#Seated Pair Statuette

[nowoolallowed]

Seated Pair Statuette - Met Museum Collection

Inventory Number: 07.228.94 New Kingdom, Dynasty 18–19, ca. 1336–1250 B.C. Location Information: Location Unlisted

Description:

This statuette depicts a man and a woman sitting side by side, supporting each other's back with their arms. The man is dressed in a modishly long tunic under a fringed sash-kilt and the woman wears a fashionable wrap-around dress knotted just below her breasts. Their stools are represented in almost as great detail as their clothing and coiffures. The seat of the man's stool is woven and its legs enclose a lattice bracing. The woman sits on a different stool with flared legs, as often appears in seated pair statues of this period. Such statues were usually placed in a niche at the tomb or at a chapel.

[froggibus]

Sex Rocks! - AMAB! Venture

Pairing: AMAB! Sloan Cameron x fem! Reader (reader uses fem pronouns + has a pussy)

Genre: smut/NSFW

Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: Sloan is in for much more than they bargained for when they find a statue with magical properties—and you might be the only one who can help them out

CW: porn with plot, AMAB! Venture, sex pollen (but it’s a magical sex statue), dubcon, masturbation, showering, dirty thoughts (abt reader), slight voyeurism, blowjob, hair pulling, face fucking, cum swallowing, cock riding, mating press, multiple orgasms, protected AND unprotected sex, doggy style, multiple rounds, overstim, lots of cum, (think that's everything) use of the word shaft (im so sorry i hate this word but there’s only so many synonyms for dick)

yes the title is a pun ^.^ i meant to post this way earlier in the day but i got distracted and didn't end up finishing til tonight and it came out WAY LONGER than i thought. this is fr the longest smut ive ever written. anyway venture whores hope you all enjoy <3

It must’ve been Sloan’s lucky day. After barely an hour of searching, the glittering artifact they’d been looking for seemed to jump right out. Though the dusty gold colour blended in with the shimmering sand of the cavern, the three pink gems of the small statuette seemed to call to them. 

The figure was cold to the touch and buttery, barely bigger than the size of their hand. It was shaped like a beautiful curvy woman, with full breasts accentuated with the pink stones and a thick tummy—the likeness of some old, forgotten deity that Sloan could never remember the name of. 

They took out a soft piece of cut cloth and wrapped the statue before tucking it in their pack and beginning the short trek to the surface. Sloan buzzed the whole way up, that warm tingling washing over them. The kind they always felt when they found a new artifact, or when you laughed at one of their dumb jokes. 

As the surface came into view, the golden sunshine just beginning to dip below the horizon, the warmth grew stronger. It had been a hot day, and it seemed that though the sun was setting, the heat had not yet begun to dissipate. They took a long pause, letting themself rest on the rocks outside of the cave.

Wiping the sweat away from their forehead, they took a big drink from the canteen of water they’d brought along with them. It was a short trek, they weren’t usually this sweaty and parched from something so basic—but with the warmth of the day at its peak, they shrugged it off.

The car they’d taken was only just down the trail, maybe ten minutes away. With one last sip of their cold water, they tucked it into their pack and started the walk back. The sky was turning pink as they set off, but slowly turned to purple and then the rich black of night.

Despite the day’s end, the heat only grew more unbearable with the walk. Their thighs cramped as they made their way down the trail, their heart beginning to race. Whatever, they tried to ignore it and power through to the car.

Sweat coated Sloan’s forehead and chest by the time they made it to their vehicle. Their hair was slicked to the back of their neck, and the t-shirt they’d been wearing was rendered near see-thru. 

“Jeez,” they sighed, tugging off their t-shirt.

They tossed the sweaty fabric into their backseat along with their pack before sliding in the front seat to drive. They kept the AC on full blast the whole trip back home, though it did little to stop the boiling in their blood. 

Sloan was just pulling off the highway when a gasp forced its way out at the sudden tight feeling in their pants. They risked a glance down to their hard cock now straining against the thick fabric of their carharts. They shook it off, turning onto their street and trying to ignore the feeling of the bulge in their pants only growing with each minute.

It was almost painfully hard by the time they made it home. Sloan almost forgot their pack in the back of the car in their race to get inside and free their aching cock from the fabric that confined it. 

A sigh ghosted their lips when their cock sprung free from their boxers and they wrapped their sweaty palm around it. Their core was near sweltering, their cock throbbing in need. 

With a glance at the door to make sure it was locked behind them, Sloan spat in their hand and started to spread it across their aching cock. A shiver crawled its way up their spine, acting as a brief reprieve from the heat that threatened to consume them. They clamped a hand over their mouth and began to slide their hand up their length.

With barely a touch, they were already so sensitive. Pre cum dripped down the tip, pooling across their fingertips and mixing with the saliva already spread over their skin. They squeezed harder, dragging their hand up and down faster. Their muffled moans vibrated against the clammy skin of their palm, their eyes falling shut as their hand fell into a rhythm.

Thoughts of you filled their head. Thoughts of your smile, of your warm skin, of pinning you to the bed and using you however they pleased. Sloan gasped, opening their eyes as they came into their palm.

Fuck. Cum rolled across their fingers, down their still hard cock and collected into the hair at the base of their pubic bone. They smeared the remainder of the cum on their thighs, shaking off the aftershocks of their orgasm and deciding a cold shower would solve both the mess they made, and the throb between their legs.

With their clean hand, they dragged their backpack with them all the way to their bedroom, tossing it in the corner before grabbing a towel and heading into the bathroom. They didn’t wait for the water to warm before stripping and stepping beneath the brisk stream.

The cool water settled the burning beneath their skin—but only just barely. Much to Sloan’s dismay, it also did nothing to soothe the ache between their legs. It was almost embarrassing, having an unrelenting boner for no reason like they were in school again.

They sighed, squeezing some coconut scented body wash into their hand and slicking across their cock. They didn’t bother to change the water back to warm, instead opting to let the frigid stream drip down their back. The nice smelling soap felt much, much better than their own spit—but they could imagine a few things that would feel even better.

Like your pretty lips wrapped around their tip, those kind eyes of yours pleading at them to cum in your mouth and—Sloan moaned, fingers clenching around their hard length. Just the thought of you touching them, or them touching you, was enough to have Sloan gasping and furiously jerking their cock.

Drops of soap flew away from their palm with every stroke, splattering the tile of the shower in front of them. God, wouldn’t they love to do that to you. What they wouldn’t give to do that to you. To have you lay down in front of them, completely at their mercy while they fucked you relentlessly and left you covered in their cum.

Their cock twitched, and then they were cumming. Wave after wave of hot cum burst out, coating the tile in front of them before being washed away by the water. Hard, shaking breaths wracked their chest as their senses returned to them and they could once again feel the cool water against their tanned skin. 

As they looked at the cum mixing with the water down the drain, all they could think was ‘what a waste.’

It only took ten minutes after their shower for the tingling in their cock to become unbearable again. The heat had returned almost immediately—and with a vengeance—but they’d managed to ignore the tenderness between their legs for only ten minutes.

Sloan was glad they didn’t bother putting their clothes back on as they settled into their bed and grasped their shaft once more. Cumming once or twice a day was normal for them, but this was something else entirely. Something had to be wrong.

Sloan pushed away their fears and started once again stroking their dick, leftover water and precum acting as a lubricant for their hand to easily slide around. They closed their eyes, and let themself think of you once more. 

How their cum would look running down your thighs, or splattered on your back. How nice your hands would feel gripping their cock, how you’d just beg them to fuck you.

Sweat dripped down their chest, wetting their tummy and the dark hair at the base of their cock. How long had they been jerking off this time? They risked a teary eyed glance at the screen of their phone—had it really been almost twenty minutes since they laid down in bed?

Twenty minutes and they were no closer to coming, but their dick was growing uncomfortably hard. A sigh passed through their lips. Their hand wasn’t enough, they needed something more, something hotter. 

Their mind went to you, pleasure hazed thoughts wondering if they called you, would you come? Would you help them? Before they could think it through, their fingers were dancing across the screen. Just the sight of the tiny contact picture of you at the top of their screen had them squeezing tighter, thick drips of pre cum rolling down their tip.

Sloan lets themself fall back into bed, their mind dancing away to thoughts of you sinking down on their cock. They roll their head to the side, their eyes catching sight of the bag they’d carelessly tossed in the corner just before their shower. 

Could the statue have done this? There were myths surrounding it, sure, but this? The thought was preposterous a week ago. Now though, with their insatiable lust, the thought doesn’t seem so crazy to Sloan.

Shit. They shouldn’t drag you into this. If it really is the statue, they don’t want to expose you to this. They reach for their phone to ask you not to come, to send you away, but just as their palm reaches the cold metal, the front door clicks open.

“Sloan?” You call, peaking your head in the front door. As soon as you’d gotten their message, you’d left your house. You’re talking more to yourself than them at this point, tiptoeing through the dark of their home. “I used the spare key you gave me to get in…are you here?”

Sloan bit their lip at the sound of your voice, risking a glance to the bag that contained the statue. Maybe inviting you here wasn’t such a bad idea after all. 

“In here!” they call. Their voice is raspy, dripping with the need radiating from their core.

You follow the sound of their voice to the closed door of their bedroom, warm light leaking out from the cracks. It’s Sloan, and they don’t sound like they’re in danger, but something about their voice…

You push open the door. It takes two seconds for you to scan the room, two seconds for your eyes to fall on Sloan—sweaty, writhing and desperately jerking their cock in bed—and two seconds for you to turn away, covering your eyes.

“Shit,” you gasp. “I–I didn’t mean to walk in on you.”

But it’s strange. They called you here to help them, they knew you were going to come into their room—was this what they needed your help with? You couldn’t help but clench your legs at the thought, a heat rushing to your core.

Sloan’s voice cut through the darkness of your hand. “I-it’s okay,” they say. “You can look.”

You slowly peel your hand away from your eyes. Though they covered themself with a blanket, you could still see the glistening skin of their chest, and the up-down motion of their hand beneath the fabric. 

Sloan knows it’s shameless of them to keep stroking their cock while talking to you, while you’re right there watching—but they can’t stop. Now that you’re here in front of them, the pressure’s increased tenfold.

You squint. “What’s going on?”

“I found that statue.” They keep jerking off.

“And?”

“The rumors about it were true.”

“Fuck,” you curse. 

When they’d been telling you about the myths behind the statue, you’d both laughed it off, stealing wanton glances at each other as you did. They’d assured you it wasn’t possible, that there was no scientific reason a statue would bear unto its users an insatiable appetite for sex.

Seeing them now, though, all sweaty and desperate, has you thinking they were wrong. 

“Sloan,” you say calmly, stepping in the room and gently shutting the door behind you, “what can I do to help?”

They bite your lip, and it’s just now that you notice their eyes are almost completely black in lust. A shiver runs up your spine. 

They pull back the blanket. “Touch me,” they swallow. “Please.”

You glance at their thick, throbbing cock dripping in precum. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted, wrapped up in the worst possible way. It wouldn’t be right—they’re clearly not thinking straight. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Sloan’s not sure whether it’s the statue, or their frustration, or some terrible combination of the two that prompts them to say, “oh don’t tell me you haven’t been wanting me to fuck you for months.”

Their brazenness sends another wave of heat to your core, your underwear suddenly feeling wetter than usual. “Sloan,” you say carefully.

“If you’re worried about consent,” they rasp. “I want it. All the time. For months, too. I think about it nonstop.”

Their words ease your nerves, and you find yourself approaching their bedside. Your eyes stayed glued to their cock and the hand furiously stroking it. “What do you think about?”

They watch you, dedicating each pump of their length to you. “I think about you while I fuck myself. I think about—about fucking you, and having you bounce on my cock and—god.”

You sink down on the bed next to them, wrapping your hand around the one rubbing their dick. “Let me.”

They slide their hand away, letting you take over. Already, your hand feels a million times better than theirs ever did, the ache in their core finally beginning to relent. They lay their head back, watching your hand glide across their sticky skin.

They suck in a breath. “Fuck,” they look at you through their lashes. “Use your mouth.”

You’re taken aback by their command. Their cock looks so inviting, dripping wet and throbbing in your palm. It’s bigger than anything you’ve ever had which only makes you want it more.

You look them in the eyes while you lick a bead of precum away from the tip. Sloan shivers, wrapping a hand in your hair and pulling you down. You gasp as you take their cock into your mouth, wrapping your lips around it. It’s salty, a mix of sweat and precum, with a strange undertone of coconut—but it’s just how you imagined it.

Your jaw strains to take them into your mouth, their tip hitting the back of your throat after only a few seconds. You gag slightly, but Sloan only pushes your hand down further, groaning at the warmth of your mouth. This was exactly what they needed.

As soon as you start to see black spots, they pull you off. A strand of drool connects your lips to their length, dripping and coating your chin. They hum at the sight of you, so filthy already.

“Do you like how it tastes?”

You’re so flustered, so bewildered by the situation that you can only nod, clenching the base of their cock. You put your lips back on their tip and eagerly slide down for more. Their calloused fingers still tug at your hair, using the strands like reins to push and pull you how they see fit.

Sloan watches you intently the whole time, admiring the spit that coats your mouth and the way your throat bulges when they pull you a certain way. They’ve dreamt about fucking you for months now, but none of their wildest dreams could ever compare to this.

Despite the way your eyes water, Sloan pulls you down further. You look so fucking cute choking on their thick cock—they can’t help it. When you finally slap a hand against their thigh, they let go of your head and watch you gasp for air.

“Get on your knees,” they command.

You can only nod, not trusting your voice with the way your throat burns. The dominance in them only makes you wetter, a noticeable throbbing rushing through your clit. You’re all too eager to settle on your knees at their bedside.

They cup your chin, swiping their thumb across your lips to smear your drool and their pre across them. “So cute,” they murmur.

You lean back in to take their cock once more, but they tsk at you. Just as you tilt your head in confusion, you watch as Sloan grips their cock and rubs the messy, wet tip across your mouth. They smear it all across your face, making a mess all over your cheeks and nose.

A whine slips from your lips before you can stop it, but Sloan only laughs at it and finally lets their cock slap against your mouth. You open wide and take them once more, rolling your tongue over their length.

“So eager,” they tease, their fingers resuming their position in your hair, “if I’d known you’d be such a slut for me, I would’ve fucked you months ago.”

Sloan watches the shame glimmer in your eyes, followed by pure pleasure, and doesn’t miss the way you rock your hips against the floor. 

It only takes a few minutes of you on your knees before they’re coming, pushing your head down so you have no choice but to swallow their cum. Your eyes shoot wide as the hot cum spills in your mouth, pulling back from their cock and opening your mouth so they can see it.

“Good girl,” they purr. “Now swallow.”

You nod and obey without a second thought, licking their cock a few more times after to clean up the excess. “Sloan,” you say quietly, your voice raspy from the way they just fucked your throat.

“Hm?”

“Do you have condoms?”

They tap the nightstand that you’re sitting next to. “You wanna fuck me?”

You pass them the condom, eagerly waiting as they lay back in bed and roll it over their cock. Though they’re slow to put it on, you don’t miss the way their hands shake in anticipation.

Sloan watches you the whole time as you strip, discarding your clothes as quickly as you can. You climb onto the bed and straddle their waist, a knee on either side of their hips. Their hands clench your waist tightly, fingertips digging in hard enough to bruise. 

Usually Sloan would be happy to let you adjust, but with the warmth of your pussy right there, they can’t wait any longer. Using your hips as leverage, they thrust up into you, the tip of their cock bottoming out against your cervix.

You cry out, burying your head against their sticky chest. “Sloan,” you whine.

“Sorry,” they pant, but continue thrusting into you.

You relax into them, slamming your hips into theirs to meet their rhythm. It’s painful at first, both the stretch of their cock and how deep it reaches—but it’s amazing, too.

Sloan barely thinks as they pound in and out of you, using your own body weight as leverage to get their cock deeper and deeper with each thrust. Your whines are like music to their ears, complemented by the rhythm of matching groans they loose every time their cock brushes your cervix.

You cum so hard you swear you go blind for a second. Everything is hot, your vision goes white, and all you can focus on is the way your cunt is gushing around their cock, juices coating their thighs. You go limp on their chest for a minute, letting them fuck you like a toy while you recover.

Sloan’s own orgasm isn’t far behind, their cock twitching as they spill into the condom—though they’d much rather spill into you. They almost draw blood with how tightly their nails dig into your sides, and the only word they seem to remember is your name.

Even though they’re unbearably hot and their cock is so sensitive it hurts, they still need more. 

“Can I keep going? Tell me I can keep going.”

You’re exhausted from the brutal pace they’ve set, but their cock fills you so well and they sound so desperate, you have no choice but to say yes. Upon your agreement, Sloan is flipping you onto the mattress beneath them and bending your legs to your chest. 

They can get deeper like this, and Sloan knows it too. They start their pace off slower this time, trying to give you time to recover before their own need takes over. They hold your hands, pinning them above your head while they fuck you.

Their eyes lock with yours as they increase the pace, the tip of their cock hitting that spot inside of you perfectly every time. There are tears in your eyes from the pleasure, but it only makes them harder. 

“Too deep,” you whine, squeezing their hands with as much strength as you can muster.

“You don’t love having me fill you up?” They mumble into your ear, “if I can’t stuff you with my cum, I’ll fill you with my cock.”

You gasp and squeeze your eyes shut, their dirty words sending you over the edge. You try to clench your knees together but Sloan’s body is in the way. They fuck you through your orgasm, squeezing your hands back with every bit of pressure you squeeze theirs with.

“That’s it,” though their words are soft, they punctuate each one with a thrust, “cum on my cock.”

They slide their hands down your body, resting on your hips once more. Their thrusts start to get sloppy, and you know they can’t last much longer like this. You reach up, desperate for something—anything—to ground yourself, your fingers coming in contact with their hair.

Sloan whines and cums in one sloppy motion, resting their head on your neck while they lazily thrust through their high. Soft groans and whines vibrate against your collarbone.

It takes a minute for them to collect their strength again, pulling their cock out of you. You look at them through tear blurred vision, eyes widening at the cum soaked condom dripping into the wild tangle of hair at the base of their length. There’s a ring of white around their cock from it all, and the only thought crossing your mind is how badly you want to lick it off.

Sloan can’t decide whether to admire the sheer amount of cum filling the condom, or be disappointed that they weren’t able to fuck it into you instead. They pull it off of their cock and toss it onto the floor—it’ll be a pain to clean later, but they don’t care. They reach into their nightstand for another one, but your hand wraps around their wrist first.

“You’re still hard?”

As if in reply, their cock twitches against your leg. Though the searing heat has finally begun to fade, the pure need coursing through their veins has not.

“You’re done already?” They counter.

“N-no,” you say quickly, though your pussy feels unbearably sensitive in the cold room. “But you don’t need to use that.”

They look down at the purple wrapper in their hand, then back up at you. Their eyes practically glitter in anticipation. “Raw?”

You nod shyly, reaching out your arms to beckon them back to you. You’ll never be able to match their insatiable pace—you know that—but you told them you’d help, even if it means letting them use you like a fleshlight.

They plant a kiss to the base of your throat, a devilish twinkle in the dark of their eyes. “Roll onto your knees.”

With their help, you roll onto your stomach and pull your knees up, arching your back to give them access to your dripping cunt. Too tired to keep your chest up, you rest your cheek against the single pillow in their bed and let yourself relax.

Sloan’s hands retrace the marks they left on your lips earlier, positioning you perfectly to line up with their cock. They land a harsh slap to your cunt with the head of their cock and slip it in all at once, relishing in the gasp that leaves your lips.

They rock their hips into yours, reaching up to tangle a hand in your hair. With one hand gripping your hips and another in your hair, they piston into you. You bite your lip to try and cover the onslaught of moans they fuck out of you and pray that Sloan doesn’t have neighbors—although at this point, they’ve probably heard enough.

“Feels even better raw,” they groan, balls slapping against your clit with a particularly brutal thrust. “S’like it was made for me.”

The burning in the pit of your stomach grows at their dirty words, your pussy utterly gushing around their length. Without the condom, you can feel the desperate throbbing of their cock, feel every twitch of their tip when they bottom out inside of you. They reach everywhere inside you, rubbing places you didn’t even know you had.

Waves of pleasure roll over you, each more intense after the last. Your pussy flutters around Sloan’s cock, but their pace doesn’t slow. They keep slamming into you, lewd slapping noises loud enough to cover your desperate moans. They tug your hair hard, pulling you closer, and roll their hips against yours.

Their cockhead brushes your cervix and your eyes roll back in the sharp pleasure that travels through your pussy. Drool leaks from the side of your mouth and your moans transform from fully formed words to stupid sounding babbles.

Sloan releases your hair from their grip and moves their hand to massage your ass. “Sounds so cute when you whine,” they coo breathily.

Your senses all come flooding back to you when you feel the first spurt of their hot cum inside of you. Your tummy flutters with butterflies, your pussy contracts, and you cum with them. Both of you writhe in bed against each other, Sloan’s desperate, near primal pants like music to your ears.

“Fuck,” you groan as you collapse into the bed.

They keep their cock inside of you, shallowly thrusting their cum back in. “Please don’t stop,” they whine. “Please, I-I need more. Please.”

Your whole body burns, your pussy is so sensitive you’re not sure you’d even be able to cum again. “Sloan,” you sigh, looking back at them. 

“Please. Please let me keep using you. Please. You don’t even have to do anything but please let me use this pussy,” they pinch your clit in emphasis. “Please.”

“Well, with begging like that,” you joke.

Sloan wastes no time slamming their cock back inside of you, and though you can hardly feel the harsh slapping motion, you can tell their pace has slowed. You lay there, sweaty and hot and with their cum dripping out and being fucked back in.

Sloan murmurs praises to you while they thrust, their mind half gone from how fucking horny they are. They can see cum dripping down your pussy, down your thighs and it’s so filthy and it’s so hot and all they want is more. They pound into you, chasing that final high they may or may not get, desperately gripping your sensitive skin until there’s marks.

Finally, they cum again, their hot cum gushing until you’re so full it starts to burst from the seams between your pussy and their cock. Sloan watches it leak out in a trance, as if in disbelief that not only did they fuck you, they also just fucked you raw.

The heat has completely faded from their body, and as they pull out from your cunt and watch the cum drip, their cock finally starts to soften. “Are you okay?”

You manage a weak thumbs up from where you lay in the bed.

Just as they go to put on their pants, their cock twitches again, and the heat comes rushing back. Sloan sighs, looking at you guiltily, “think you can do a round 2?”

overwatch masterlist | masterlist

(if you enjoy content like this, interactions go a long way! comments, likes & rbs are always greatly appreciated ^-^ !!)

[sunkendreams]

Can I ask for a Vincent Sinclair smut PLZZZ🛐🛐 (I love him sm)

redamancy.

➾ pairing ; vincent sinclair x fem!reader.

format: one-shot — requested.

word count: 4.4K.

warnings: SMUT (mdni), fingering (f!receiving), dry humping, p in v sex (unprotected), multiple positions, breast-play, biting, hair-pulling, making out, scratching, rough sex, slight breeding kink, vincent is pretty obsessive/possessive, darker vincent, choking

author’s note: I haven’t written for vincent in a hot minute but boy, this was a perfect way to get back into it! I plan on writing another bo/reader/vincent thing at some point and more bo/reader. Trying to ease myself back into all of this! Thank you all so much for your love and support!

Hot pearls of pale wax trickled from the numerous candles littered throughout the basement, basked within an orange glow. It only served to add to the warmth of the underbelly of the House of Wax, temperatures maintained to prevent any form of melting. Vincent had learned to temper it all over time — control the heat, master the atmosphere.

A silver scalpel idly shaped a column of wax, something that would soon join the displays up above. His movements were methodical, purposeful — he was a perfectionist. Every stroke had to mean something, appear flawless and without any imperfections.

He’d been making up for imperfections all his life — even still, Vincent was continuing to work himself ragged, to further his mother’s work. Perhaps, someday, it would make him more worthy in her eyes.

Footsteps reverberated throughout his underground mausoleum of wax, and he knew that it was you. Bo rarely, if ever, came downstairs, and his gait was often far more purposeful and aggressive than yours could ever be. He was hunched over his desk, guiding the flickering flame toward the wax, letting it melt and bend.

Vincent carefully began to mold the wax, shape it to whatever he pleased. It was a statuette, meant to resemble that of a serpent. Using the edge of the scalpel, he quickly carved in intricate designs as the surface began to cool, brushing off any excess with the pad of his thumb.

You quietly crept through the basement, making your way toward Vincent’s coiled frame, perched within his rickety chair. You always enjoyed watching him work — his artistic talent was mesmerizing to behold. With a light shrug, you tugged your robe around you, feet absorbing the warmth from the concrete floor.

It was common for him to wake up sometime in the night, leaving the space beside you to work. Sometimes, it was the only thing that could quell the raging thoughts inside of him, or the one activity that took his mind off of everything. Vincent could think of other activities to distract himself, but you needed to agree to it, too.

The cold dusk of Louisiana couldn’t reach either of you — not here, not in the warmth of the basement. It was akin to a sanctuary for you, this wax cathedral built to destroy and to create anew. There was something so fascinating about this place, something hauntingly beautiful and macabre all rolled into one.

“Hey,” You murmured, lazily rubbing at the back of your neck. His shirt clumsily hung from your frame, the robe haphazardly tossed over the garment. Vincent regarded you with a tender look in his eye, countenance shrouded by that familiar waxy veil. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Vincent shook his head, dark tresses idly brushing across the back of the woolen sweater he wore. You were often amazed at his heat tolerance, wearing thicker garments in a sweltering basement. He turned slightly within his seat, an open invitation for you to come and inspect his work.

There was a point in time where he had little desire for you to see any of his projects, but that sentiment had drastically changed. Vincent valued your admiration above all else. He turned the partially-finished serpent over, noticing your look of recognition and delight.

“That’s a basilisk, isn’t it? It’s beautiful so far.” You gently traced your index finger along some of the scales Vincent had carved into the surface. The initial grogginess of slumber was beginning to wear off as you stood at his side, gaze flickering toward the assortment of art tools, wax, and glowing candles.

“It’s for you.” Vincent’s hands moved sluggishly as he signed, feeling your fingertips grace his shoulder, nails idly raking across his back. He shivered, enjoying the light sensation of your touch, knowing that it was bound to contort and twist into a different sort of feeling.

Your lips curled into a smitten smile, teeth absentmindedly toying with your lower lip. “For me? Are you sure?” It belonged in the House of Wax, amongst all of his other sculptures and pieces of art. However, you weren’t about to stop him from his sentimental gesture. You loved everything he’d made for you.

With a brief nod, Vincent placed the statuette back down onto the debris-laden desk, swiping at a fine layer of wax flecks with his hand. Along the mantle situated above his workbench, you noticed a weathered photograph, partially obscured by a series of half-destroyed wax masks that he’d worn at one point or another.

Admittedly, you hadn’t seen the picture before — and you had memorized every square inch of this place by now. “Hey,” You motioned toward it, pointing at the obstructed photograph with visible intrigue. “What’s that?” You inquired, head cocking to one side.

Vincent’s jaw tightened, posture becoming somewhat stiff and rigid as he deliberately removed the picture from behind the masks. He’d forgotten all about it until you pointed it out — a sliver of him wondered why he’d even kept it at all. He cradled the tattered, dusty photograph within one hand, brows furrowing together.

It was Trudy Sinclair, forever immortalized within one still image, holding a very young Vincent, whose countenance was indistinguishable — marred and torn from his conjoined state with Bo. Her expression was arguably the kindest it had ever been, gazing down upon the near-infant Vincent with a look of fondness.

Even through the faded granules of color, you were able to make out the affection she held for him. Your heart clenched within your chest, primarily out of empathy for Vincent himself. Despite all his talent and efforts to regain some favor in his mother’s eyes, part of her would always see him as some disfigured freak, doomed to be trapped behind that wax mask.

Wordlessly, Vincent offered you the photograph, letting you inspect it for yourself. You treated the object like a priceless relic, gently turning it over within your hands. It pained you to know the fate that had inevitably befallen the Sinclairs — locked within a household filled with vitriol and parents whose passions often overrode any love they might’ve had for their children.

“This is Trudy, isn’t it?” You uttered, watching as Vincent’s head bobbed up and down in a stoic nod. Bo had received the short end of the stick when it came to Trudy’s love, but things were far from perfect with Vincent, too. “I’m sorry, Vincent.” Your voice barely drifted above a whisper, lips curling into a sympathetic frown.

His shoulders sagged in a gentle shrug, taking the photograph from you before placing it behind a cluster of half-burnt candles. “Nothing to be sorry for. You can’t change the past.” Vincent signed, concentration turning to you, instead.

He’d spent most of his life wishing that he could change his tumultuous childhood — he’d stopped long ago. He and his brothers would always be chained to Trudy, and there would always be a certain level of loyalty to her, even in death.

“I understand, Vincent.” With a soft murmur, you gently rubbed at the back of your neck, trailing your fingers across his spine. “Come back to bed with me?” You asked, head canting to one side. Vincent reached for your wrist, gingerly cradling it between his fingers, stroking along your forearm.

He wasn’t tired, but Vincent didn’t want to leave you alone, either. He moved up from his chair, lean musculature towering above you as he kept hold of your wrist, fingers drifting to twine around your hand. The two of you retreated into the alcove that served as his bedroom, if one could call it that.

The mattress was littered in blankets, indents visible from where the two of you slept. He’d fixed it up with doors that folded shut, similar to that of a closet. You settled back down, Vincent right beside you as he tugged you close, letting you lounge against his chest.

You sat up just a little bit, enough to see his masked countenance. “Could I ask you something?” Your voice was nothing more than a tender whisper, and now that you were awake, a string of thoughts began to nag at the back of your head. Pillowtalk with Vincent often became very emotionally-charged.

“Anything.” Vincent nodded as his hands moved, propping himself up enough to look at you, too. He had told you about his life some time ago — the intricate details and his own sentiments on the matter were left out and simply implied. You were a precocious and inquisitive individual, but above all, you were empathetic.

“This,” With a feather-light caress, you traced your finger along the cheekbone of his mask. “Why do you still wear it around me?” Your inquiry was innocuous, spoken out of genuine concern instead of malice or confusion. Vincent had shown you his face once before — and it never bothered you. It wouldn’t bother you.

Vincent’s throat became tight, jaw unusually tense as he attempted to muster up a feasible answer. It was an anchor for him — one way to feel less like a monster and a freak. “Habit,” He signed, but he knew better than to give you a false response. “I don’t want you to feel guilty or pity me.”

Your brows furrowed together, visage contorting with a look of mild confusion. “What do you mean, Vince?” You wondered if you’d done something wrong, stomach swelling with a wave of anxiety, but he seemed to catch this. He pressed a finger against your lips before he began to sign in a flurry of animated hands.

“I don’t want you to pity me for how I look. I’ve spent my entire life being looked at like a freak — like something fragile, something to feel sorry for.” Vincent finished with finality to it, hoping that you would understand why he continued to wear the mask. He knew that you still loved him, regardless of how he appeared.

“No, no,” You uttered, sitting up enough to stare at him, hands gently splayed across his taut chest. “When I saw your face, that night in the kitchen — the only thing that I saw was a survivor.” His eye sparkled whenever you spoke, hanging upon your every word. “You’re resilient and you’re talented, Vincent. You’ve never been a freak.”

It was the first time in his life that someone labeled him as a survivor — he hadn’t thought of it like that.

Most of his life had been about preservation — keeping the Sinclair name alive, to continue his mother’s dream, keeping Bo and Lester safe. Vincent hadn’t considered that his face was also a sign of resilience, of an endurance that even he wasn’t fully aware of.

You felt his hand reach for you, cupping your jaw with calloused, roughened digits, the practiced hands of an artist. His touch was filled with both adoration and a dark yearning, thumb sweeping over your lower lip. “You mean everything to me.” He signed, and you knew that he meant it wholeheartedly.

“You mean everything to me, too.” You murmured, careening into the warmth of his embrace, lips pursing to kiss the pad of his thumb. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.” A breathy, passionate sigh left you when he coaxed you closer, slotted against his musculature.

His hawkish eye picked you apart from where you sat, the distance slim between the two of you. You were vaguely aware of his obsession with you, disguised as protectiveness and adoration — Vincent often made it explicitly clear that you belonged to him, drew a line in the sand with Bo over and over again.

As you lavished him in kind, tenderhearted words, Vincent’s innate possessiveness over you seemed to flare to life, malignant and very much alive. You were tethered to him until the end of time — a pretty, iron-wrought cage, inescapable — and admittedly, you didn’t want to be free from it at all. You stopped thinking that way a long time ago.

Vincent exhaled, dragging his hand across the slender expanse of your neck, digits exploring the canvas that was your flesh — all belonging to him. “You’re mine.” He signed, staking his claim for the hundredth time. Even through signing alone, his nature was desirous and rapacious.

Long before he’d entered this relationship with you, he was very indifferent towards you. It stemmed from insecurities, from rage, and from confusion — girls were always Bo’s forte and never his. Having you, something to covet, something to protect and to keep, Vincent was always worried that he’d lose it.

You nodded, breath hitching within your throat when he traced the pad of his thumb across your pulse point. Your heartbeat had climbed to erratic, excitable heights, mouth somewhat dry as he applied pressure underneath either side of your jaw.

“I’m yours.” Parasitic — you leached from him, and it always took your loneliness away. You used to hate him for taking away your friends, but it almost felt like a wandering dream that didn’t feel real. Ambrose was where you were meant to be — meant to be with Vincent. You empathized with him, surrounding him with your affection and comfort.

A rugged huff emerged from the depths of his throat, feeling you climb closer, gaze glazed-over with desire. Wordlessly, Vincent removed his mask, placing the waxy veil aside as his mouth clamored for yours. The kiss was blistering, full of a rather oppressive possession and greed — he felt entitled to you, in some depraved sense.

Reciprocation made him giddy as your lips eagerly pressed against his, responding with a desperation that nearly bordered his own. Vincent squeezed your jaw, other hand relocating to slip underneath the baggy shirt you wore, brazenly groping at your breasts.

Your fingers scraped through his hair, digging into the base of his skull as he coaxed you down against the mattress. Vincent crawled on top of you, mouth briefly disconnecting from yours before he crashed back into you, parting your legs with his knee.

A low, raspy grunt escaped him when your lips continued their relentless assault, mouth parting to allow for a sloppy kiss. He was needy, desperate to feel you as he rucked your shirt up with one hand, fingertips tracing across the plane of your stomach. Goosebumps coalesced along your spine, arousal pooling between your thighs.

Heat blistered between the both of you, an amalgamation of desire, want, and the emotion of your charged conversation moments prior. Vincent savored it all — it still didn’t feel real sometimes, being physical with you. Some time ago, he felt unworthy, too horrid and too scarred, but you changed everything.

You changed the way he touched you — no longer hesitant or wrought with deliberation. He felt like a god, capable of conquering anything — even you. Instead, each touch was charged with lust, and the sensation was beyond mutual as you slipped a hand underneath his sweater.

Vincent was made of taut, sinewy muscle, littered in plenty of scars. His broad shoulders tensed when your hand pressed into the nape of his neck, toying with the collar of his sweater. In one fluid motion, he lifted it up and over his head, discarding it toward the foot of the bed.

He lifted two digits toward his lips, pressing them upon his tongue as he coated them in saliva. Vincent’s eye glistened with a ravenous sheen, fingers drifting toward the warmth between your legs. He brusquely shoved your panties aside, dragging those fingers along your slit, peppering your jaw in kisses.

“Vincent,” You moaned, feeling him cage you against him, arm bracketing you in, keeping you for himself. It was explosive — everything felt hot, as if the both of you were running out of time. “Touch me.” Your voice was high-pitched with a sense of urgency.

Your hips jolted forward, chasing after the friction his digits provided, feeling his mouth press hot kisses against your sternum. He branded you with his embrace, hoping to make it permanent — a mark, something that bound you to him. His lips sought to take one of your pert nipples into his mouth, suckling on the sensitive bud.

At last, he gave into your breathy demands, slotting his thumb against your clit as his middle fingers explored your cunt. An elated sigh escaped you, knees squeezing at his waist, hands splayed across his shoulders. He looked immaculate beneath orange candlelight — a deity of wax, perfection immortalized.

A ripple of bliss consumed you, body keening and arching into Vincent’s touch. His fingers lightly traced your core before dipping inward, forcing his way inside of you, feeling your cunt clench pathetically around his practiced digits. He lavished your breasts in a flurry of attention, throat echoing with a hoarse grunt.

Scars were crisscrossing all over his body, remnants of his victims that left their mark. Bullets, stab wounds, the diagonal, uneven slashes of knives and sharp objects. His skin served as a canvas for chaos, and you traced your fingertips over a livid mark on his chest.

Vincent shuddered, rutting his fingers inside of you before withdrawing halfway, finding a steady rhythm to piston in and out of your aching heat. He kissed his way back to your mouth, lips crashing into one another as he pressed against you. You could feel his erection snug along your thigh, prompting you to squirm.

You needed him terribly, unable to vocalize that want unless it was through a mess of needy moans. With a gentle shove, your lips tangled with his, tugging on his mane of dark tresses. Vincent huffed, digits curling into your cunt, eliciting a simpering cry from you.

He watched you through a lustful stare, glazed-over with rapture, drunk with desire. Vincent kissed at your throat, teeth teasing your flesh, feeling you roll your hips into the sensation of his hand. “Need you inside of me,” Your voice emerged as a hungry groan, clawing at the muscle of his shoulder. “Please, Vincent.”

Admittedly, he hadn’t seen you quite like this before — tangled up within your own need, aching for him in ways you hadn’t felt before. Vincent was delighted to oblige you, feeding off of your desire like a leech.

“How?” Vincent signed, and that singular word seemed to set off some chain reaction. Your stomach sloshed with anticipation as you rolled over onto your abdomen, able to hear the audible hitch in his throat, a raspy grunt tearing past his lips.

Vincent slipped his fingers from your cunt, digits coated in a thin sheen of your arousal. He grabbed at your hips, chest reverberating with a low rumble as he tugged you back against him. The metallic rattling of his belt sent shivers down your spine, able to feel the heat of his cock press against your slit.

“Vincent,” You moaned, and that was enough to get his blood pumping, accompanied by a surge of adrenaline as he let the head of his length slide through your slick a time or two. A soft yelp tore past your lips when he pushed himself inside of you, hunched over you, flesh feverishly warm.

A hand gently held the back of your neck, thumb grazing over the slender muscle of your jugular. His face was buried near your shoulder, tresses sweeping across your exposed back, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He filled you in a way that you never thought possible, causing you to whimper.

With a sharp thrust, Vincent began to invade your cunt, somewhere between tender and rough. He was always sporadic and unsure when it came to pace, but you thoroughly enjoyed the unpredictability. His cock lewdly slapped into your cunt, followed by the sound of his ragged breathing.

Wax-laden palms skirted across your body, one hand grappling at your hips while the other gathered at the nape of your neck. You huffed, face partially pressed into the mattress, body contorting and submitting to him as you had many times before.

You were perfect — his paramour, his muse.

A twisted desire began to wash over him like a tidal wave, borderline insidious as he rutted into you. Vincent’s love might’ve been perceived as sweet on the surface, yet it often veered off into a very vitriolic obsession. He wanted you all to himself, as much as humanly possible.

Vincent’s grunts resonated just beside your ear, full of a lustful fervor. Every inch of him was consumed by your cunt, tight around him as he continued to fuck you. It was hot and messy, his pace sometimes scattered and erratic, as if he didn’t know what rhythm to adopt.

He brought you back against him, caging your back to his chest as he rocked onto his knees. Taut, muscled biceps locked around you as he pistoned into you, cock reaching new depths until he couldn’t go any further. Vincent’s mouth clamored to your neck, kissing and biting wherever he pleased as he kept you snug against him.

“V—Vincent, shit,” You stammered, the newfound position taking you by complete surprise. A sensation of sheer want flooded through you, coupled with overwhelming arousal. He filled you completely, flesh dewy with a layer of perspiration, black strands stuck to his temples from exertion. “Please cum in me.”

Another hoarse, throaty grunt ripped through him, hands relocating as one palm groped at your soft, pliant breasts. The other had a mind of its own, snaking to the cleft between your thighs as he toyed with your clit. Euphoria gripped you then and there, causing you to squirm and writhe with pleasure.

Again, Vincent locked you in against his chest, huffing into your ear, biting at your jaw as he filled you up. Part of him wanted to devour you, but the added heat and friction, the swiftness of the moment was enough to make him exert all force.

If he could, he would’ve gladly drowned himself in you, let himself float away within your very presence. Even covered in a veil of sweat, your scent was saccharine, accompanied by his own musk from the cling of his clothing.

Vincent felt you reach for his hand, digits curling around his wrist as he played with your clit, hoping to get you to your peak, right alongside him. His palm wandered from the plump flesh of your chest toward your throat, wrapping around until he applied pressure along your windpipe.

Within the stifling warmth of the basement, the only sounds that reverberated throughout were your moans and his occasional grunt. Vincent’s breathing was heavy, chest heaving against your back. You moved with him as best as you could, nails digging crescents into the taut tendons of his forearm.

Arousal sat heavy within the pit of your stomach, thick and viscous. Vincent was relentless and unyielding, continuing to pound away at your cunt, gently squeezing underneath your jaw. The combined pleasure that assaulted your clit and throat were preparing to send you cascading over the edge.

“M’close,” You huffed, feeling his lips meet the dip between your neck and shoulder, face buried there as he rutted into you. Everything felt incendiary, as if you’d been set ablaze, only to sink further into the fire. He touched you as if you were molded from obsidian, covetous and desperate for you. “Vincent!”

He never slowed, still pounding away at you, cock unable to go any further before he pulled out just a little bit, only to shove himself back in. A sheen of perspiration glistened across his features, forehead pushing into your shoulder, still clutching at your throat.

You belonged to him — you always would. There was no one else for you, only him.

Vincent huffed, teeth sinking into your flesh until he slammed into you one last time, painting your insides with hot, virile ropes of his seed. He continued to rub circles around your clit, dragging you toward your peak. Your cunt clenched around him, eliciting a throaty groan from him as you came.

A myriad of moans and sighs escaped you, shivers rolling down your spine as your thighs twitched, ecstasy flooding throughout your body. Vincent soothed any bites over with kisses, staying in you for a moment longer until he reclined against the mattress, taking you with him.

You were on top of him, layered in sweat and his cum, palms spread across his chest. Vincent stared at you with complete and utter devotion, gently tucking away any strands of hair that were stuck to your temples.

“You’re perfect,” Vincent signed, tucking his thumb and forefinger beneath your chin. The sienna glow of waning candlelight flickered throughout your shared space, basking you in such an atmospheric light. “You look perfect like this.”

There was a darker undertone to his sweet words — and to him, you did look divine this way, covered in his seed, wracked with want for him. Vincent cared very little for moving in that moment, content to stay with you in the oppressive heat of the basement.

With a soft caress, your fingertips swept across the scarred part of his jaw, mouth clamoring for him in another kiss. He didn’t protest, hand slipping toward the base of your skull, coaxing you closer to him.

“I love you,” You murmured, watching the way his pupil dilated with understanding. “M’tired.” You sank down into the mattress, still staggeringly hot with no sign of changing, either.

Visibly, you were spent, exhilaration and your post-orgasm haze beginning to dissipate into exhaustion. You smiled, laying down at his side instead, head curled toward the broad expanse of his shoulder. He locked an arm around you, caging you in, nowhere else to go — it was where you belonged.

There was nowhere you could go where he wouldn’t follow.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

Getaway Car

Day #14 - Prompt: And the Winner Is... | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: M | CW: Mild Sexual Themes, Language | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: Steve is to Corroded Coffin Music Videos as Alicia Silverstone was to Aerosmith Videos in the 90s

Eddie sinks to his knees in the gravel, hands outstretched, groveling, pleading in his torn jeans and artfully cut t-shirt. Big, open arm holes, showing lots of skin, his hair blowing in the wind, as he's leaning so far back, until he's collapsed along the side of the road, hand clutched to his chest. 

Mouth moving, but no words coming out, and he raises himself back up, just to see the back of Steve walking away. In a full strut, towards the red convertible parked in the middle of the road. Steve turns, stalks back, and glances down at him just long enough to kick a toe-full of gravel in Eddie's direction. 

Eddie shields his face, but one rock still gets through, clocking him right in the forehead, and Eddie darts up, grabbing Steve by the arm, yanking.

Then the scene changes, back to the band onstage, playing before it catches back up with Eddie and Steve. This time, Eddie's walking down the side of the road, bags of stolen cash in his hands.

And Steve pulls up alongside him in the same red convertible, and Eddie jumps in the getaway car, tossing the bags in the back as he crawls over and situates himself on Steve's lap.

Cut back to the band, cut to Steve sitting outside of the bank, cut to the band, cut to Eddie and Steve getting matching tattoos, back to the band, back to Eddie and Steve being playful in bed, the band again, then back to Eddie and Steve meeting in a bar.

A story, shown in reverse.

Eddie sinks lower into his theater seat. This music video has been all over MTV for months, nearly a year at this point, and he's seen it hundreds of times during editing, but tonight is the first time he's embarrassed. He's a bad actor. He looks stupid. Who thought a wind machine for his hair was a good idea? It's so goddamn cheesy. 

Nobody is gonna give this video an award.

Except. He knows they might, because of Steve. That's the ace in their pocket they hadn't even planned on. Winning a VMA wasn't even on the radar when they filmed it. Steve had to be cajoled and begged and bartered with, and only agreed when they provoked his jealous streak, because he didn't want to see Eddie filmed in bed with someone else. 

They played dirty, promising it was no big deal, just a little music video that would only be seen on Headbanger's Ball.

And then it blew the fuck up, and made them all goddamn liars. 

Not because of the song, or the band, Eddie knows that, but because of the hot guy in the video. Now, they're getting calls. Big calls. Big offers, and the label is planning a trilogy of videos starring Steve for the band, like he's Alicia Silverstone and they're Aerosmith or something.

Eddie glances Steve's way, and Steve's even lower in his seat than Eddie is, and Eddie reaches for his hand and squeezes. 

"I'm sorry," he mouths, and Steve just narrows his eyes, and it makes Eddie grin.

The nominees are read, and when their name is announced Eddie is frozen in place. Gareth has to pull on him, and he has to pull on Steve. Steve shakes his head, not wanting to go up on stage, but Eddie knows the crowd will want to see him, will want to be formally introduced. Steve might not have acting aspirations, but the world is definitely clamoring for him to do something, anything, to stay in front of their greedy fucking eyes. Their agent keeps getting calls wanting to get in touch with that actor's agent.

That he doesn't have. Because he's not an actor.

He's their Road Manager, their babysitter, and Eddie's long-suffering boyfriend.

"Uh, um, thank you," Eddie says, holding up the Moonman statuette. "We didn't expect this." Then he turns to face Steve, "You might recognize this guy. From the video you just saw. And that you've seen played a million times on MTV. That's Steve. My Steve," Eddie says, blushing a little. "Sorry. He's taken."

And Steve looks like he wants to melt into the floor, so Eddie will make this quick, "But you'll see him again in our next video. I promise," Eddie says, and then hands over the podium to Gareth, who does the full rundown of thank yous as Eddie walks over and wraps his arm around Steve's back, enjoying looking at his reddened cheeks.

There will be pictures, and video footage, and no amount of media training could make the two of them look anything other than awkwardly embarrassed about this predicament they've found themselves in. 

Fucking hell.

Gareth presses the statuette into Steve's hand for some reason, while Jeff and Goodie speak at the podium, and when they can finally leave the stage, Eddie pulls Steve backstage, and presses him against the wall, kissing him, "Thank you. I love you."

Steve kisses him back, the award hanging loose at his side, right against Eddie's thigh.

It's the image that runs in all the magazines, and with time, turns out to be the image of the entire night.

Weeks later, Eddie is dressed in some sort of leather get-up that not even he understands, at least not fully, with Steve hovering over him.

"CUT!" the director yells, and they both stop right where they are. "Moving on to set-up three!"

Steve reaches down and helps Eddie to his feet, "You okay?" 

"This is weird," Eddie admits with a laugh.

"Well, if you think it's weird, imagine how I feel," Steve says, and he has a crop in his hand, and reaches over and pops Eddie on the ass with it. 

Eddie can hear Gareth, Goodie and Jeff laughing from behind the monitors, all just happy that they don't have to be involved in any of this embarrassment. They can still walk down the street, unknown.

Not Eddie, and definitely not Steve.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

Notes: If you've never seen the Cryin' music video, or just need a refresher, I've definitely drawn inspiration from it, lol. Imagine Eddie doing that dramatic Steven Tyler lip syncing. He'd feel like such a fool. Bonus? If you're a Lost fan, keep your eyes peeled for Josh Holloway.

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓭 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐕 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ you manage to impress the boys’ mysterious patron. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader | marc spector/reader | jake lockley/reader word count ☾ 6.8k a/n ☽ ⤏ this took wayyy too long but it’s finally done! now i get to work on the fun pieces since plot is out of the way! the next one should be a chapter taking place between i and ii, featuring the immediate aftermath of steven returning home from cairo! :) ☽ MASTERPOST ☾   ☾ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER [TBA] ☽

The first time Steven had met you, it had been strictly by happenstance.

The first time Marc had met you, officially, it had been an accident.

The first time Jake had met you, it had been an inevitability.

The first time you met Khonshu, it was somewhat (if not mostly) expected.

It wasn’t long after you moved in with the boys (a couple of weeks, maybe)—almost a full year after officially beginning to date all three of them. It started with you finding the little Djehuty statuette that Steven had gifted you from Cairo’s backstreet markets turned onto its side where you kept it on the bookshelf over your side of the bed one morning after Jake had already left to start his driving. You had righted it, figuring that it had been knocked over by the bed shifting during the night—sometimes the books fell over because the mattress was propped up right against the shelves, and…well, sometimes things were moved around. Passionately. (Ahem.) You hadn’t given it any further thought beyond that.

…Until it happened again the next morning, anyway. Then the morning after that. And while your relationship with the boys was by no means lacking, you knew for a fact that it wasn’t your (albeit frequent) evening exertions that were upsetting the figurine that consistently.

The fourth morning in a row, you stood at the foot of the bed with your arms folded over your chest and your fingers drumming over your mouth. Steven was rustling around in the bathroom getting ready for his shift at the museum, and when he emerged, still trying to tame his unruly curls, he raised an inquisitive brow at your puzzled expression. “What’s wrong, love?”

You pointed at the statuette. “Poor Thoth keeps getting knocked over. I’m trying to figure out what’s causing it.”

“You don’t think…” He gestured vaguely towards the bed, cheeks darkening as his voice quietened bashfully. “...you know.”

“That’s what I thought at first, too, but it’s been every night recently. You guys were wiped out last night, so...” Your brow furrowed as you looked up into the rafters. “The vents aren’t strong enough to blow it over.”

“Maybe it happens when we swap the driver’s seat. I do know we toss and turn quite a bit.” Steven stepped in behind you, curling himself around your back and hooking his chin over your shoulder to tuck his nose behind your ear. “We can move him if you’re worried he’ll break.”

“Yeah…that’s probably a good idea. I’d hate for his beak to get chipped off or something.” You twisted in Steven’s arms and leaned up into his chest to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He’d gotten away with not shaving again (much to Marc’s chagrin, you were certain), and you caught a whiff of his cologne on his collar as you hugged him tightly. “Let me know if you want to meet up for lunch.”

“Will do, love. Be careful going to class.” He kissed your forehead, lingering just long enough to tempt you to drag him back to bed. “Laters, gators.”

“In a while, crocodile.” You waved him out of the door, then set about getting dressed to head up to the campus. You crawled over the mattress to scoop up the figurine carefully into the cradle of your palm, running your fingertips over the fine, hand-carved glyphs in the base of the polished lapis lazuli. You set it in the windowsill overlooking Steven’s crowded desk amongst your plants, smiling as the sunlight poured over it and cast its silhouette across his papers.

You found it knocked over again when you came home from your classes.

You got there before Steven did, thankfully, with fresh ingredients in tow for supper. You didn’t even notice it until you had put the dish in the oven to bake and wandered past his desk to grab a quick shower. The fallen statuette caught your eye because it was lying prone on top of one of the books Steven had left open, languishing in a trajectory of direct descent from where you’d set it that morning. Almost as if…well. Was the idea so far-fetched?

You had your suspicions, although you had dismissed them as silly at first. Odd, inexplicable, borderline supernatural things had happened in the time since you’d first met Jake. After a week or so of all three personalities getting acquainted with each other, Marc had sat you down to explain their story—the full one, starting with the untimely death of his brother. All the pieces that you had been given or had gathered yourself before then had been woven together that night during the long stretches of silence Marc had to take to organize his thoughts and to compose himself. It took well past midnight to get through it all since dredging up bad memories wore on Marc’s (admittedly limited) emotional threshold in ways you deeply sympathized. Despite the utter bizarreness surrounding the latter half of his life, it all made sense. You had no reasons to doubt him after everything that you’d witnessed since you’d met Steven in the first place.

…Although, the concept of him having served a real life Ancient Egyptian deity had certainly been a tough wad to chew, if you were honest. What you had always considered simple characters in the (supposed) myths related to the Ancient Egyptian pantheon were, in actuality, alive and kicking—and still involved in humanity’s affairs, to an extent (some more than others, obviously). You’d had to reassess all the knowledge you’d learned about the culture, and a long discussion with Steven about such implications had carried throughout most of the next day.

(You had thought it strangely fitting, though, for them to be the avatar of the god of the moon. It suited them in ways you could not express with words…save, perhaps, that white was one of their best colors.)

You weren’t privy to the renegotiation of the terms for their agreement with said deity, since they did it one of the following nights while you slept, but they had told you that morning that they would continue to act as the Moon Knight when time allowed or if pressing situations—strictly local, as they weren’t keen on traveling anymore unless it was strictly necessary—occurred that the rest of the pantheon couldn’t handle. They had been firm in their boundaries, for which you were thankful; hearing about the manipulation that the god had utilized to ensure Marc’s cooperation had made you sick to your stomach, so knowing that they had settled on an exchange that was comfortable for all three of them was an immense relief.

Since then, they only spoke of him like one would their annoying and somewhat demanding boss. You knew that he was condescending, arrogant, and lofty. He complained almost constantly. Steven said he reminded him of a petulant child who never got his way. But, for all that, you still had no idea how Khonshu really was in person, or what he even looked like—and you suspected part of their arrangement might have had something to do with that.

You still blamed the lunar deity for the strong drafts through opened windows that would scatter your papers while you worked on your projects, the blown light bulbs when you stayed up late with the boys, and the eerie shadows, silhouettes, or noises which you witnessed in the middle of the night while suffering with your insomnia, however. You couldn’t see nor hear him like they could, evidently, but you’d figured out rather early on that it could not be a simple coincidence that you had only just started experiencing your first paranormal activities after they had revealed their direct involvement with a primordial, eldritch entity.

Based on how infantile all three of your boys had described him to be, it would not have surprised you one bit to find out that Khonshu was defacing the one monument in the apartment dedicated to another god—even if it was completely unintentional on your part and was only meant for decoration as a sentimental keepsake (though you’d wondered about Steven, being the sneaky little troublemaker he could be when pressed to react to things spitefully).

You took a lingering gander around the apartment from where you stood, squinting into the shadows, but found no signs of the potential otherworldly intruder. Not that he would make himself known to you, you were certain—why would such a superior being stoop so low as to make himself known to a lowly mortal like you, after all? Just because you were in a relationship with his avatar? You found that notion highly unlikely.

With a sigh, you took poor Djehuty and tucked him into one of the upper drawers of Steven’s desk amongst loose papers and things in hopes that he would see no more abuse and left the room to clean up before the boys got home.

Still. If he could be so petty as to knock over such an insignificant bit of merchandise, then you could only imagine what his goals were. To frighten you? You were more intimidated by the thought of him having one wrong interaction with the boys, not with you. You didn’t have as much to lose to his malicious tactics in mental warfare. You were troubled, sure—you’d never dare claim that you were totally sound—but you were acutely and worriedly aware of the fact that Marc’s system was still more precarious than you’d like to openly acknowledge. 

They’d adjusted to each other for the most part. Consulting their therapist had helped immensely—to your great surprise, Jake had taken quite the liking to talking with her despite how closeted he’d acted with you at first. He’d fared better once he was exposed, forced to reveal himself, like you’d expected. Marc had been deeply suspicious and untrusting at first, but Steven had been the first to cross the gap to bridge mutual understanding between the three of them. They bickered endlessly, just like brothers, and now that they were fairly comfortable with each other you found it more endearing than anything. You were glad they were finally getting along…at least until another quibbling argument came up, anyway (although they were rarely serious, fortunately). They could treat each other with the silent treatment like nobody’s business; whoever caused the offense usually would come to you to try to remediate things, but you tried to stay out of their quarrels as tactfully as possible. (You knew it was healthy for them to work through their problems on their own, as their therapist had suggested to you once during one of your occasional requests for advice on how to handle them with care and respect rather than ignorance and disregard—but damn if it wasn’t hard to ignore their puppy-dog eyes.)

But they still had their bad days—everyone did, and with fewer issues and traumas to work through, too. Those were the days you worried about them most: when whoever was fronting was quiet—not from immature sulkiness, but from feeling melancholy about whatever was bothering them. Those were the nights that you guarded them jealously, holding them close and giving them all the extra love they would never readily admit that they needed nor wanted—all for fear that their own personal specter would come and haunt them at the most inopportune of times in his own avidity.

To your distress, it seemed that night would be one of those—you sensed it even before you laid eyes on the man wedging the door open and shuffling through the too-narrow gap he afforded himself. In the middle of divvying out the food onto plates, since he’d texted you when he’d reached the bus stop near the complex so you’d know it was him at the door, you’d glanced over your shoulder to confirm your unfortunate gut feeling.

Chin tucked against his clavicle, Steven went about toeing off his shoes and putting away his things as quietly as possible, almost as if he were afraid to draw your notice or to disturb you. He shed his jacket, shook it out, and hung it up without even looking in your direction.

“Steven,” you said gently, but even that low tone still made him jump and jerk to stare at you with rounded eyes. “Hey, I’m sorry. Are you okay, baby?”

And just like that, what little resolve he seemed to be clinging to crumpled like wet paper. He grabbed at his frazzled hair with both hands and hid his face behind his forearms, already startling to sniffle and shake, clearly overwhelmed and finally having reached the tipping point for the day.

You padded across the floor to him as quickly as you dared, taking care not to make any extra noise or sudden movements, recognizing his reaction and knowing that any sudden stimuli would only worsen his condition. You brushed your fingertips against his elbows to let him know you were there, lightly touched his shoulders with a soft, inquisitive hum. He lowered and opened his arms to make room for you, but he kept his head down until he could bury it into the crook of your neck with a miserable, warbly sound that rent your heart in two.

“Hey, darlin’,” you murmured, gently pulling him into a hug that he returned fiercely, like one would a life preserver. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Y’didn’t,” he mumbled, scruffy lips brushing against your shoulder as his warm breath bloomed over your skin. “Just…had a day, yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” you sympathized. “Was the noise too much again?”

“Yeah. Kids were loud. Teens were louder. Ran into Donna when I was clockin’ out.”

Ah, hell. That always made everything ten times worse. That devil woman epitomized the mountainous stress Steven had felt when he thought he was losing his mind, so when he had the bad luck to bump into her—especially when he was overstimulated—brought a lot of that back to the forefront…to him and to you, both.

You remembered that fateful morning that he’d come to the bookstore seeking solace, how hard it had been to restrict your nigh unignorable concern for him in that state wandering off chasing a lead that sounded like it had been pulled straight out of a spy film, how badly it had upset you to see him so distressed and confused and frustrated—all right before he’d disappeared off the face of the planet for two of the longest weeks of your life and had faced a hell unlike anything you could ever possibly imagine.

“You don’t have to talk it out if you don’t want to,” you told him, reaching up with one hand to run your fingertips through the curls bordering the nape of his neck while the other rubbed circles between his shoulder blades. You rested your chin on his shoulder, too, feeling his rapid heartbeat against your breast with how tightly he was crowded against you. “You want to sit for a minute? Want me to turn some of the lights off?”

“No, I’m…I’m all right. Thank you, love.” He drew in a deep, shaky breath, fingers digging into your back, and released it slowly. “Might wash off first, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” you responded. “Do you need anything in the meantime? A cup of tea?”

He paused, hesitant. “...Chamomile?”

“On it.” You turned your head to press a chaste kiss beneath his ear. “You know that you can always ask me for anything. I don’t mind doing things for you.”

“So you’ve said.” Lots of times, actually, and yet he still didn’t quite seem to believe your generosity. You’d long since learned not to take offense by that incredulity, and he’d gotten much better about accepting it since you’d both admitted your feelings for each other—but he’d been mistreated and disregarded for so long that his old insecurities bubbled back up when he hit a low like this. “Still think I’m incredibly lucky to have you, love.”

“And I’m so very blessed to have you, darlin’.” You leaned back just enough to peer up at his tender, watery eyes through his unruly, tangled curls. Out of habit you reached up to comb them back, even though you both knew they wouldn’t stay there for long. “I switched out the wash, so your favorite sweats are dry. They’re in the top of the drawer.”

“Thank you,” he sighed, smiling softly. He reciprocated the kiss between your brows, lingering there as he subtly smelled your skin and the products perfuming it. “Want to pick somethin’ on the telly in the meantime?” Meaning he wouldn’t mind the noise.

“Sure. I’ll put your plate in the oven so it doesn’t get cold.” You leaned forward and up to catch him in a full, loving kiss before releasing him. “Don’t forget that it’s your treatment night.”

“Right.” He offered you another grin, slightly more relaxed and genuine. Marc and Jake were more fastidious and consistent about tending to their hair than Steven was, since he often needed reminders of what he needed to do to it and when, but you just considered it a part of your job to help keep them looking as gorgeous as ever. “See you in a mo’.”

“Take as long as you need,” you told him, but gave him a wink. “But not too long, or I might join you.”

That managed to coax a boyish little chuckle out of him, and your nerves dissipated for the most part. It didn’t seem like the sensory overload wasn’t as bad tonight as it had been in the past, thankfully. That he was willing to watch some TV was a good sign, although you were already thinking up some lower energy series or movies that wouldn’t push it (or him).

Steven always turned into a cuddle bug when he needed some quiet time, so you made the necessary preparations. You put the kettle on the stove, turned off most of the lights despite his gentle protest, and brought the blanket from the dryer to drape over the couch so you could wrap the both of you up in it. By the time you were getting his cuppa ready, he shuffled back into the main section of the apartment while rubbing his eyes.

“Not sure I can last a full film, love,” he mumbled as you herded him to the couch, setting him down with the blanket over his lap and placing the saucer and cup in his hands. “Somethin’ quick to get us through eatin’, maybe?”

“Sounds good to me. Some of our channels updated.” You bustled back into the kitchen to grab the food, then settled in next to him. “Are you feeling fashion history or archaeology?”

He hummed a bit into his tea, then set it down on the coffee table so he could dig in to the meal you’d prepared. “Fashion. That hand-stitching is so mesmerizin’.”

It also put him to sleep faster than any ASMR he’d ever tried at the peak of his supposed sleepwalking issues—he’d laughed at that realization once you’d introduced him to the genre, shaking his head all while fighting to keep his eyes open.

You leaned over to bump your shoulder against his affectionately as you grabbed the remote and began to scroll through the tabs. “Look, she’s made a Darcy shirt this time. I should make you one, too—course it would probably spend more time on the floor than on you, sadly.”

“All that hard work, just to catch dust,” he mused, eyes glittering with mirth. “I love you.”

“A shame, truly.” You pressed your cheek against his arm as you pressed play. “I love you, too, baby. We’ll hit the hay early tonight so you can recuperate better, okay? I’m tired, too.”

“Yeah.” He nuzzled the top of your head with a low, rumbling sigh of contentment. “Can’t argue with that.”

You forgot to bring up the statuette like you’d planned to.

You had always been a heavy sleeper by nature, growing up never having to share a bed and owning a room all to yourself. Perfect darkness and background noise usually in the form of the AC or thunderstorms on a noisemaker helped to lull you asleep since you were a bit of a chronic night owl. Once you succumbed, though, you slept like a corpse—or so you’d been told.

But when you’d moved in with the boys, you’d faced a long adjustment period. It didn’t help that they were relatively light sleepers—and while Marc struggled the most with night terrors, the others didn’t have an easy go of it, either. Insomnia reared its ugly head at times, and you always tried your best to stay up with them when their body couldn’t shut down, but—more often than not, unfortunately—you ended up drifting off despite your best of efforts. They didn’t seem to mind, though, and Steven had been the most vocal about it; he cited that it was soothing to have you there, even if you were “snoozin’ away,” because it gave them a reason to stay still. Whether you were holding them or vice versa, each one of them had confessed that having you there resting at their side helped them to relax to an extent, even if they didn’t end up catching a wink. You told them once that simply laying there with their eyes closed still gave their body much-needed time to decompress, and their restless frustration seemed to ease after that.

Thankfully your body had finally grown accustomed to sharing a bed with someone else since then—and your quality of rest had even improved by being so close to the men you loved.

Despite their mental struggles, you did wonder why they struggled as much as they did at times because they worked their collective ass off constantly. Two jobs to keep the bills paid plus occasional ventures out into the night at Khonshu’s behest meant that—when their schedules overlapped too frequently for too long—they’d get overloaded and thus severely fatigued faster than what made you comfortable. This often led into the mental breakdowns usually prompted by overstimulation and thus resulted in taxing them beyond what a single night’s rest could manage. 

Poor Steven could barely keep his eyes awake once he fed himself full (and didn’t manage to eat the whole serving, either). He slipped off at some point during the meal, head falling to rest on your shoulder. You almost hadn’t the heart to rouse him again, even if it was to gently coax him to go brush his teeth and settle into bed while you put the dishes in the sink to be washed in the morning. By the time you turned out all the lights, cleaned yourself up, and climbed under the covers, Steven was adamantly futzing with his phone in a plain effort to remain awake—for your sake, likely.

“Want me to put that on the charger?” you asked softly as you crawled closer to him.

He glanced at you, eyes bleary, and nodded as he handed it to you. “Yeah. Thanks, love.”

“Of course.” You took it and twisted onto your side, fumbling for the cord and setting it on the shelf over your side of the bed. You then snuggled up to his side since he opened his arms to you. You maneuvered your pillow to cushion his bicep and you laid your temple there with a contented sigh, curling an arm over his chest and relaxing as his own coiled around you. You tipped your head to kiss his shoulder. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, poppet,” he mumbled, and with a quick peek you saw that his eyelids were already shut. “G’night.”

You smiled softly and stilled. “Good night, boys. See you in the morning.”

Steven hummed, an absentminded sound indicating how close he was to tipping. You weren’t terribly far behind him yourself.

It wasn’t until the faint flicker of a light against your eyelids in the other end of the apartment made you realize you’d dozed off.

You sluggishly lifted your head and blinked rapidly to clear your vision, squinting through the dim into the cavernous room. The bookshelves were arranged in such a way that the majority of the bedroom space was hidden away from the rest of the apartment, but through the narrow gaps between and above the rows upon rows of books you saw only darkness. The few beams of moonlight spilling through the windows offered little in the way of illumination. 

You watched for a moment, confused and dazed and struggling to keep your eyes open. After at least half a minute of not seeing anything, you dropped your head back onto your pillow with a soft sigh. The man next to you snuffled in his sleep, tugging you a bit closer with an indistinct mumble. You closed your eyes with a low, flat hum.

Clack. Thump. Clack. Thump. Clack. Thump.

Your body jolted, neck straining as your head jerked back up. The surge of alarm that coursed through your bloodstream in an instant cleared more of the fog from your mind. You shivered as the temperature of the room seemed to dip. Frissons rocketed over your skin and caused every last hair to stand on end. You braced an elbow beneath you to sit up, apprehensive.

Was that…a silhouette in the dark, or were you seeing things?

The lights flickered again. A looming, eldritch specter cast a shadow over the bed in that split second of clarity that stung your eyes and caused them to water before the room was plunged once more into pitch black. You reached down on instinct, hand lighting on the arm still slung around your waist. Your voice emerged shaky and hoarse, terribly quiet. “Baby.”

Like the result of an incantation, the man lurched. You didn’t dare to tear your eyes away from the now empty space where you swore you had seen a ghost, but your pulse began to thrum in the pit of your throat as he stirred with a grumble. “...Wh’s’it?”

“Tell me I’m not seeing things,” you whispered, so softly that you almost didn’t hear it over the thundering in your ears—was that ringing simply tinnitus or something else?

“What’re you…talking about?” The hand at your abdomen cupped your belly, and you stole a glance down at the heavy-lidded eyes peering up at you bracketed by thick lashes. Marc looked confused, and you wondered at this being the one time that the body seemed to have relaxed enough to enter such a deep sleep…or whether they had simply been that tired.

“Marc,” you breathed, tipping your head forward. “I don’t know, but…I think…is it—?”

A cold chill made you shiver again, and this time you felt Marc’s body stiffen. His hand slipped up to your sternum, fingers spreading over your chest, flat and firm as though ready to pull you down with him. He was still struggling to wake up, you could tell, but the sharp crescents of the white of his sclerae against his umber irises cutting towards the same direction at which you’d been staring was telling enough.

You found yourself holding your breath as he watched for a long, tense moment. His arm flexed, ready to anchor you down. Then he let out a gruff, low huff and croaked, “...You’re not supposed to be here.”

You strained your ears and eyes, trying to pick out any indication of what—or whom—he spoke to, but now you only saw the bookshelves amongst the moonlight and the shadows.

“I don’t care. This was part of our agreement.”

You glanced back at him again in trepidation.

“No. It doesn’t matter. You know that you’re supposed to—” His jaw clicked shut, and you watched the tendon flex at his temple in agitation. He scowled. “You can’t be serious.”

“Marc,” you said softly, stomach twisting.

He squeezed his eyes shut, drew in a deep breath, and held it. You felt his fingertips drum in time over your shirt: one, two, three…then he exhaled slowly. Then he looked up at you. “Got to go, baby,” he murmured, and you saw that he could scarcely still keep his eyes open.

You stared at him for a long moment. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on. You frowned at him. “No.”

Marc’s brow softened just slightly as he pressed lightly on your chest. “Hey, it’s fine. Something came up. I’ve got a job to do. I’ve tried not to let it interfere so far, and nothing’s really happened, but there’s—”

“It is in the middle of the fucking night, Marc Spector,” you hissed. “It’s obvious that you’ve all had a day from hell, and you don’t need to be gallivanting across rooftops as exhausted as you are. It would benefit no one if you got hurt in the process, or slipped up and accidentally got someone innocent involved.”

“I know it’s not ideal,” he tried to soothe, tipping his chin up and relaxing his expression. “But it’s not just something that I can let slip by.”

“I think the fuck not,” you muttered, pushing his shoulder down as you sat up and faced the darkened interior of the flat. Your voice grew firm, echoing off the walls. “Khonshu?”

Marc tensed, his fingers coiling around your wrist as he opened his mouth, but you didn’t falter.

“Steven and Jake are working two different jobs to make ends meet since you don’t exactly offer any benefits,” you began tartly, “on top of taking many of their nights to follow you around…God knows where doing God knows what. They’ve had a long week to boot. I respect that you’re trying to keep us all safe in your own weird, misguided little way, but I’m sure putting away petty criminals can wait. If you don’t have a world-ending emergency queued up for them to solve, then I don’t want you to set foot near them again until the weekend is over. They need to get some damned sleep.”

Marc murmured your name, but he was obviously fading fast despite his persistence—a testament to their weariness. You smoothed your palm over the slope of his arm without looking away from the shadows stretched out across the hardwood floors. The eerie, anticipatory silence made you shiver again, the weight of the air in the room threatening to suffocate you.

Marc flinched under your touch at the same time that the lights flickered ominously. His eyes cracked open again—but just barely—and fixed on an otherwise empty portion of the room (closer to the bed, you noticed). His free hand curled into the sheets with whitened knuckles.

You had the distinct impression that someone was staring right at you. The prey-driven portion of your brain, the flight instinct, was screaming at you to cower and duck, hide and wait until the danger passed over. But this was the love of your damned life, and you would sooner die than back down to some dusty ancient deity who felt a little too entitled to the body he inadvertently shared with you, now. So you ground your jaw, held your ground, and trained your glare on the place Marc was watching with bated breath.

You swallowed thickly. “With all due respect,” you said, low and terse, “fuck right back off into the cosmos where you came from, Khonshu. Come back Monday night.”

Marc breathed your name, something like fear couched in his raspy tone.

You waited. No more lights, no more sounds. Then, like taking a breath of fresh air after being underwater, the pressure in the room lifted in a heartbeat—you swore that the temperature rose by several degrees. Your anxiety settled almost instantly, but you only let your guard down once Marc’s rigid frame loosened and sank back into the mattress.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled.

You released a heavy, shaky breath. “He’s gone?”

“Yeah. I didn’t think he’d—”

“I’m tired, honey.” You clamped a hand over your mouth as a yawn forcibly rent your jaw open. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

“Baby—”

“Marc,” you sighed, just a hint of a whine creeping into the edge of his name. “Please. Just go back to sleep.”

His hands guided you as you settled back down against his chest. He tugged the sheets up and over your shoulder, fingertips brushing the shell of your ear in so doing. He nuzzled into the nape of your neck and let out a sound of disbelief.

“What?” you mumbled, already fading fast after the unexpected adrenaline surge.

“...You didn’t have to do that,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” you returned dryly. “He’s not going to come into my damn house and jerk you around like you don’t belong to someone else.”

Marc’s sleepy chuckle was warm, low, and rumbled against your spine. “He won’t be happy about it.”

“He can go cry to pantheon HR or whatever the hell. I won’t let him walk all over you.”

“I think he’s learned that now.” He laid a gentle, lingering kiss below and behind your ear. “...I love you, baby.”

You leaned back to press the length of your body against his. “I love you, too.”

“I had an interesting conversation this morning, querida.”

You roused, mostly from the voice rumbling in your ear, but also from the lips skimming up the slope of your shoulder and neck. You shivered as the stubble scraped against your sensitive skin, fumbling with a heavy hand behind your head until your fingers wove their way into the meticulously gelled curls brushing the shell of your ear. The resulting sigh that shuddered over your warm flesh sent gooseflesh erupting over your skin.

“Mmm? With whom?” you mumbled, tilting your chin to allow him more room.

“El pájaro de la muerte,” Jake murmured.

Your eyes shot open and you leaned back enough to squint at him through the crust blurring your vision. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t meant to get you guys in trouble, I just wanted—”

“Ssh,” he chuckled, reaching over you to cup a hand around your cheek to draw you into a sweet, chaste kiss. “No one’s in trouble, least of all you or me.”

You frowned, wiping your eyes clean with your fingertips before resting your hand over his. “But…Khonshu isn’t upset?”

“Oh, no, he’s livid.” Jake’s eyes glittered with mischief.

You sat up slowly, glancing across the interior of the apartment with no small amount of trepidation. The tepid morning light steeped through the windows, providing lukewarm gray light that offered little warmth or illumination. So goulish silhouettes were to be seen, no haunting supernatural phenomena to be had.

“He’s not here—off pouting on top of a skyscraper all sulled up, more than likely.”

“I wasn’t trying to butt into your business. I know that it’s…complicated between you two.” Your lips thinned. “I just don’t like that he jerks you boys around, even after you talked things out with him and made an agreement. Supposedly. But I worry about Marc especially.”

“Oh, he knows by now that he’s stuck in here with us, not the other way around.” Jake flashed you a devilish grin and tapped his temple. “I made sure of that. Between Steven and I, he won’t give Marc any more trouble like he used to. That’s why I made it a point to talk to him this morning.”

You gave him a soft smile of relief. As far as he had come—as all of them had come—you still fretted. Needlessly, perhaps, but…well, it was one of your greatest talents.

But despite the fright it had given you, and the agitation you’d felt towards the deity (about whom you couldn’t decide was more realistic an option: that he simply felt he stood too far above you to reveal himself, or that he felt too uneasy to do so…had your bluff worked?), you had to admit to your curiosity—which had arguably piqued since you’d inadvertently interacted with him for the first time on a somewhat official basis.

“...What did he say about me?” you asked him with no small amount of trepidation.

“He said you have ‘too much audacity to contain in one frail mortal body’ and that you ‘would only bring trouble in your wake’. You royally pissed him off.”

Your brows furrowed in concern. “Then why do you look so smug?”

Jake’s grin broke out into a full, beaming smile. “Because I’ve never seen anyone able to get under his skin like that—not even the last guy. He didn’t stop talking about you the whole damn night, kept tossing around threats that he’d send you packing.” He laughed, then, a bright, boyish sound. “I think he likes you.”

“I…how on earth would you get that conclusion?” you questioned dubiously.

“Because I finally told him that you weren’t going anywhere,” Jake said plainly. “You’re our girl—you take care of us, make sure we stay running at top efficiency. If he wanted you gone, then he’d have to find a new avatar, too. He got real quiet after that.”

You shook your head. “...I still don’t see how that could possibly mean that he likes me.”

“Because he told me that you’d make a suitable replacement.” Jake’s eyes twinkled, belying the worry you might have felt knowing that Khonshu would ever consider you to be his ‘fist of vengeance’. “He used that as leverage against Marc while he was still married to Layla, but I’ve learned that Khonshu is very picky about who he chooses to be his fantoche. Only those he thinks have the most potential make the cut. We know better than we used to—you’d have to agree to his terms and conditions for that to happen, and you’re a smart enough cookie to call him on his bullshit, just like Layla did—just like you already have.” He stooped down and nuzzled into your neck, laughter still brimming from his belly. “I told him that he’s going soft.”

You couldn’t say that your peace of mind was any more alleviated than before, or that you understood completely, but as long as a literal ancient god wasn’t threatening the wellbeing of yourself or your lovers, then you supposed you shouldn’t press the issue.

“So…” you started tentatively, “does this mean I have his seal of approval?”

“Not that you needed it in the first place from a dusty old dirtbag like him,” he snorted, pulling back to eye you appreciatively, “but I’d say he likes your spit and vinegar. He did say he was surprised that you didn’t back down from him.”

“I didn’t even see him.” You raised a brow. “Did he really say that?”

“Basically. But the semantics don’t really matter.” Jake nudged your chin with the crook of his finger. His tone deepened. “You stood up to the god of vengeance without flinching once—for our sake. I’d say that you’re deserving of a reward after that.”

Heat crowded your cheeks as your body instinctively responded to the memory of that particular register. And even as he leaned in to pepper kisses along your mandible, fingers closing carefully around your throat to anchor you in place, your mind recalled the one detail that had consequently initiated your exasperation with their patron to start with.

“Will you ask him to stop knocking over the figurine that Steven got me in Cairo?” you complained, making him draw back slightly in surprise. “I don’t want him to break it, but if he does then he’s getting me a new one. It’s special to me.”

“It’s an image of another god,” Jake chuckled, lips curving as he returned his attention to your neck. “Of course he’d be jealous.”

“Jealous?!” you protested, hands falling onto his shoulders. “Why would he be jealous?”

“He’s used to commanding total devotion. Iconography not related to him is offensive.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as his lips found the tender place behind your ear once again. “That sounds like something Steven would say.”

“He did, actually.”

“Steven acted confused about it, though.”

Jake chuckled, wedging himself closer. His hand slipped to the middle of your back so he could leverage you back into the mattress. “Oh, he was, but you know him—he figured it out pretty quick.”

You gave him a dubious look. “Why didn’t he say anything? I was almost convinced I was going crazy.”

“He was being a smug little shit about it. He likes getting under Khonshu’s feathers.”

“He has feathers?”

“Not that I’ve seen—it’s figurative.” He snorted and kissed you. “Now hush and let me do my thing.”

“And here I thought you didn’t like referring to women as objects.”

Jake huffed a laugh and reached for the hem of your sleep shirt.

[jungle-angel]

A Lady Never Cooks And Tells (Calvin Evans x Reader)

Summary: One meal that you and one of your girls cooks for Calvin is the one he just can't get enough of

Warnings: References to war

Tagging: @floydsmuse

Freezing, frigid cold again as you trudged up the last bit of sidewalk before you reached the Shang residence, eager to get inside and try out the new recipe that Mei had suggested to you. You clunked up the porch steps and rang the doorbell and a split second later, Mei whipped the door open and started laughing at the unexpected sight of you.

"I am so sorry (y/n)," she laughed. "I didn't realize you were standing on the porch!"

"Can I come in? I'm freezing my bag ass off," you chuckled.

"C'mon, get in here," Mei urged. "Nainai will yell at me if I leave the door open."

Sure as shit, the minute you entered the house, you heard the sound of hobbling footsteps coming from the other room and the stern voice of Mei's grandmother speaking in rapid Mandarin.

"Ah (y/n) you're here!" she exclaimed, suddenly going from stern to excited in a split second.

"Ni hao Nainai!" you greeted excitedly, returning the hug she gave you.

"Aiya! You're freezing!" she laughed. "Here, get you're coat off, meet us in the kitchen, food's gonna get cold if we don't hurry."

You hurriedly hung your coat at the door, removed your shoes and slipped on a pair of soft house slippers, following Mei and her grandmother into the kitchen. You absolutely loved the Shang's house, warm and cozy but all full of the beautifully strange treasures that Nainai had brought with her from China. You were in awe of the lacquered wall hangings, the little Foo-dog statues and a little door stopper that looked like a frightening dragon. In one corner of the living room was a large bookshelf with the family photos, little bowls of rice, small animal statuettes and of course the little stone statue of the fat Buddha, always happy and always laughing.

"Oooh what are we making this time?" you asked.

"Steamed bao buns," Mei said. "Nainai's recipe."

You gasped, your jaw dropping halfway to the floor. All week long, Calvin had been wanting to try just a little bit of Chinese food, but unfortunately, the restaurant up the road had been closed for two weeks due to Christmas and New Year's. Nainai, ever the sneaky lady, had overheard and decided that she would teach both you and her granddaughter how to do it.

"Ok (y/n), you come here," Nainai said, crooking her finger as soon as she had seated herself. "I'll teach you the family secret."

Mei stirred the steam pot full of finely minced pork and vegetables while you and Nainai worked at the dough, relating one story after another while you worked.

"Ok now this is tricky," she warned you. "You wanna put a little in and fold up, then pinch, pinch, pinch, pinch and twist on top."

You tried your best but the first few hadn't come out the best. "Don't be afraid of failure," Nainai assured you. "My own Nainai taught me and she said the same thing, they never come out right the first time."

You kept at it though, following her instructions and placing them in the wooden steam basket to be steam cooked later. Yet you listened with rapturous awe to Nainai's stories about when she was living in China, growing up in a little village deep in the hills of Guangzhou and about all the family recipes that her own grandmother had taught her.

"I remember one year when I couldn't cook at all," she explained. "And it was the year we left China."

"During the war?" you asked her.

Nainai nodded as she finished pinching another bun. "Not only the did the Japanese enter the village," she explained. "But the men hiding in the north. My own Nainai called them parasites and indeed they were. They took what they wanted and left nothing but the house and a fence. But when we left, we went to Hawaii, then Los Angeles......and now here."

"And we're damn glad you're here," you chuckled.

You, Mei and Nainai had an absolute blast in the kitchen, cooking away until at last you had plenty for lunch the next day.

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

At long last it was the hour of truth. To the cafeteria you and Mei went, your husband and other friends eagerly awaiting your arrival.

"Oooh, what's for lunch sweetpea?" Calvin asked.

"Just a little something from me, Mei and Nainai," you told him.

You took out one of the little steamed dumplings from your lunch container and placed it in a napkin, passing it across the table to your husband who eagerly took a bite.

"Oh my God that's delicious!" he told you.

"And we made them fresh," you added.

Calvin's eyes went wide as he leaned across the table and kissed you. "You guys are amazing, you know that?"

You kissed him back, the taste of the bao bun still on his lips. "We try Cal," you chuckled. "We try."

[nani-nonny]

Distorted Mirror throwaway snippets for trashed sequel: Broken Mirror

TLDR: Nonny is sharing the ideas originally planned for Distorted Mirror that was pushed into Broken Mirror, the sequel that will never be

Idk if I blatantly mentioned that originally had a sequel to Distorted Mirror or if it was just briefly mentioned in asks here and comments on ao3, but i never got far in actually planning it out. After all, Distorted Mirror was supposed to be a short oneshot lol, and was supposed to have a oneshot sequel but look where it brought me haha!

Anyways, Distorted Mirror was planned to be a oneshot, yes, and in its planning phase I had some ideas that didn’t really fit in the story outline. So I put the thought aside for a sequel and focused solely on plotting DisMir.

After finishing DisMir… ch.3? I think? I revisited these tossed ideas and tried plotting out how I could fit these and line them with some questions unanswered by the completion of DisMir, because I knew there would be some left since the final chapter’s summary and outline was already planned out.

For example, I pushed Leo’s possible Krangification out of DisMir entirely, hence the repeating notion of Leo’s cautious demeanor about the filtration masks and strike of fear after seeing what Michelangelo did to that infected person. This idea was moved to the “possible” sequel, which explains the snippets I have provided. vvvv (check the Read More)

Following that note, while struggling to fully write out the final chapter of DisMir, I was also struggling to plot out the summary, ideas, and outline for Broken Mirror. It just wasn’t hitting the same way DisMir did, and I didn’t want to force a sequel so I kind of pushed the idea aside to my little mind vault and finished up DisMir.

It would be a little bit of a shame to let these snippets die in my little mind vault, and since I’m not writing anything at the moment, I thought I’d share them. :)

First snippet: possible idea #1 @ 1.4K words

Leo rests his chin on the kitchen table as he stares at the wooden statuette. His eyes stare deep into the wood’s carving that resemble a pair of eyes staring back at him. He hasn’t been able to make sense of the strange markings engraved into the ends and the sides, nor has Donnie been able to make progress.

No matter how long he stares into the statue’s eyes, he still can’t make sense of how this small item is the key to the prison dimension.

This is what kept those… those things trapped for years? This tiny thing? He’d rather believe that the future brothers of his were lying, but he knows better. He witnessed how horrible the Krang are, he even has the scars on his carapace to prove it.

But how does this keep them locked away? And how did his future brothers let it slip away? What happened that they couldn’t retrieve it in time?

How long had Donatello been thinking about this key that he knew exactly how the key got to the Foot Clan’s hands?

What happened to them after he changed everything? Are they okay? How are they dealing with Prime?

A soft knock interrupts Leo’s thoughts, alerting the slider who looks over his shoulder to see Donnie standing in the kitchen doorway.

Leo sits up and turns in his seat to look at Donnie. He whips up a quick smile and picks up the key to spin it in his hand, “Hey, Donnie Boy, what do you need from your new leader?”

Donnie flicks with his thumb a small purple cartridge at Leo, who fumbles with the key before catching the object.

“Had your fun?” Leo asks as he raises a brow and shakes the cartridge lightly. It’s half empty. He sets the key back on the table as he watches Donnie pass by him.

Donnie plops himself at the seat adjacent to Leo and crosses his arms. From the look on his face, it wasn’t easy to decipher the contents of the cartridge, “It’s like… herbicide. I don’t know, it’s a weird combination. It’s got some strange ingredients in it—some I don’t even recognize—but overall it’s a herbicide.”

“That’s it?” Leo asks as he flips the unlabeled cartridge in his hand. An everyday herbicide can kill a possible Krang infection? That’s all he’s inhaling? “Then, can you make another?”

Donnie rolls his eyes and reminds, “I can replicate a herbicide, but this is a different story. Like I said, there’s some other components that I don’t recognize. I get nothing on my scanners but there are some mystic properties in it.”

Leo nearly jumps out of his seat, “Mystic? What kind of mystic? Did you check with Draxum yet?”

Donnie snarls and he narrows his eyes, “I’d rather gouge out my eyes than work with him.”

“Come on, Donnie, we have to know what are in these inhalers,” Leo asks with a smile. He knows Donnie can replicate the serum. He only needs the assurance of having the antiKrang substance.

Donatello told Leo to let Donnie watch over his vitals upon returning. Nothing has come up since he left the future, and Donnie told him that there aren’t any traces of the Krang infection in his system.

But just knowing that there are extras will ease his mind.

“Then you talk to Draxum. If he has the time to research the mystic properties in this inhaler in between the hours of ‘Mystic Class for Mikeys’ and ‘Warrior Lessons for Raphs’,” Donnie says as he crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes at the reminder.

Leo nods but doesn’t say a word in response.

Ever since the initial scare when he was gone, as retold by his brothers when scolding Mikey, the box turtle has been attending lessons with Draxum to properly use mystics. And as excited it makes Mikey, it really takes up a majority of the box turtle’s time. They’ve hardly seen Mikey outside of leadership training, only spotting the box turtle in passing or eating alone at the table before zooming off to Draxum’s lessons.

Although Leo isn’t certain whether anyone else has noticed or if he’s imagining things, he noticed a small hair beginning to sprout on his little brother’s head.

Raph, on the other hand, has been fueled by the fiery passion to become big and strong like his future counterpart. He’s taking fighting lessons from Draxum, usually when Draxum isn’t teaching Mikey.

Donnie rolls his wrist, “But besides that, who’s to say they’ll actually be able to figure it out? Mystics are a finicky source that fails to follow any sort of rules. We can’t even bullshit our way to a solution.”

Leo sighs and leans back in his chair, staring at the key that stares back at him.

Donnie’s right. They need a plan. He can’t go back to the future for a reason that isn’t absolutely necessary. He’s fine. Donnie said so many times.

But the way the key is staring at him doesn’t ease his anxiety.

He clears his throat and asks Donnie for the umpteenth time, “Am I really clear? —of the infection.”

Donnie nods, his voice clear and without hesitation, “I’ve checked every morning and night. I haven’t seen any foreign bodies in your lungs. You’re clear, Leo.”

Leo nods. He feels a little better. Just a little. He never told the specifics behind the Krang infection and what he saw Michelangelo do to that Infected. Donnie is only aware of the infection’s ability to “Krangify”. The softshell doesn’t know the stage where there’s no going back, where Michelangelo burns the body to a pile of ashes. But Leo’s just glad Donnie’s willing to reassure him again and again.

“Thanks, Don,” Leo responds and turns the key away from him.

Donnie nods, “It gives me an excuse to record your—.”

It happens too fast for Leo or Donnie to comprehend.

In one blink, Donnie is about to finish speaking. In the next blink, a blinding light bursts into life on the kitchen table. Then the light becomes a cracked, golden ring. It widens until a figure shoots through the broken opening before disintegrating. The figure, consumed in a multi-colored flame like a meteor, crashes into the stove.

Donnie is quick to grab a ladle from the rack above the kitchen table and point it at the crash site. Leo reaches for a sword that isn’t there.

And the figure sweeps an arm over its body before revealing a teenage, human boy. A boy wearing dystopian clothing, armor plating his chest and shins and elbows, a hockey stick thrown to the ground, black hair held back by a hockey mask, and smelling like iron and smoke. The boy looks up at Leo, eyes wide and beginning to tear up.

His scratchy voice croaks softly in pure disbelief, “Dad…?”

Before Leo can respond, the boy’s eyes flicker to the purple cartridge and they narrow immediately. The boy’s gaze is hardened and he launches himself forward, tackling Leo to the ground.

“What the—,” Leo begins but stops short when the boy’s knee presses on his plastron. He tries to push the boy off with his hand but the boy snatches the cartridge.

The boy breaks open the top of the cartridge and shoves it into Leo’s face. His voice comes out hoarse and demanding, “Breathe it!”

Donnie cocks his hands back, ready to swing a frying pan straight to the back of the boy’s head. But the boy is quick, a metallic arrow is shot from his forearm, revealing a grappling hook. The arrow hits the side of the frying pan, knocking it out of Donnie’s hand and making it fly to the sky and fall directly on the softshell’s head.

Leo glares at the boy for Donnie’s sake, a smile creeping on his face as his foot reaches for the same frying pan. But he stops when a stray tear drops on his cheek.

The boy’s holding back his tears as he demands, “Inhale the medicine, please. I can’t lose you again.”

“Again? Who the hell are you? Where did you come from?” Leo asks as he gives up on reaching for the frying pan.

The boy swallows but doesn’t pull his hand away from Leo, “I’m from the future. I was sent back to stop the invasion, starting with you and the key.”

Leo’s brows furrow in confusion, “What invasion? The Krang? They couldn’t have come back, we have the key.”

The boy shakes his head. “No, not the Krang.”

“Then who?”

The boy doesn’t speak but the answer reflects in his eyes. The blue mask and red streaks stare back at Leo, giving him his answer.

So, Casey Jr would make his appearance not as the baby that played an Easter Egg roll in DisMir, but as the boy we see in the rottmnt movie. (Did anyone notice the little movie throwbacks and Easter Eggs in DisMir?)

CJ Jr returns with a similar mission as the movie, but with a twist. He comes back to prevent and stop a death and catastrophe from the future. The future is overrun not by the Krang, but by the Krangified Future Leonardo Hamato, whose death reignites the flames of war with an unknown enemy (I couldn’t decide on whether to bring a new enemy or bring in the Triceratons, which become a huge predicament in plotting Broken Mirror)

And then we have the other possible time traveler, which follows a near similar plot to the previous snippet. Present!Leo is pinpointed as the beginning of the end, whose abrupt infection ignites a new war. (Again, couldn’t decide if I wanted to bring back the Krang or not)

Second snippet: possible idea #2 @ 414 words

Leo shields his eyes as a blinding purple light bursts from the cracks in the walls. Almost reforming, the walls crumble and bulge before a new shape takes place. It’s like his portals, but purple and reminiscent of Donnie’s mystics.

A large figure collapses through, a cape covering the entirety of the stranger’s body.

But the mystery of the stranger’s identity doesn’t stay for long before they lift their head, revealing a dirty purple mask.

“Donnie?”

Leo’s beating heart from the sudden scare doesn’t slow, as this Donnie is nothing like any of the Donnies he has met before.

This Donnie is large, larger than Donatello. And for a brief second, he believes it truly is Donatello. The same Donatello from the future that believed in him from the very beginning, broke the rules of time travel and warned him of the key.

But one look straight into this Donatello’s eyes tells him it’s all wrong.

This Donatello isn’t missing an arm, replaced by a purple prosthetic. But he is missing an eye, a leg, and a piece of his plastron. He is covered in endless scars, but not a single one reaching his back. He has abandoned the metallic shell, replacing it with a mystic shell. His staff is caked in dry blood and pink guts.

And worst of all, he glares at Leo. A deadly glare that nearly threatens Leo’s life.

“Donatello” rises slowly, using his staff to hold his weight before grabbing the cartridge and shoving it near Leo’s face. “Take it properly,” he orders coldly.

Leo can only stare at this new Donatello in shock. He’s nothing like the Donatello he met. Who is this guy?

“Donatello” nearly growls out, his patience running thin, “I won’t say it twice.”

Leo takes the cartridge carefully, trying not to touch Donatello. He rummages through his non existence pockets before shrugging, he smiles to defuse the situation, “Oops, I don’t have my inhaler.”

“Leo, I don’t have time for your games. Take the your medicine, and give me the fucking key,” Donatello demands angrily, clearing his throat with a painful cough.

“Are you okay?”

Donatello glares again, “Yes. But you won’t be if you don’t take your fucking medicine. You still have it in your system.”

“That can’t be, Donnie said I’m clear,” Leo corrects as he closes his shaking fist over the cartridge.

“Listen to me, you still have it in your system. And you will be the end of us all.”

I kind of liked this idea more as it contrasts how kind and more welcoming to Leo DisMir F!Donatello was to the new timeline-branch F!Donatello who is immediately threatening and hostile upon first meeting.

Imagine being Leo in this position. Reuniting with, at first glance, the future counterpart of your twin who helped you not only accept the heavy responsibility of being a leader but also broke the rules of time traveling to make sure you don’t face the horrors of an—at the time—ongoing war against an alien race. Not to forget to mention who hid the secret of the true reason behind the invasion and the lost key, because that’s how much your twin loves you…. Only for it to be a completely different future counterpart who pins all the blame of a worse future on you.

Sad stuff, but also wasn’t enough to get my writing gears gearing, you know? I needed a struggle for them to go through that wasn’t shallow or easy to wade through. The ideas I had weren’t “enough”, per say.

Anyways, hope you liked these snippets and my little rant. (Definitely not little, but a rant nonetheless) A lot of thought goes into the writing process and sometimes it just doesn’t work out, sadly :(

I think that if I had more inspiration or more of a writing feeling or fuel, this could’ve been done. Maybe I could’ve gotten a plot line started for Broken Mirror. Maybe. Oh well~

[cherryeol04]

I Hate Decorating

➻ Pairings: Mark x Jaebeom

➻ Genre: romance, fluff, domestic relationship

➻ Additional: N/A

➻ Word Count: 1K

➻ Warnings: N/A

➻ Author’s notes: This story is cross posted on multiple sites under the same username!

Jaebum had been dreading this day since October hit. Even though there were two Holidays before it, Christmas items were already being put out on display already. And his boyfriend, Mark, was an avid Christmas fanatic. Christmas songs began to play in the house in November. Shopping began in October and of course, the decorations had to be up the day after Thanksgiving. Okay. Well the day after the day after Thanksgiving because the day after Thanksgiving was super, mega shopping day and Jaebum refused to go shopping anymore after nearly dying the first time around. 

“Babe!!” 

“No.” Jaebum grumbled as he looked up from his phone, eyes landing on Mark as the other male dragged out the newly purchased boxes of inflatables and statuettes of lighted creatures. 

“Oh come on, Grinch. Give me a hand.”

Jaebum sighed as he stared intently at Mark. He lowered his phone and started clapping, which didn't amuse Mark as much as it was amusing himself. 

“Jaebum, help me decorate.”

“Mark, it's not even December.” Jaebum commented. 

“Exactly and our neighbors already have their lights up. We need to do the same!” Mark huffed, a pout gracing his beautiful lips. 

“Americans…” Jaebum grumbled and Mark grunted. Walking over, Mark took a seat on Jaebum's lap and crossed his arms as he stared at him. 

“Hey now, you agreed to move with me to LA. Don't even complain about us “Americans”. You're gonna be a citizen soon too.” he grinned. Jaebum groaned and wrapped his arms around Mark's waist and held him close.

“Yeah, I agreed. But you go a little excessive when it comes to decorating.”

“But you love me.” Mark pointed out cutely, voice taking on a higher pitch. Jaebum groaned and rolled his eyes as he lowered his head to rest on Mark's shoulder. 

“Alright. Fine, let's go put up the decorations.”

Mark grinned and clapped his hands happily before throwing them around Jaebum's neck. “Thanks, love.” he said and smiled. He leaned in and kissed Jaebum's cheek. He slipped off of Jaebum's lap and made his way back to the boxes he had been carrying and picked them back up and started walking towards the front door. 

Jaebum gave a deep sigh as he watched his boyfriend leave out the door and wondered to himself exactly why he just couldn’t say no. But he supposed it was because the other was just an amazing man in general. Everything he had ever wanted in a partner. Jaebum honestly considered himself lucky that he was able to snag such a beautiful and pure-hearted man to call his own. Getting up from the chair, he moved to the door, ready to meet his maker.

~*~

“Jaebum!” 

Jaebum clung tightly to the edge of the roof, lights dangling from his body. Mark’s hand wound around his wrist, gripping tightly and for a moment Jaebum thought maybe he wouldn’t actually die. Granted, their house was only one story, so maybe if he fell he wouldn’t actually die and just break something. But still, the fear was real. His heart was racing as Mark started pulling and he did his best to help push himself back up as well. Thought it was difficult since one arm was tied to his side by the lights. 

Between the two of them, they managed to pull him up and over the side, both laying on their sides. They hadn’t exerted that much energy, but they were panting as they had just run a country mile. Jaebum looked to Mark, whose eyes were still wide with fear, his cheeks flushed red. “This is why I don’t want to decorate,” he spoke after a moment of silence between them. A large smile spread over Mark’s lips and he laughed.

“It’s not my fault you’re an absolutely clutz.” he teased. “Are you okay?” he finally asked, trying to calm himself from his laughter.

“I’m just peachy,” Jaebum grumbled and groaned. “Mark unwrap me!”

Mark snickered as he leaned over and started unwrapping the lights from Jaebum’s body. “I have to admit, I kind of like you like this, all tied up. Like your my Christmas present.” he teased. 

“You know, sometimes I wonder about your mind and where it goes.” he commented. He was more than happy when Mark finally removed the lights from his upper body, and he was able to finally sit up on his own. 

“It goes on a lovely trip and brings me back such amazing commentary when it returns.” Mark chuckled and Jaebum could only roll his eyes. He couldn’t deny that. The things that Mark would say were sometimes very questionable, but funny or suited for the situation. Mark had his own style of living and commenting on life and that was one of the things that had intrigued Jaebum about the other when they first got together.

“You’re so silly.” Jaebum smiled.

“That’s why you love me.”  Mark said, pausing in his work to stare at into Jaebum’s eyes. “Right?”

“Mmm, well it’s not the only reason I love you. But definitely one of the reasons.” Jaebum said as he leaned forward slightly.

“What are the other reasons?” Mark asked, smiling ever so slightly at Jaebum.

“There are too many to list. We don’t have all day, we need to finish getting the decorations up.” Jaebum said. “But trust me when I say, there are so many reasons why I love you and nothing will ever change my thoughts on that.” he said. Closing the gap between them, Jaebum pressed his lips against Mark’s in a chaste kiss. Mark hummed against the lips, leaning into the kiss for a moment before pulling back.

“Alright. Let’s get back to work and this time, try not to kill yourself. I know you hate decorating but that doesn’t mean you can just throw yourself off the roof.” he teased and Jaebum rolled his eyes.

“Yeah yeah yeah. I’m just saying, I’m not taking this all down in January.” he said and Mark pouted.

“But Bummie.” 

“No! Not finish the lights!” Jaebum said and tossed one of the evil strands at Mark, who caught it with a laugh.

“Love you too babe.” he winked and blew a kiss at Jaebum, the other just shaking his head and moving to continue to hang the lights on his side of the roof. Decorating was something he really hated, but he would suffer through it for Mark. Because he loved Mark, and he would do anything for the other, just to see him smile.

[fullcfphobias-a]

It was getting on in the day. Shadows were getting a little longer, talk had switched over into a lull of what to do afterwards, and the crowds were a little thinner. Most had departed already, and those that hadn't were those who had some after-school activity or another to see to.

Miranda didn't have any of the latter, and most knew this about her. She had other things to do and matters of business to attend to, and this was far more of her side gig than anything else in her life. Usually she was one of the first to leave, if not even earlier than that, as she had some other arrangement to see to that couldn't spare her the time.

She wasn't usually standing by Oz's usual place, waiting for him there with an expectant, though nonetheless still delighted, smile on her face.

"Ozzy!" Yep, she was waiting there for him, and she smacked her tail against the ground and wiggled her fins and seemed, overall, far too pleased to see him. "I told you that I wished to go home with you, so here I am! For you to take me home with you, to accompany you for the night and to sleep with you!"

No, she never did get any better at her phrasing. At least there weren't as many people around to overhear this time.

Oz's schedule was a rather confusing mess. Although he never officially signed up for any of the many extracurriculars offered, he found himself bouncing around the various club rooms regardless. It always started as a quick favor, someone had cancelled and they needed just one more seat filled for such and such. It was a miracle he was quick to adapt as he was, and far too concerned with potentially disappointing someone to worry about what else he could be doing with this time.

Fortunately, today he had managed to evade the usual shenanigans.

He stood a little straighter when Miranda came into view, rather surprised she wasn't already long gone. It was a relief he hadn't accidentally left her to stand here while he was carted off to do who knows what for however long.

"Hey, Miri.."

Oz was sure his cheeks were growing pale at her phrasing, he wasn't sure if he'd ever stop being so easy to fluster, but he chose to instead focus her intent to stay the night. Okay, she wanted to stay over! He could do that, he'd just have to move some things around and– well, he'd deal with it when they got there.

"Alright! Just, uh, follow me!"

Walking the halls, the amalgam glanced around before his eyes settled on the janitor's closet. He usually wasn't one to fiddle with random rooms, not unless he was being roped into the shenanigans of others, but a sparingly used door was what he needed. Putting his finger to the lock, the digit morphed into a rather ornate key. The two were greeted with a rather monochromatic living room upon Oz opening the door, the contents and space of the original room nowhere to be seen.

Despite the lack of color the place was far from dull, there was not a single spot on the walls not taken up by one thing or another. Shelves not containing books were filled with a neatly organized mix of statuettes and pottery, paintings and photographs of various landscapes hung proudly beside the array of clocks. Some connected to the wall, some stood on the floor, but all emitted the same faint ticking. A large sofa and a pair of armchairs sat on the thickly carpeted floor, an abundance of throw pillows occupying them each.

As spacious as the room was, it seemed to lack any other doors or even hallways. If one were to look up, however, they would quickly catch onto the non-euclidean nature of the place. The room extended upwards into infinity, twisting and spiraling the higher it went. Staircases zigzagged through the space, leading to either one of countless doorways or veering off into nothing. Countless eyes blinked from the darkness, shadows always slithering about. No doubt other phobias, as a few jump from Oz's body and melt into the walls as shadow.

"Yeah, um.. you'll see a lot of those guys! Just so you know.."

[heaux-burrow]

little talks

“It’s not for nothing that I long for you: It’s that others love my smile only—you love even my tears. It’s not for nothing that I wait for you: It’s that others love only my health—you love even my death.” — Han Yong’un, from Love’s Reasons;

pairing: eddie munson x chrissy cunningham summary: in the wake of spring break, eddie finds himself talking to ghosts... inspired by this post by @bettercallmaul (Eddie lives AU I GUESS 😤 - wrote this before I watched the finale) playlist

~~~

She remembers screaming. Loud enough to shake the windows. High enough in pitch that her own ears had throbbed as if a needle pierced them.  

How could they think it was Eddie that had hurt her? Why had anyone allowed Jason to just… turn vigilante and hunt him down like a rabid dog? 

She remembers trying desperately to throw a vase full of lilies in her mother’s church after the funeral. 

Stop!

To kick a chair across the police station. 

Leave him alone!

To throttle Jason with her bare hands as he used her name to justify his vitriol. She’s never been so angry before. Never been so filled up with rage. But then again, she’s never cared about anyone like she does Eddie. 

He’s the only one who ever really saw me. Just leave him alone. Being so far away from him is hard enough, why are you wrapping the grief around his neck like a noose? 

But her fingers and her feet had slipped through the vase. And the chair. And Jason with every attempt. And her screams fell on deaf ears. Because she was no longer a girl. Nothing more than sand slipping through fingers. Nothing more than a shadow choking on her own silence.  

So she stayed. Stubbornly, she clung to Hawkins, refusing to abandon him… even if it did him no good at all. 

~~~

The first time, it's just a flash.

So brief he'd convinced himself it had been a trick of the light. An aftershock of all the trauma their small town's youth had collectively experienced in the past month.But despite the fear he'd felt, Eddie found himself replaying the moment anyway. A song he didn't want to let out of his head. A scratch in the record he couldn't bring himself to move the needle off of. And it was so easy because it had been so clear. Felt so real.

Chrissy, alive and bright and dewy with sunshine. Chrissy, sat in the passenger seat of Shadowfax (his beloved van), one hand out the window as her fingers played elegantly through the wind. Chrissy, humming along to the tape he'd had in his deck as he drove north. Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac bled from his speakers (lately, he'd been coming back to the records his mother had played around their shitty apartment in Detroit - the songs he'd longed to introduce Chrissy to for years, knowing, just knowing that her parents listened to shit like Donna Summers and ABBA).

He'd nearly driven right off the road, tires screeching as he went careening onto the shoulder of the 109. Body trembling and breath coming heavy, it had been a moment before he'd actually mustered the bravery to look over again. But all that was next to him was a pane of sunshine filtering in from the open window.

~~~

It took several joints to calm his nerves after that day.

The distraction of playing a show at a shitty downtown Chicago bar helps. He's started picking up side gigs. Filling in across the mid-west where guitarists are needed. Partly for the extra cash and partly for the connections he's able to network in the gig circuit. But if he's honest, it's not actually about any of those things. It's the distraction they provide.

He can't just sit in his bedroom in Hawkins like nothing happened. Focusing on one singular task at a time has never been his strong suit, but now it's impossible. Even trying to plan the new D&D campaign for Hellfire has proven a mountain that refuses to be scaled. Every time he takes out his kit, all he sees is the little Vecna statuette and he falls down a dizzying rabbit hole of confused, frustrated fury.

There are perks to this in a way. Gigs don't just provide an opportunity to showcase his talent with a guitar, they're the best venue to move product. He's never had so much money in his life. Sometimes, he takes the wads of cash out from the plastic bag they sit in, hidden in the toilet tank of the trailer bathroom, just to stare at it.

He won't put it in a bank. His uncle has warned him of that, since the money isn't legal. But the bathroom is as good a savings account as any. What's left over after he pays Wayne rent and buys flowers for Chrissy's grave goes right in this little bag.

Sometimes he feels foolish sitting at her grave, talking to her as he picks the thorns off pink roses. He knows she's not really there. She can't be. And even if she was, the handful of moments they'd shared didn't exactly entitle him to mourn for her. But the grief was there, all the same. It was there because she wasn't.

~~~

The second time is at a show and he knows it's because he's high as a kite.

The little redhead in the crowd can't be her. It just can't be. Those can't be her big, storm blue eyes staring up at him. He knows, because Vecna took her eyes. His favorite thing about her had always been her eyes.

After his set, he follows the girl through the crowd, leaving his precious Freya up on stage for the band he's with tonight to worry about. He's never left Freya on her own in his life but this girl looks exactly like…

"Chrissy!" The air outside in the alley feels cool after the heat of a packed dive bar. But all he can see is her short skirt. Her long slender legs. Her beautiful red hair.

When she turns to face him on the steps that lead down from the alley door, there's a mischievous smile twitching at her mouth. Then suddenly, she's kissing him and it feels as if there's snow falling and Christmas lights switching on and...

He reaches to grip her slender waist, but his fist closes around air. Eyes fluttering open, Eddie staggers back. He had felt her. He had felt her body heat. Heard her breathing. Tasted her strawberry chapstick. What the fuck had been in that bong he'd hit in the green room?

Brows knit together in determination, he heads back inside, wondering if he can't find some more.

~~~

The third time is very much on purpose. 

He waits until his uncle has left for the night, then lays out candles across the small coffee table and sits on the floor. Hands trembling, Eddie swallows hard against the tight ball of tension knotted in his throat. The woman he’d bought the ouija board from had warned him not to attempt this alone. But who could he possibly confess his delusions to? Or worse, that he was chasing after them rather than trying to rationalize them. 

For a long while, he just watches the candles burn. Glances up to where the scar of a long-since closed portal has been spray painted in a whitish gray that clearly doesn’t match the rest of the ceiling. He can still see her floating there. Can still hear her bones snapping. The whites of her eyes…her beautiful blue eyes… stolen. 

Wiping the sweat of his palms across black denim jeans, he shakes his hands out, trying to dispel the anxiety keeping his desperation locked up tight. 

“Come on, man.” He mutters to himself. “You can walk into another dimension strapped like fuckin’ Rambo. You can do this.” 

Closing his eyes, his fingertips rest on the edges of the planchet. 

“Chrissy? If you’re there… fuck, just… please give me a sign?” The words stumble out, unsure and half embarrassed.

A silence thick with his own cloying desperation follows. Dust floats lazily through the beams of moonlight slanting across the living room. Feeling like an idiot, Eddie lets go of the planchet and lets his head fall back onto the couch behind him. Letting out a slow breath, he drags his hands through his hair, tempted to pull some out in frustration. 

“God damn it, baby…just talk to me.” No longer guessing at what he’s supposed to say, this more surefooted tone seems to allow the energy in the room to shift. The dust by the window seems to swirl up into curls for a moment and he swears he hears a giggle brush by his ear just as a soft rush of wind blows the candles out, leaving him sat in the dark. His pulse climbs like a balloon full of hot air and his posture straightens just in time to catch the planchet slide over the word ‘hello’. 

Brown eyes wide, Eddie fights hard against the instinct to bolt. To run out the door and into his van and drive far away. But the thought makes his stomach turn. 

‘Fuck that. I ran away once. I’m not leaving her again.’ 

“H-Hey…uh, can you… give me a sign that it’s you? That I’m… not just sitting here talking to a… demon or something.” 

As if on cue, Chrissy appears on the other side of the coffee table, sat on the floor with her legs folded same as him. 

“You called me baby first and then you asked if I was a demon? Feels a little out of order.” 

For a moment, he’s stunned into silence from the fact that these are her first words to him after... 

“Death becomes her …Nice to see you too.” He muses, sliding a guitar pick off the coffee table and rubbing his thumb across the front. His hands have always been his greatest tell. Always touching or toying with something when his brain is going faster than he can follow. How the fuck is this happening?

Then she’s smiling. And he swears it feels like he’s reliving every Christmas morning at once.

“You’re not scared.” A statement, not a question. She’s surprised, having braced herself for a much longer fight before he didn’t look at her as if she was the monster in a horror film. 

“Are you?” Just like Eddie to be looking after her, ready to pick up all her pieces, even when they were buried in the ground. 

“What else can happen to me now?” 

Swallowing hard, he nods. Waves of guilt wash up on his shore and he struggles to put up a sea wall against them. But it seems losing her physical form has only strengthened whatever connection they had before and she can feel the shift in his energy as if she’s a radio antenna dialed into one station. His. Eyes falling closed, she pleads with him to believe her.

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“How did you…how are you…here?” 

Big blue eyes brushing around the trailer, she feels such warmth here. Like she could nest into the carpet and sew herself into the fibers of the couch and pool inside the moonlight falling through his windows. A single shrug rolls her slender shoulders. 

“I’m not sure…I just…wanted to be here. I wanted to be with you…You’re the only one who comes and talks to me, you know.” 

“Not even…?” 

“He brings flowers. He doesn’t stay. Mom and dad too. Nothing to say, I guess. Just like everyone else…except you” 

“Seems a little too easy…” Easy has been a difficult road for Eddie to trust ever since he can remember. Especially when that road leads to happiness. What’s the catch? He thinks.

“Does it? Feels like we earned this to me.” The look in her eyes silences any further opposition as he remembers how much she’s sacrificed. His usual ‘devils advocate’ attitude melts into an easy nod and he plays the corners of his guitar pick across the coffee table. 

“I’m happy you’re here…god, you could be anywhere. With your family, with…with Jason.” She nods, unblinking, completely aware of these facts. Only silence follows and the confidence of her response tugs a smile to life at the corner of his mouth. “But I don’t… I don’t want you to go, hmm?” 

And she nods again as he repeats the words that she'd pressed into his pages like little wildflowers in the woods. Smiling that Christmas morning smile all the while. 

~~~

The fourth time makes him cry in front of the entire school. 

Graduation day. And he never really thought he’d get to walk that stage. But seeing Chrissy stand up in the crowd, waving her pom poms and cheering him on is enough to choke a sob or two in his throat.

Through his tears, he still manages to flip off Principle Higgins. And after the diploma is in his hands, him and Chrissy run like hell out of the auditorium, screaming like banshees. 

~~

The fifth time is nothing short of embarrassing. 

He’s puking his guts out before a show in Detroit at The Riot Club. It’s a Friday night. The basement venue is packed so full that everyone knows they’d be shut down in a second if the fire department were to show up for an inspection. But as long as the drinks keep flowing, no one really cares. Even if half of them get spilled. 

Eddie isn’t even sure how Corroded Coffin got this gig. Or why he thought they were ready for this. For Detroit. Real studio reps show up at these things. God, they’re gunna see right through his bullshit. Another spasm twists his stomach and he wretches up bile, a cold sweat breaking out over his forehead. 

Then, without warning, a brush of ice cold caresses the base of his neck. And before he even hears her voice, he knows it’s her from the way this touch is steadying his shaken nerves. 

“Better back here than up on stage, hmm?” She runs her hand slowly down his spine, then back up to squeeze at the tension coiled tight in his shoulders. 

“Y-yeah…” 

“You are ready for this, you know.” Chrissy wonders if reading braille feels the same way decoding him does. A language you can’t see but only feel. 

“How…how could you possibly know that?” He barely loses the words as he fights to catch his breath. 

“I know you’ve seen me at your shows…” 

If he’s honest, he’d assumed he’d hallucinated all that. That he was simply seeing what he wanted to see. But then again, he’s been talking to a ghost. So, it’s a little late to play the ‘rational guy’ card.  

“I always wanted you at my shows.” A deep, dark laugh rumbles low in his chest at the irony. “Not like this, but…” 

“What’s the worst that could happen? You’ll die and have to come haunt everyone in Hawkins with me for eternity?” 

His eyebrows raise as suddenly the shotgun in his uncle’s closet starts to sound a bit more friendly. Catching the look in his eyes, she reads his mind as easily as if it’s her own. 

“That’s not an invitation.” She clarifies, slapping his own smirk right back at him. 

The walls shake with the chanting of the crowd beyond the bathroom. They’re losing their patience, ready for the music to start. 

Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, Eddie flushes his vomit away and moves to splash cold water on his face at the sink. Chrissy takes a seat on the countertop, her thin legs crossed at the ankles. Hesitantly, he lifts a hand and brushes it along her cheek. 

She’s smooth and soft and cool as the cement of a crypt. 

“I fucking miss you.” He whispers, feeling lost at sea. 

“I’m right here. Always.” She promises him, dusting a cold kiss to his jawline. 

That’s the night Corroded Coffin play their best show yet. It’s also the night they’re offered a record deal in LA. 

The producers he meets think he’s a little strange. Always talking to himself. Wearing a wedding ring but living alone. Always writing songs about dead girls. 

But the songs sell. And fans seem to dig his loner vibe. And the shadows he keeps company with seem to steer him out of trouble. 

For the most part, anyway. 

[tomurderornottomurder]

the eternal idol; eddie munson

pair. eddie munson x gn!reader

summ. (request) goody two shoes reader gets caught shoplifting and eddie has to pick them up but turns out reader was trying to lift the newest black sabbath record for eddie's birthday that they didn't have money for

gen. angst, fluff

tw. police, getting arrested, shoplifting, eddie is v affectionate

wc. 1.8k+

note. not been feeling great so sorry about being SO slow on requests. i'm not sure how cohesive this fic is, if it is that bad please lmk

Your hands shake as you enter the store. You look over the expansive collection of vinyl records and the faces of rockstars on posters, and the few guitars that hang off the wall. You flick your eyes over to the older man behind the counter who doesn't even lift his head at your presence. You rub your hands together, trying to calm yourself down. You can't already look this suspicious! Calm down! Despite your commands, you remain helplessly anxious.

You try to calm yourself and act as casually as possible while feeling on fire. You walk the expanse of the store, run your fingers over records, and admire the handsome men and women decorating the walls. You round the metal section a few times, eyeing the newest Black Sabbath record. It's perfect! It was what you came in here for anyway, but it looked different up close; it looked like a statuette Indiana Jones would steal. And it felt like you were Indiana Jones. (Unfortunately for you, you're not as slick). 

Shoplifting wasn't as easy as one of your friends had made it out to be and besides, this was your first time doing so. And stealing a whole record rather than a cassette wasn't your best choice. It happened all so fast. You slipped the record into your jacket, stepped out of the shop, and when you got that brief relief, you were grabbed by the old man at the counter. Shit! Shit! Shit! This wasn't how it was supposed to go! Fuck! The old man tugs you inside, nearly gripping his fingers into your flesh as he guides you into some dank backroom. He presses on your shoulder making you fall against a worn leather couch. 

"Where's the record, kid?" 

Defeatedly, you reach into your jacket and hand it over. "I'm sorry," You mumble hanging your head. 

The old man takes the record and hums, barely looking in your direction. He takes the phone off the wall and you assume he's calling the police.

Well, this fucking sucks. All you can feel are rapid waves of heat running up your spine and tears pricking at your eyes. You barely ever get into trouble. Just being yelled at could make you sob for hours. Your brain is more or less blank, adrenaline pumping through your blood as your heart keeps beating out of your chest. Really all you can do is sit there silently waiting to get picked up by the police. At least the old man isn't freaking out on you, you guess.

---

It goes further downhill from there. An officer comes and puts you in cuffs while tears streak your cheeks; the cuffs are cold, tight, and painful. Your heart still beats out of your chest, beating so loudly you can just barely make out the officer's voice. It's like your body's on high alert but you can't move and your muscles are far stiffer than they should be and your head is pounding with the pumping of blood through it. You're disorientated throughout the whole ordeal, just managing to walk straight as the officer leads you to his cruiser.

You're shoved inside a bit harshly and your elbows crash into the hard plastic of the backseat. The door is slammed shut and the force from it reverberates throughout your body. Your cuffs dig deep into your skin as the car starts up and you're jostled against the hard and cold plastic seat. You groan and close your eyes as tears well up again, this time with a renewed vengeance. The tears sting as they prick at your eyes and you can't help but feel a little stupid over crying about this but then again, you don't know what to do and you've never been in trouble with the law; this is terrifying. 

---

Shakily, you take hold of the payphone so conveniently placed along the wall of your holding cell. You hold the phone up to your ear as you dial Eddie's number. You inhale an unsteady breath as you listen to the ringing of the line. You tap your foot, trying not to be too noisy considering the other much tougher-looking occupants in the shared cell. You're practically huddled in the corner, cradling the phone as you try to shrink yourself away and out of existence. It didn't help that you had clearly been crying and somehow the way that these people just looked tough made you feel even worse about it. 

You light up a little as you hear Eddie's voice on the line. Finally. You almost let out a sigh of relief before your thoughts muddle and you start worrying about what Eddie will think about all of this. "Eddie the banished and badass here, who is it?" You stifle a chuckle at what some could call a greeting.

"Hey.., Eddie.." You practically whisper, your voice hoarse and your lips nearly touching the phone. "I need you to pick me up," You add with tears yet again pooling in your eyes.

"Woah, hey, sweetheart, is that you? Are you okay? What happened?"

"I'll explain later just please, Eddie. I'm at the station, they said I needed-"

"Woah, what!? You got arrested?!"

You cringe at his words, bunching up your body. You knew it, he was mad. He hates you. "Eddie, please-"

"I'll be down there in a minute, my little spitfire. I have got to know what you got into." And just like that, he hangs up.

You're torn inside from knowing Eddie would never be mad at you to the possibility that now may be the one exception. You guess you can't know for sure until Eddie arrives. And he does, like your knight in shining armor. You watch him with glassy eyes as he swings his hips almost making a show of sauntering up to the police chief, coming here on his own accord rather than being dragged by an officer. He speaks with the chief before speaking to another officer then walking over to you, a playful smile on his lips. You're a little bewildered at his behavior, it fits him sure, but you are convinced that he would be mad at you. 

"Hey," He greets curtly, "you'll be out in a minute." He sends you a soft smile. "But we definitely gotta talk after this."

You knew it! A part of you feels validated that he's mad because you're right, but your heart drops at the notion of him being upset because of you. The officer pulls Eddie aside and you're left to stew in your thoughts again. God, this was so stupid. You watch on nervously as Eddie is led over to a desk and the officer points at some piece of paper. He leans over the desk with one hand resting on top of it and his other scribbling away his signature. Once he's done the officer takes the paper and walks off while Eddie approaches you again. You try your best this time to not look like a nervous wreck but you can't really determine whether it works or not.

"Your first time in here, isn't it?" Eddie asks amused. You nod and Eddie chuckles, looking down for a quick moment. "You get used to it... or you won't, y'know being you," He pushes your shoulder lightly. 

Before you can even think about that exchange, a jingle of keys is heard, drawing both your and Eddie's attention.

"Finally!" Eddie exclaims.

---

The car ride is dead silent minus the rumbling of the engine and the softly playing music. You play with your fingers as you sit in an anxious pit of despair, going over about a thousand times how and why Eddie will be pissed off. You've got about zero evidence to back up any and all of your thoughts and yet your brain is on rapid fire with it all.

Meanwhile, Eddie drives letting his mind wander to what you could have possibly done even if you were allowed out right away. He wonders if maybe you had gotten into a fight over someone being an asshole but there wasn't a mark on you to indicate such an event. He tries to rack his brain for a possible answer but doesn't end up with anything before he's pulling into what you could call his driveway. 

You get out of the van, slowly approaching Eddie's door, dreading the moment you walk through and you have to talk to him about it. It felt like such a stupid thing but your brain really made a whole ordeal about it and you sure are feeling it. 

---

Ten more minutes of silence as you and Eddie both sit on his bed. "Okay," Eddie breaks through the tension, his voice like a knife against the butter that is the tension in his room. "What'd you do? It can't be that bad." He looks at you with those big, brown, cow-like eyes.

"I- Well... I was trying to take a record,"

Eddie laughs. "Really?" He looks at you incredulously. "Since when did you become an outlaw?" 

"Eddie."

"Sorry," He puts his hands up. "It's just- I've never even seen you talk bad about someone. How did you upgrade to stealing?" 

You wince at that.

"Sorry, shoplifting. There was no heist, right my little mastermind?"

You roll your eyes before sighing. "No. I just wanted to get you a present for your birthday."

"Wait!" Eddie puts his hand up, directly in front of your face. He turns completely so his whole body is facing you. "You," He points at you, "were stealing for me?" He looks intensely at you.

You nod, "Yeah."

And just like that Eddie explodes. He bounces on his bed as a huge grin takes over his features. "That's the sweetest thing someone's ever done for me!"

"Eddie that is so-"

"Ssh," He presses a finger to your lips. He gives you a quick peck on the cheek. 

All your thoughts dissolve away in that instant. It was just a quick little peck, meaningless, and in the heat of the moment but it lights a fire that burns the negative thoughts and leaves in its place your adoration for Eddie. Like a monument burned into the landscape of your brain. It takes you a moment to process him poking at you, curious to know more.

"What record was it? And a record? Why didn't you snatch a cassette?" 

You wish you knew the answer to that last question too but the ordeal was over now and it didn't matter anymore. "The Eternal Idol, Metallic's newest." 

Eddie then takes hold of your arms and practically shakes you along with his whole bed and the trailer itself. "Their new album!" He screeches. "Oh my god!"

"But I didn't get it," 

"It's the thought that counts, sweetheart." He pulls you in by the back of the head and presses yet another kiss to your cheek. 

"Eddie, if you don't stop I'm going to think you're in love with me or something."

"Who says I'm not?" He smiles widely at you, taking his seat across from you again. "Next time you steal though, babe, maybe let me teach you a thing or two." 

[nowoolallowed]

Seated Pair Statuette - Met Museum Collection

Inventory Number: 07.228.94 New Kingdom, Dynasty 18–19, ca. 1336–1250 B.C. Location Information: Location Unlisted

Description:

This statuette depicts a man and a woman sitting side by side, supporting each other's back with their arms. The man is dressed in a modishly long tunic under a fringed sash-kilt and the woman wears a fashionable wrap-around dress knotted just below her breasts. Their stools are represented in almost as great detail as their clothing and coiffures. The seat of the man's stool is woven and its legs enclose a lattice bracing. The woman sits on a different stool with flared legs, as often appears in seated pair statues of this period. Such statues were usually placed in a niche at the tomb or at a chapel.

[girlwithwolftatoo]

*gently passing you a note* (if the request is closed it's okay to let the pass)

May i humbly request doctor harrow fanfic? ( + with manipulation tactic)

(I listen to a song then BAM he is in my mind with said idea and you are my trustworthy arthur harrow writer :)

Thanks for the trust, it's really nice to hear that :')

So, here it is! Please enjoy!

Pairing: Doctor Harrow x F!Reader (sort of)

Warnings: Mental illness, depresssion, emotional manipulation.

"It's quite an honor to work with you, Dr. Harrow" you said, extending a hand to what would be your boss for the next year "Excuse the boldness, I read some of your articles in my classes, and I'm really excited to meet you."

Dr. Harrow was exactly as you imagined him to be, not only in appearance, but in character. He was the most important member of the hospital, but he was nothing like other doctors you had met, haughty and aloof. You knew this from the moment when, upon arriving on the premises and asking directions to his office, several nurses and residents immediately offered you a ride.

"I thank you very much for your words, Miss (L/N), I hope your stay here will be fruitful for your projects. Tell me, what are you working on now?"

Harrow's office was quite a curiosity, especially since what stood out most were statuettes and old photographs of the same topic.

"Well, I'm writing my thesis on cognitive techniques to help patients with depression..." you paused for a moment to admire a sand-colored bust "Do you like ancient Egypt, doctor?"

"It was a hobby from youth, some things you don't forget" the man smiled, glancing sideways at the collection of statues. 

"I used to like dinosaurs, because of Jurassic Park and all that" you blushed, you had spoken so familiarly, and now you feared your brand new boss would think you were childish "Hum, well... tell me what I have to do, I'm eager to learn in the field."

"Enthusiasm is only part of what is needed here" he explained, approaching a small table where several disposable cups and an infuser rested "The most important thing is to have an open mind and empathy, we work with vulnerable people, after all, the last thing they need is... to suffer more" 

He returned to your side and held out one of the glasses, the tea inside was a faint violet color. You took a sip and marveled at how sweet it was.

"Excuse me, do you mind if I call you by your first name? I feel like using last names distances people." 

You almost choked on the second sip.

"Yes -coff -sorry, yes, no problem, doctor."

"Let's talk about your homework then" he waved you to a chair.

…

Dr. Harrow really occupied his time in seeing for the good of his patients. You were present at several sessions and marveled at how warm and understanding he was, and you were more impressed when he allowed you to review a couple of files to familiarize yourself with the processes, for those individuals had a fearsome history.

"When they came here they were considered incurable" he explained to you, leaning casually against the desk "This one in particular, poor guy, the only thing that saved him from a life sentence was that he went into crisis during his trial."

"He murdered...his wife and children" you muttered, horrified.

"He kept their bodies for a few days, swearing they were going to wake up. He tried to take his own life by cutting his throat with his fingernails, that's when they decided to bring him here."

"Good heavens... he looks so peaceful..."

"Yes, he now has permissions to be in the common room, he practices origami as a way to keep his mind occupied" the doctor's frank smile had a special effect on everyone, you included "Tell me, (Y/N), what was your favorite hobby as a child?"

"I think... reading, I had a lot of booktales at home." 

"Really? I like reading too, it's like traveling to other worlds without moving from your seat. Sometimes I read in the evenings, to clear my thoughts, what about you?"

"Well..." it took you a few seconds to remember "I don't think I had a schedule, I read all the time."

"As a distraction, did your parents read to you?"

"Uh, yeah, my dad, when I was younger."

"Parental bonds are important, I'm glad to hear that you formed strong bonds with your family."

"Well... my mother was the one working back then, my father had a work accident so he stayed with me all day" 

"Didn't that bother him?" asked Harrow casually, going to the tea table he always had at his disposal "Becoming a burden - that is, feeling that they are a burden, is something that often affects men, because of all those social demands on them"

"No, he... he coped very well."

"Really?" you received your cup of tea, like every day, the smell of jasmine was enervating "Maybe you were too little to notice, some signs are subtle... prolonged silences, hyperfixations, little outbursts of anger..." 

A sudden idea came to your mind.

"He would watch TV for hours, without moving from his seat. I would ask him to play sometimes and he..."

"He looked as if his mind was out of this world, didn't he?" you nodded, Dr. Harrow sighed "And then more signs would come, an impending depression... what happened next?"

"No, he... he was happy, I remember he started... doing things in the garden, bird houses, carpentry..." 

"But then things got worse."

Harrow's eyes were fixed on yours. You shuddered, your memories seemed to run over each other, and the candid scenes of your youth dimmed.

"I...I don't know, I..." you stammered, flustered. The doctor nodded, indulgently.

"How is he now, (Y/N), do you talk to him, do you still live with your parents?"

"No, we were from Norfolk and..." you drank more tea for doing something. Your father had passed away a few years ago, you remembered his despondent face as he entered the hospital, knowing, perhaps, that he would not come out of it alive. You thought you had gotten over the mourning, but you found that remembering him now brought a lump to your throat. 

Dr. Harrow put a hand on your shoulder, sympathetic.

"We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to" he told you "Sometimes I let my imagination run wild and I think I'm able to..." he laughed softly "see what people have been through, so many years as a psychiatrist sometimes gives you certain abilities, but of course, maybe I'm wrong now."

"Wrong?" you whispered "I don't get it."

"No, don't think about it. Let me see what other history I can lend you-"

"Doctor Harrow" the man stopped midway, and craned his neck to look at you "Please."

He seemed to be having a hard time, you really felt he was sorry for what he was about to say because even, his look saddened.

"Often, those who study the human mind have two goals: one ambitious, seeking glory, and the other altruistic, longing to save others from... something they had suffered. And you, (Y/N), you don't seem like someone ambitious, I can see that you have a kind heart, so I thought... well, that maybe you carried with you a sorrow that you wished to relieve by helping your fellow human being."

If you admired the man before, now you marveled at him as no one ever had. 

"I...I was thinking of my mother" you agreed, anxious "When my father died, she...she was devastated, I feared she couldn't get over it."

"Guilt is hard to get over" Harrow explained "Maybe she felt she hadn't done enough for her husband"

"You think?"

"I've seen many such cases, guilt is the common denominator. And guilt..." he added, leaning a little towards you "is an awesome fuel. Tell me, (Y/N), have you ever felt guilt? For your father, maybe?"

You opened your mouth, but ended up looking like a fish out of water, unable to answer. No, you didn't have that feeling, you never felt guilt for your father, you loved him... but was that enough? Could you have done more for him?

"I..."

"When he died, and you were in front of his coffin, did you think about all those times when you weren't as good a daughter as you could have been? Sure, family disagreements are not a crime..."

More memories, each more painful than the last: when you ran away from home to go to a party, when you refused to accompany him on a family visit, when you yelled angrily at him when you were fourteen... Your eyes watered and you ducked your head, you didn't want Dr. Harrow to see you cry.

"You feel guilt" he whispered "because you didn't see the signs that something was wrong, because you were too young to understand them... and when you saw your mother in despair you wished that no one else would suffer something like that, that no one else would die after a long silent agony, that no one else would have... guilt."

There was something in the quiet, gentle way he spoke to you that ended up breaking a proverbial dam, and you let out a sob that you tried to stifle with your hands. 

"I'm sorry, I-excuse me," you asked, reaching into your pockets for something to wipe away your tears. Dr. Harrow held out a nice cloth handkerchief "Thank you, I'm really sorry."

"No, don't be sorry, remember that the first step to healing is to accept that something in us is not right" he said, trying to cheer you up "I think you are an amazing person, (Y/N), looking to correct your mistakes and striving to do good for others, those kind of people are the ones I look for to work in this institution"

"T-Thank you" you murmured, still commiserating. The doctor smiled, and reached out his left to take hold of your cane. You had seen it many times, wondering why it was being used, for his age Harrow seemed very strong and healthy, and you hadn't noticed anything strange about his gait (but now that you thought about it, neither did your father seem crippled, and a new bout of nostalgia nearly brought you to tears again).

"There are many ways to help make this world and those who live in it happy" he told you, glancing briefly at the cane before turning his full attention to you "There are good people in this place, and people who... could be better, surely. Our duty is very clear, and I want to know... what would you be willing to do for others?"

He opened his free hand in your direction, you thought he wanted you to return the handkerchief, but a few seconds later he took your hand gently.

"I... I want to help people to... be well, to be happy..."

"And what will you do to achieve that, (Y/N)?"

"Anything."

With his thumb, he lightly stroked your hand, smiling softly. You felt so much appreciation for him, admiration, devotion even, in a few weeks he had conquered you (there was no better word to describe it) and, if he asked you to do something, no matter what it was, you were willing. He got to see into your soul, and that both frightened and fascinated you at the same time.

"Anything?" he asked back. He rested the handle of the cane on your arm, and it began to swing. You shifted your gaze from the object to Harrow, and how he uncovered his right forearm. You blinked, puzzled, he had a tattoo on it, a kind of scale that seemed to move, and for an instant, your heart fluttered "No, don't be afraid" he asked you "Don't be afraid, (Y/N), I'm here..."

The scales moved in time with the cane, and then, it stopped, both plates perfectly aligned. Harrow smiled wider.

"I knew it" he whispered, taking the cane from your arm "I'm never wrong."

"Sorry, what did you know?" you asked, still confused "What... what happened?"

"You'll know soon enough" he assured you, taking you by both hands "You will heal the world, just as you wish, and I'm going to show you how... if that's what you want."

How could you refuse? You nodded, excited.

"Yes, I want that."

"Tell me then, (Y/N)" he asked you "Tell me exactly what you want."

You swallowed, feeling a little feverish.

"I wish to learn...all that you can teach me, Dr. Harrow."

The man stroked your head with great gentleness, your heart was pounding, yearning, and then he leaned down and kissed your forehead.

"Call me Arthur."

[threeminutesoflife]

On Your Back

Three Drabbles

Pairings: Frank Adler x Reader; Ransom Drysdale x Reader; 1950s Steve Rogers x Readers Summary: Three short drabbles abt the Reader on her back Warnings: 18+, public sex/oral sex- female receiving Word Count: under 700

Frank x Reader: 

The music poured out from the carousel’s speakers, smothering the closed carnival grounds like a melodic fog, fighting its way through the fried food-scented air. Helping a friend with an emergency repair on the ride earlier, Frank cashed in his favor for a date night in the now deserted fairgrounds. Sprawled across the carousel’s floor, you two laid alongside the statuette horses; you on your back and Frank’s mouth feasting between your thighs as he cupped your ass and kneaded you harder. Balancing himself on elbows and knees, your shoulder blades flattened against the metal platform as Frank flattened his tongue against your core. Salty, sweet- all his. Overhead, your eyes blinked away from the bright lights lining the beams, highlighting a spider web design as you rotated around the mirrored center of the carousel. Glossy hooves climbed and descended above you. Slack-jawed and mewling, you shuddered and spread your legs further apart, resting one on the gold pedal of the rising and falling horse.  Calloused and firm, Frank’s grip anchored you against his soft mouth. He dreamt about you writhing on his tongue all week, your flavor on his taste buds- he wouldn’t let you forget tonight easily. With a determined lick and a hard suck, your hand shot out grabbing a decorative hoof as he tipped you over the edge again. 

Ransom x Reader:

The extensive glass canopy of the underwater restaurant made you feel like you were inside a misplaced snow globe. The thick acrylic allowed various shades of blues to glide over the room, floating shadows along the floor. Barely seated inside the private glass pod, Ransom cupped your chin and announced he’d be having dessert first.   Laid out across the table, he wore your legs around his neck as you clawed at the tablecloth beneath your back. Blissed out on red wine and oral pleasure, you tried focusing on the bursts of light cutting through the dark water overhead. But before you could appreciate the glowing refractions or the iridescent fish swimming above, Ransom blinded you with another orgasm, leaving you gasping for air. With his soft locks wrapped around your fingers, you pleaded and pulled for him to stop. Brushing his nose stubbornly against your clit, he ignored your gasps and stamped another kiss to your wet core. An obscene moan escaped you as your head ungracefully fell back, rattling the table. Spreading your folds further apart, Ransom locked eyes with you and smugly swirled his tongue over your sweet skin. “Don’t hold back when you squirt, starfish,” Ransom grinned, chin glistening with your slick and thick fingers tracing your slit. “I paid extra for the clean-up.” 

1950s Steve x Reader:

The pastel ruffles beneath your poodle skirt were a stark contrast to the sharp collar on Steve’s leather jacket. The weight of your felt hemline teased the back of his neck before he dove further between your legs. You rustled under him, all nylon and netting, the layers of your petticoat crinkling in disarray over his shoulders. The scent of his cologne clung to the backseats of his Chevy, and as his sideburns marked your skin- you knew his scent would cling to the apex of your thighs. A deep groan vibrated past Steve’s lips fanning a wave of goosebumps to erupt from your skin as he tasted you. Steamy windows and heavy praise, he skillfully circled his tongue around your bud. Flashes of the drive-in’s movie made the car’s interior glow, but all you could concentrate on were the dangling bows on your black and white saddle shoes pushing into the hardtop of Steve’s car. Desperate to convey how much he needed you, he squeezed your breasts and thumbed your nipples over the creamy cardigan. Your legs trembled as Steve sinfully nipped and kissed your cunt, leaving dusty shoe prints along the roof. The ends of your laces chaotically swung above your bodies as he licked his love into you.

[cathartidie]

She'd made it clear that Roje was her last choice for this. Everyone she would have invited in the industry is indisposed at the moment. Even Rachel, Eres and Thea can’t possibly make it. That leaves Roje as her only viable plus one. 

“You already love playing bodyguard anyway,” she said, “Why not make it official?”

"Wow," Roje replied. “You must be very unpopular."

On his way to Pan’s, Roje swings by the drug store to grab aspirin and a Gatorade, then by the cafe for a parfait and a coffee, and a croissant for the friendly doorman at Pan's building. It's dark inside when they let themselves in, velvet curtains drawn across all the windows. Pan is still curled in her bed. She only opens her eyes in order to glare at them when they rip those curtains open, letting sunlight stream into her bedroom. 

"Coffee or Gatorade?" They ask her. 

"Coffee, obviously," she grouses, reaching for it.

They push the parfait and a couple of aspirin towards her too. "You should eat then get ready. Don’t we have to be there by seven?”

Pan gulps down the coffee. She swallows the aspirin dry. "No we don’t. Relax, it's barely one."

"Three, actually"

"Either way we have plenty of time."

Hours later, Roje knocks on the door of Pan’s bedroom. "You're going to be late," they tell the door. 

"You can't rush perfection," the door snaps back. Roje rolls his eyes. He's been ready for an hour and a half. The suit was hanging in the closet of her guest room. Somehow, without asking, she knew his measurements perfectly.

He sits on the couch for another half an hour. He fiddles with his cufflinks. He stands up again.

"Pan," he says to the door.

It opens and there she is, holding at least five pairs of shoes between her two hands.

“The red ones,” Roje says. Pan sneers and turns to discard them by her bed. “No.”

Roje rolls his eyes. Sighs. Returns to the couch.

—

They are only an hour late. Before they exit the car, Pan grabs him by the shoulder. “Don’t say a word to them. If you think you’re a vulture you haven’t seen the paparazzo. And try not to be in the background of too many of my pictures.”

She pauses to re-fold their cuffs for them, smoothing the starched fabric of their sleeves. “Keep the suit.”

Then she puts her face on, the one meant for the press and the public and not for Roje or any of the people she actually loves. “Get out of the car and open the door for me. Don’t fuck this up,” she says through the precise curve of her smile. Roje snorts. He shakes his head, and does as he’s told.

—

The night is a blur of flashing cameras and people talking about things Roje either doesn’t understand or doesn’t care about. Most people who work in entertainment are nice to look at at the very least. Roje sits quietly beside Pan. They say nothing to anyone. They pick at the fancy dinner they’re served. They clap when everyone else claps. Pan’s nominated in half a dozen categories. She doesn’t win.

When it’s over, Roje walks her back to the car. They open every door for her on the way out. 

About ten minutes from the venue, Roje checks then double checks that the driver’s partition is all the way up. 

“You lost a lot,” they point out, putting their feet up on the seat across from them. 

“I’m aware. I was there.”

“You were nominated a lot, though.”

“Chatty today, aren’t you?” Pan says, crossing her arms, finger tapping angrily at her elbow.

“If you were going to win something, which one would you have picked? Best actress?” Roje asks, their mouth twitching with a grin he’s barely managed to suppress.

“What’s with all of the questions Roje?” She asks, turning to look at him.

“Did you know they keep all of the awards in a room backstage? The real ones anyway."

Pan stares at him. Roje pulls something out of the inner pocket of his jacket. “Thea’s been teaching me how to take things that don’t belong to me.” “So that’s where you went when you said you needed to use the bathroom,” Pan breathes. She holds out her hands. “Gimme.”

Roje hands her the little golden statuette. He’s smiling now. It’s hard to tell in the dark, with only the flashing light of passing street lamps to see by. But it looks to him like she’s smiling too.

@pandoralxrk

[aethersea]

May I request 41 - First Kiss and 94 - Hair Brushing/Braiding for the Leverage OT3, please? (Also extra bonus points if you give Eliot beads in his hair like in The Ice Man Job, because we didn't get NEARLY enough of that in the show) Thank you!

I cannot believe I wrote this whole thing out and then never published it. I’m so sorry, it’s been at least twenty-four years since you sent in this ask, please accept my humble apologies and also this ficlet.

However, this prompt is just pure fluff, and I hate to tell you this but I am not a fluff writer. I just can’t pull off that unadulterated sweetness. I am in this fandom for the shenanigans, first, last and foremost! So this fic is now a 5+1 of Eliot and Parker trying to seduce Hardison.

1. Parker thinks they need to give him gifts, so she goes through her stash and picks out the largest, fanciest jewel she’s ever stolen. Then she realizes: Hardison likes stories. He spends hours giving their aliases histories and pets and allergies and favorite foods, he can get a whole sordid history of jealousy and betrayal from a single corporate email chain, and Parker knows for a cold fact that he writes little stories with his online friends about being wizards together.

She goes through her stash again and picks out the most cursed thing she’s ever stolen.

It’s a jeweled statuette, almost as tall as her forearm, made of gold and studded with precious and semi-precious stones. Mysterious deaths have befallen five separate owners of this thing. Its base is dented from the time it was used to bludgeon Owner Number Three to death. The tiny rubies it has for eyes follow you across the room.

Parker puts a bow on it and leaves it in Hardison’s room while he’s sleeping. He wakes up to this horrible little statue watching him from his bedside table.

He texts the group chat, Hey did anyone put an evil little gold guy in my bedroom last night? But Parker chickens out and says nothing (drunkenly betting Eliot that she can seduce Hardison is one thing, but admitting that she likes him is something else altogether). Everyone else texts back variations on “nope.” (Except Sophie, who just sends back a string of heart eyes emojis and a wikipedia link. She loves cursed artifacts.) So Hardison puts the statue away in a closet somewhere and figures he’ll deal with it later.

Parker is mildly offended that he put her gift in a closet. She goes into his room the next night and puts it back on the bedside table, where it clearly belongs.

This goes on for a week. Hardison puts the statue in a desk drawer, then in one of the cabinets in the office downstairs, then in the dumpster down the street. Every day he wakes up to those glittering red eyes watching him sleep. He’s asked his internet buddies if anyone knows a good exorcist. Hardison doesn’t really believe in curses, but also? What the fuck. What the fuck.

~

2. Eliot assumes the drunken bet will be forgotten by morning. What kind of world would it be if people always followed through on promises they made while they could barely stay vertical? So he spends the morning nursing his hangover and cleaning his knives. Cleaning guns is no good while hungover—all the snaps and clicks of popping things in and out of place sound like actual gunfire when you’re hungover, it’s a nightmare—but knives are quiet and have no moving parts. Buffing and polishing them is soothingly repetitive work, and every once in a while he can throw one at one of the dartboards on the walls and reassure himself that his reflexes are still sound even after that much tequila.

It’s only when he gets Hardison’s text about the golden statuette that magically appeared in his room overnight that Eliot realizes Parker’s actually going for it. After some internal debate about whether he’s going to stoop to this or not, Eliot decides what the hell and starts making plans.

Eliot agrees that gifts are the way to go, but not stolen gifts. Not things. Anyone can give a thing. Proper wooing is about giving experiences.

Eliot plans for three days. On the fourth day, he and Hardison have their irregularly scheduled monthly coffee date, and Eliot texts him beforehand to say he wants to do it at the brewpub this time. Hardison arrives to find a deceptively simple meal: basic country fare perfected through years of experimentation, made with the best ingredients Eliot can get his hands on. And Eliot, after all, is still a retrieval specialist. There’s very little in the world he can’t get his hands on.

And yet the night ends and somehow he has not gotten his hands on Hardison.

This is just not right. Eliot knows how to deploy a smolder, okay, Tangled reference aside he is damn good at flirting and he knows the looks he’s giving Hardison are clear as day. It’d be one thing if Hardison had turned him down, or if he’d been uneasily unwilling, or even if his eyes had widened slightly in suppressed panic and he’d abruptly found a reason to leave. Eliot can take rejection, bet or no, and he’d have bowed out graciously without a fuss. But this was much, much worse.

Hardison didn’t even notice he was flirting.

He’s going to have to up his game.

~

3. “How do you seduce people?” Parker asks bluntly, turning up at Sophie’s door just past midnight.

Sophie, despite the hour, is utterly delighted by the question.

This goes as well as you would expect.

~

4. Eliot’s taken a lot of dates to sports games. Hardison may prefer sparkly elves with purple lightning magic to a decent MMA fight, but baseball is the American pastime. Eliot gets them perfect seats, hot dogs from the best vendor in the stadium, even chilled beer that he smuggles in without letting it get warm. It’s going to be a perfect game.

And it is. At first. Hardison, it turns out, has a lot of opinions about baseball. What he does not have is an understanding of the rules. They’re not even into the second inning by the time Eliot finally snaps and starts arguing with him about it.

They make it all the way to the fifth inning before Eliot realizes that Hardison’s basing his complaints off the rules of a game from a Star Wars novel.

They’re at the bottom of the eighth before Eliot will speak to him again.

~

5. Eliot and Parker are drunk again. This is not intentional. They didn’t even mean to come to this bar, but the smoothie place with the fried oreos that Eliot had brought Parker here to try was playing such incredibly bad music that they’d ordered the oreos to go and fled. The bar was just the coziest looking place on the block, and of course they’d ordered drinks to avoid being rude––Eliot had entertained himself for a few minutes scouring the menu for something that would pair well with fried oreos and popcorn chicken.

And now they’re drunk. The conversation has, perhaps inevitably, turned to the ongoing bet.

“I tried everything!” Parker wails. “I laughed at every joke, I touched my hair constantly, I got him talking about things he likes.” She thunks her forehead on the bar. “All that happened is now I know the complete history of orcs in western literature.”

“Hardison wouldn’t know flirting if it pinched him on the ass,” Eliot grumbles.

Parker slaps his arm. “No pinching Hardison!”

“I’m not going to—I don’t pinch people!”

Parker’s ignoring him. Eliot pouts and takes another sip of his drink. He’s not entirely sure what this one is––it’s blue and kind of fizzy, that’s all he can say for sure. Parker took over the drinks menu several glasses ago, and she’s been picking them based on what has the most fun name to say. Eliot’s pretty sure the alcohol content’s been doubling with each order.

“Eliot,” Parker slurs, “we need to work together.”

“What?”

Parker lifts her head from the bar and frowns at him, the way she does when she’s figured out the obvious solution and is just waiting for everyone else to get on the same page. It’s adorable. It’s always adorable, but right now her eyes are wide and slightly unfocused from the alcohol and she’s listing sideways a little, almost as if she’s unbalanced, and it is the most adorable thing Eliot has ever seen. Parker’s never unbalanced, but some part of Eliot’s fuzzy brain thinks she’s about to fall on top of him and cannot wait to catch her.

“You can’t seduce Hardison,” Parker points out. Eliot is drunk enough to get offended by this, but too drunk to get out a complaint before she continues, “I can’t seduce Hardison. But if we work together, the two of us can definitely seduce Hardison. Together.”

Eliot stares at her. Then he takes another sip of his fizzy blue drink. Later, when questioned, he will blame his next words on that drink.

“Worth a shot.”

They take Hardison to a movie. They research for three weeks beforehand. They find the best movie theater in town, with the nicest seats, the biggest screens, and concession snacks that Hardison likes, and they buy tickets for the midnight premiere of the superhero movie that Hardison hasn’t shut up about for the past month. Parker even hacks into the theater’s computers in a last-minute fit of nerves and cross-references the credit cards with drivers’ licenses to make sure the people sitting in front of them won’t be too tall.

Parker witnesses a kidnapping in the parking lot while the boys are getting popcorn. They don’t even stay long enough to catch the commercials.

~

+ 1. “Hey Eliot,” Hardison says during movie night, a little over a week later. “Remember the Ice Man Job?”

Eliot groans. “I try not to.”

Hardison throws a piece of popcorn at his face. “Shut up. Remember how you did your hair for that one? With the little—those little beads on, like, a braid?”

Eliot shoots Hardison a suspicious glance. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Teach me how to do that.”

Eliot shoots Hardison another, more deliberate look, this one pointedly directed at Hardison’s complete lack of braidable locks.

Hardison rolls his eyes as if that’s a silly detail to get hung up on and leans forward to dig around in one of the boxes he has under his coffee table. He emerges with a ziplock bag of plastic beads in no time flat and hands it triumphantly to Eliot. Then he yanks a few cushions out from behind Parker, who’s sitting on his other side, and puts them on the floor in front of him. “Sit here?” he asks Parker, patting the cushion pile.

Parker takes a moment to consider being offended at having her cushions stolen, but curiosity gets the better of her and she just plops down between Hardison’s legs, grabbing the bowl of popcorn as she goes, and waits.

Hardison lifts her hair with sudden gentleness, drawing it over her shoulders and letting it fall down her back in a golden wave. His fingers brush against her neck. Parker shivers. Eliot is distantly aware that he’s gone perfectly still, focused with a hunter’s intensity on Hardison’s dark, graceful fingers carding through Parker’s hair.

Hardison leans back, hands on his knees, and Eliot breathes again. “Well?” Hardison looks over at Eliot, a tiny smirk of challenge on his lips. “Show me how it’s done.”

Eliot is suddenly, brutally aware of how close they are. Hardison’s couch is obscenely comfortable, which is half the reason movie nights are at Hardison’s in the first place, but it is not large. Their thighs are touching. Hardison leans away, to give Eliot access to Parker’s hair, and he’s still so close that Eliot would barely have to reach out a hand to—

Eliot ruthlessly shoves that thought down into the dark where it belongs. He dealt with this, he dealt with this years ago, and accepting Parker’s stupid bet doesn’t mean he’s forgotten the way Hardison and Parker look at each other. It just means he doesn’t mind losing for a good cause.

So he keeps his tone steady and his fingers brisk as he shows Hardison how to braid the clunky plastic beads into Parker’s hair, and if he flushes with heat when their hands brush each other, well, nobody has to know. He’s been trained to withstand eight different schools of torture. It won’t show on his face. His voice never once falters.

Parker has had no such training. Her lips have parted, and her breathing is shallow. She’s staring glassy-eyed at the TV. Hardison can’t see her face, sitting behind her, but Eliot watches her carefully, worried that they need to call this off. Parker’s not used to intimacy, to closeness that means something, and for all the three of them have spent half their movie nights literally on top of each other, this is something else. This has weight.

Eliot puts a hand on her shoulder, pressing down just enough that Parker startles and cants a glance over at him. Eliot raises his eyebrows in question, and Parker glares back: don’t you fucking dare. Eliot backs off. Hardison, frowning in concentration as he threads a wisp of Parker’s hair through a green bead, graciously pretends he didn’t see the exchange.

Hardison gets the hang of the beading fairly quickly, and Eliot shows him a few different techniques. He’s almost managed to convince himself that nothing is actually happening when Hardison says, conversationally, “You two are really bad at this.”

Eliot glowers his confusion. “At movie night? You started this, if you wanted to actually watch Alien then you shouldn’t have—”

Hardison’s smile is soft, but Eliot decides for his own safety to focus on the laughter at its edge. “No, at this.” And then he slides his hand onto Parker’s neck, caresses her cheek, and isn’t the slightest bit surprised when she gasps.

Parker whips around, and there’s hurt on her face but it dies in the glow of Hardison’s gentle, unteasing smile. Hardison pulls her up with the lightest of touches, and she goes, eyes fixed on his like salvation.

They kiss sweet and slow, and Eliot’s heart twists in his chest and he can’t breathe. He needs to leave now before he shatters in half, but if he moves then they will look at him, and he would rather never breathe again than meet their eyes right now.

Hardison breaks off the kiss, gazing at Parker with something just this side of wonder, and then he does look at Eliot. Eliot flinches. He opens his mouth to…say something, make some joke or hasty excuse and scramble out the door, but Hardison raises a hand to Eliot’s face, slides his long fingers to cup Eliot’s neck, and pulls him forward, as gently as he did Parker.

It’s a chaste kiss, no more than a soft press of lips, because Eliot is too stunned to respond and Hardison doesn’t push. It lasts a long time. A whole era of change happens in the span of that kiss, as everything Eliot thought he knew tears out of place and then settles, gingerly, into a new understanding.

Hardison pulls away, his hand still warm on the back of Eliot’s neck. His smile is pure sunshine. Eliot finds himself smiling back, helpless.

Hardison’s grin turns smug. “And that,” he says, looking between Eliot and Parker, “is how you do it. Y’all are disasters, honestly, I can’t believe two master criminals working together couldn’t manage a single real date—”

Eliot heaves a deep sigh and drags Hardison into a headlock, pinning his arms when he flails. Parker surges to her knees and starts tickling him mercilessly.

They don’t finish the movie.