow quirked up. “You were ‘playing the long game’,” he quoted in a bad impression of Derek’s voice. “And since I’m running it, I get a cut of the entire betting pool, no matter who won, so it was in my best interest to keep it going as long as possible.”

Derek shook his head in disbelief. “I see. That pretty face of yours is hiding an evil genius.”

Spencer hummed in agreement and went back to his book. There was a beat of silence before he spoke again. “They want you to take them to that Mediterranean place two blocks down.”

“Okay, there is no way you know that,” Derek groaned, rolling his eyes.

“You don’t have to take my advice, but you should. Clearly, you’re helpless,” Spencer shrugged, and Derek laughed as he threw a crumpled piece of paper at him.

When Derek picked you up that night, he made sure that the flowers he brought you were hypoallergenic, and the Mediterranean place ended up being the right choice, not that he would ever admit that to Spencer.

And he did, for the record, make sure to set out those candles he promised, but at the end of the night, the two of you were too busy tearing off each other’s clothes to even bother lighting them.

[spaceprincessem]

because we’re all acting completely normal and writing 5x11 coda fics to deal with our sad Buck and Eddie feels. spoilers if you haven’t watched the episode

all my thoughts and all my faults | ao3 link  {5x11 coda)

Buck thinks you should only be allowed to fall apart in the middle of the night.

He feels safer in the dark — less exposed — because if he’s going to be stripped of everything that’s barely keeping him together then it needs to be where no one else can see. It needs to be buried beneath the sound of the rotating fan in his bedroom, the flash of headlights as they glide across the windowpane, the crimson blink of a clock that tells him he won’t be getting any sleep tonight. There’s something intimately familiar in the way he fist his sheets, a cold sweat breaking over his forehead as he sits up with a gasping breath. It’s okay to wake up screaming if it’s under the cover of darkness. It’s okay to back yourself into a corner, like a caged animal as you come to your senses, telling yourself that you’re safe, you're safe, you're safe until you almost believe it. But maybe, not quite. It’s okay because in the middle of the night you are alone and you don’t have to pretend. The mask can slip. The real you — the ugly, exhausting you — can stake its claim until it’s pushed back by the palm of your hands behind puffy and red-rimmed eyes.

Funny, considering he’s here retching into his toilet at ten in the fucking morning trying not to think about how it still taste like a margarita on the rocks lined with salt.

It’s too bright. 

He closed the door, turned off the lights, but it’s still so goddamn bright because the sun is spilling in through the cracks and he’s alone — isn’t he always really alone? — and it’s just too fucking bright. He heaves again, lets his white-knuckled grip on the porcelain tighten until it hurts. He carefully wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sits back on his knees. He made it through that last twenty-four hour shift without completely losing it after Bobby’s big personnel announcement. He was mature. He maintained his professionalism.

(He promptly avoided Lucy at all cost until he was forced next to her into the fire truck for their first call of the day where she pressed too much into his space and all his bravado and insistence that Evan Buckley does not squirm went right out the window.)

Trying to be a better Buck

Isn’t he always? 

Buck falls back against the wall, lets his head drop into his hands, and thinks about what new version of himself needs to walk out that door.

Buck 1.0 was reckless. Wild. Easy going and carefree. He stole fire engines and had sex on rooftops with girls who were only interested in a pretty face. He was the bad boy of the 118. The one that disobeyed orders and loved to play the hero just to capture that fifteen minutes of fame feeling that almost felt warm in his chest. Buck 1.0 liked to run and run and run and run.

Buck 2.0 was softer. He found a place to settle his roots and thought love was something he could give without ever really getting anything back. He liked to fix people because that was easier than fixing himself. Buck 2.0 thought waiting was the answer. So he waited and waited and waited and waited.

Buck 3.0 was wiser. He faced his truths (some of his truths, anyway) and forgave his parents even when they really, really didn’t deserve it. He was coming to terms that it wasn’t his fault that he was either too much or never enough. Buck 3.0 was going places, the best version yet. He had a family, a sense of belonging, and almost everything he could ever want. 

Almost everything.

And now. 

Trying to be a better Buck

And, yeah, maybe he could become Buck 4.0 or Buck 10.0, or however many versions it takes to be what he’s supposed to be and what everyone wants him to be. But Buck knows. He fucking knows. He knows that whatever the fuck Buck is left doesn't matter because the real Evan Buckley — the ugly, exhausting Evan Buckley — is still standing on that street with his best friend’s blood in his mouth. 

He quickly tips forward and throws up again. Or maybe he sobs, he’s not really sure anymore. He lays his head on the seat, the plastic warm against his already blistering skin. Maybe, if he screws his eyes shut tight, he can push the roaring of blood against his ears hard enough that it will drown out the harmonic sound of bluebirds chirping, the unmistakable honk of cars from the Los Angeles commute, the faint tinkle of laughter, and the soft melodies from porch radios that remind him that it’s ten in the fucking morning. The bathroom lights up for a moment, his phone glaring brightly from its forgotten place on the sink. He reaches for it, fumbles with how heavy it suddenly feels in his sweaty palms, and looks down at the little Twitter notification warning him to avoid Fifth and Main due to an exploding fire hydrant. 

Logically, he knows Eddie didn’t write this. He has Thursdays off, same as Buck. It was meant to be a transitional thing. A way for them to hang out to ease the ache of Eddie leaving the 118. It was easy, at first, because they were Buck and Eddie. And Buck and Eddie always fall back into each other, always find their way home. Temporarily started to give away to permanently and the shadows beneath Eddie’s eyes lingered longer — became darker. Thursdays suddenly became too busy and the only time Buck ever really saw Eddie was around other people. Never alone. Never just the two of them. No more opportunities to really ask if Eddie was doing okay. 

You need to move on.

I have.

Buck hears the groaning of plastic beneath his fingers, the way his phone case bends uncomfortably beneath his grip, but the pain is almost cathartic, if only because pain is something he is so, so familiar with. He knows he shouldn’t look. Nothing has changed since their last conversation, but Buck is nothing short of a masochist these days. He unlocks the phone and it only takes three clicks to find what he’s been staring at since he got home from the bar three nights ago.

Buck: you’re coming, right 🥺

Eddie: I wouldn’t miss it 

Except, Eddie never really made it. Or, according to Ravi, never made it past the parking lot. Buck swallows the sudden, bitter bite of anger clawing its way up his throat. But it’s not enough. Not when it’s itching beneath his skin, wrapping like a hot coil around his lungs, compressing them until he can hardly breathe. Eddie was supposed to be there. Eddie was supposed to be the one he was recounting the tale with. Eddie was supposed to be the one smiling over his beer, making exaggerated hand gestures, and rolling his eyes at Bobby’s weird state grain knowledge. Eddie was supposed to be the one he was bumping his shoulders with, teasing grins with soft, knowing gazes that lingered too long. Eddie was supposed to be the one he—

Buck is on his feet before Buck 2.0 or 3.0 or whoever the fuck knew better than to give into his anger and dangerous impulses could stop him. 

The sun is still too bright, but he’s flying blind anyway, stumbling through his goddamn life without knowing which way is up. 

His fist is pounding on Eddie’s door twenty minutes later. 

Maybe, this time, blood stained Evan Buckley will finally leave his purgatory. Maybe he’ll finally catch up with all the fake smiles, the I’m fines, the versions he’s carefully crafted to make sure he’s enough for someone to stay. Maybe if Eddie sees the monster created from years and years of running — of surviving — of circling so far down the goddamn drain covered in speckles of crimson straight from Eddie’s own bleeding heart then he’ll finally be free. 

When Eddie opens the door he only has a second, one gut wrenching second to be that Evan Buckley, before he pulls together the Buck he needs to be to take that haunted look out of Eddie's eyes.

“Buck?”

Buck’s lips part, there are so many things he wants to say. So many words jumbled and broken that have been sitting against his chest, crushing it like a fire truck to his leg. They don’t move. They don’t move and Buck could almost laugh, maybe he does, but it comes out wounded and pained because this feels a little bit like déjà vu.

“Buck,” Eddie tries again and he hasn’t moved, but he looks so, so much worse than the last time Buck saw him and that fucking hurts, “what are yo—”

“Sometimes I can still taste your blood in my mouth.”

It’s not what he means to say. Not by a long shot. Eddie stiffens, his eyes wide and terrified, but now that it’s out there he can’t stop. Buck can’t stop — has never known how to stop.

“I — I can feel the grit of it against my teeth,” he continues, voice rough and raw and probably the most honest he’s been over the last year, “in my hair, it’s stuck behind my eyelids, and just—” he breaks off, staggers forward because Eddie hasn’t moved and he can not fucking do this anymore, “it’s just in my goddamn mouth.”

“Buck,” And god Eddie sounds, Eddie sounds so broken.

“I kiss Taylor,” Buck goes on because he’s too much he’s too exhausting he can’t stop, “and I taste blood. The other night at the bar,” he runs a hand through his hair, tugs at his curls just to keep himself grounded, “Lucy kissed me. She kissed me and I — I didn’t stop her. Taylor was asleep in my bed in my loft and Lucy kissed me and I didn’t fucking stop her because all I can taste is blood. I am stuck with this perpetual ache of nothing and it is killing me.”

He doesn’t realize he’s shouting or that his chest is heaving or that there are tears streaming down his face. All he can do is look at Eddie and wish he were Buck 2.0 or 3.0 or 10.0 or all the better versions he so desperately tries to be, but always seems to fall short. 

“I think it’s killing me too,” Eddie admits, quietly, just barely enough for Buck to hear. 

Eddie reaches in the space between them. He reaches over the pool of blood against the blacktop, over the miles and miles that have pushed them farther apart, he reaches for Buck and this time. This time Buck — real, ugly, exhausting, blood stained Evan Buckley — reaches back.