#What are coveralls in English?

[seo-expert0012]

Coveralls: Everything You Need to Know

Coveralls are a type of protective clothing worn by workers in various industries to safeguard themselves from workplace hazards. They are designed to cover the entire body, providing protection from dirt, chemicals, heat, and other potential risks. In this comprehensive guide, we'll delve into the world of coveralls, discussing their uses, differences from overalls, and popular types available in the market.

What are Coveralls?

Coveralls, also known as boiler suits or overalls in some regions, are one-piece garments that cover the torso, arms, and legs. They are typically made from durable materials such as cotton, polyester, or a blend of both, providing comfort and protection in demanding work environments. Coveralls come in various styles, including insulated, waterproof, flame-resistant, and high-visibility options, catering to the specific needs of different industries and job roles.

Difference Between Overalls and Coveralls

While the terms "overalls" and "coveralls" are often used interchangeably, there is a subtle difference between the two. Overalls traditionally refer to garments that cover the torso and have straps passing over the shoulders, attaching to the trousers. Coveralls, on the other hand, are one-piece garments that cover the entire body from the neck down, including the arms and legs. Both serve the purpose of protecting clothing and providing additional safety features, but coveralls offer more comprehensive coverage.

Why are Coveralls Used?

Coveralls are used across a wide range of industries for several reasons:

1. Protection: They provide protection against dirt, chemicals, abrasions, and other workplace hazards, reducing the risk of injuries and contamination.

2. Comfort: Designed for durability and comfort, coveralls allow workers to move freely without restriction, enhancing productivity and overall well-being.

3. Safety: Certain types of coveralls, such as flame-resistant and high-visibility options, are specifically designed to meet safety standards and regulations, ensuring workers remain visible and protected in hazardous environments.

4. Uniformity: Coveralls contribute to a sense of unity and professionalism within a workforce by providing a standardized appearance for employees.

Popular Types of Coveralls

- Insulated Coveralls: Ideal for cold weather conditions, insulated coveralls feature added insulation to keep workers warm and comfortable during outdoor activities or in cold environments.

- Waterproof Coveralls: Waterproof coveralls are designed to repel water and other liquids, keeping workers dry and protected in wet or rainy conditions.

- Flame-Resistant Coveralls: Made from flame-resistant materials, these coveralls are essential for workers in industries where exposure to fire or sparks is a risk, such as welding or oil refining.

- High-Visibility Coveralls: Featuring reflective strips or bright colors, high-visibility coveralls enhance worker visibility in low-light conditions or areas with heavy traffic, reducing the risk of accidents.

Coveralls in English and Around the World

In English-speaking countries, coveralls are widely referred to as "coveralls." However, in some regions, they may be known by different names such as boiler suits (UK), jumpsuits (Australia), or overalls (North America). Despite these regional variations in terminology, the functionality and purpose of coveralls remain consistent across borders.

Coveralls in Pakistan

In Pakistan, coveralls are commonly used in industries such as manufacturing, construction, and agriculture to protect workers from workplace hazards. They are available in various styles and materials to suit different job requirements and environmental conditions.

Coveralls in the Tech World

In the tech industry, "coveralls" also refers to a popular code coverage tool used by software developers to measure the effectiveness of their tests and identify areas of code that require additional testing. Coveralls, along with other tools like GitHub and Codecov, play a crucial role in ensuring the quality and reliability of software applications.

Conclusion

Coveralls are essential protective garments worn by workers across diverse industries to ensure their safety, comfort, and productivity. With various types available to suit different work environments and requirements, coveralls play a vital role in maintaining workplace safety standards and protecting workers from potential hazards. Whether it's for insulation against the cold, resistance to flames, or visibility in low-light conditions, there's a coverall designed to meet the needs of every worker, ensuring they can perform their duties safely and effectively.

[overtake]

I’m sorry we need about 5k more words of mechanic Daniel driver max pls and ty!!!

Part One

I’m actually so shocked (but pleasantly surprised and honored!) by people enjoying this verse because I almost deleted it without posting. I don’t have 5k more, but I can offer 1.2k!

I still lowkey hate this - and you can definitely tell I have no vision for where this story would go, hence why it’s just harping on the same 3 details we already knew - but it’s all yours and I hope you have a good time reading it anyway :)

Five minutes into pretending to examine an engine instead of obsess over what Max said, Daniel breaks.

“Did you mention me to Max?” he asks Cyril, trying to come across casual.

Cyril looks at him disbelievingly. “Max Verstappen is in our garage and you think I talked about you at all?”

Daniel lifts a hand to his chest and feigns being shot. “People love me, you know. Guys are all over this.”

Cyril heaves out a long-suffering sigh. “Get to work, Daniel.”

Daniel’s lucky, given his condition, that everything is relatively routine today. He does three oil changes, and he could kiss those people’s feet for it.

He’s mentally preparing himself to slide under a car, wincing at much more congested he’ll be once he emerges again, when Max suddenly appears in the corner of the garage.

“Hello,” he says. He does a cute little half-wave to get Daniel’s attention.

“Hey,” Daniel says, straightening and rubbing his grimy hands on his thighs. “Cyril’s working on your car, so he’ll have any updates you need.”

“It’s not my car, just a rental,” Max dismisses. “No, I just have …” He cuts himself off, turns a sweet pink on the apples of his cheeks. “You sounded sick earlier and looked really pale. I brought you soup.”

He lifts a takeaway bag from the cafe down the street, which usually specializes in ten dollar lattes and sandwiches with names so cutesy, you have to practice five times to order without shame.

Daniel smiles at the idea of Max Verstappen, world champion, saying one of those horrible names for Daniel’s benefit. “You didn’t have to do that. Thank you. Let me pay you back.”

Max shakes his head. “It’s my thanks for fixing the car.”

Daniel raises his eyebrows. “So what soup did you get Cyril, who’s actually doing that?”

Max scrunches his nose in disgust. “You cannot expect me to say the name Noodle Nest Paradise more than one time.”

“How many times did you laugh trying to get that out?”

Max shudders. “I pretended to speak really bad English and just pointed at the menu.”

“So you could’ve ordered multiple,” Daniel points out. Max very blatantly pretends not to hear. He focuses instead on pulling a little bag from the order and holding it up proudly, smiling a crinkly-eyed smile.

“I got you crackers!”

Eating soup with Max Verstappen is an out of body experience.

Daniel’s been eating his soup over the coffee table in the office because it felt wrong to make Max sit at the grimy, wobbly table in the closet-sized corner of the garage where Daniel and Cyril usually change and scarf down meals. This, however, means they’re stuck together on the loveseat. Max’s expensive skinny jeans knock knees with Daniel’s greasy coveralls when they get too into the conversation.

Daniel knows he’s being a terrible conversationalist, especially at first. His normal easy charisma is buried somewhere in the pile of tissues he’s burning through. He’s basically just answering Max’s rapid-fire questions about his life, his job, his family, his non-existent partner (“do you have a girlfriend or boyfriend or anything?” Max had asked, and looked remarkably pleased by Daniel’s answer of no).

Daniel’s about 87% sure he’s being hit on right now. It’s a nice confidence booster given how much of a mess he looks, but it’s not like it matters. Max is Max, and Max is F1, and Max doesn’t live here.

He likes Max, though, the longer they talk. He likes his eagerness, his down-to-earth nature, his total lack of interest in discussing racing. Max delights in all Daniel’s behaviours that usually make people roll their eyes and wait for him to be done, whereas Max leans into Daniel’s dumb songs or drawn out jokes. He likes the long lashes that frame Max’s bright, happy eyes, and soft double chin he gets when he ducks his head into his laugh.

Daniel’s not sure how much time passes before Cyril comes in, but he knows his voice has faded to practically nothing, and he’s having to constantly turn to avoid coughing on Max.

Cyril’s timing is rather unfortunate, entering just as Daniel breaks into a particularly rough wheeze. Max is patting his back gently, which Cyril will definitely have words about later. Presently, however, he seems too concerned about Daniel’s wellbeing to lecture him about appropriate contact with famous customers.

“Daniel. Go home,” he orders, voice kind but firm. His tone leaves no room for argument, not that Daniel really wants to fight him on it. He’s enjoying this, but his brain and body feel as if they’re wading through a pool of thick custard.

“Are you okay to drive?” Max checks. His eyebrows are knitted in sweet concern, like Daniel actually might keel over and die in the ten-minute ride home.

“All good,” Daniel promises. He stands, then promptly has to collapse back onto the couch when black spots dot his vision.

“I’m driving you,” Cyril says firmly.

“I just stood up too fast.” Sure, he’s a little woozier than expected, but he could do this drive blindfolded and half-dead.

“I’ll drive you,” Max says. “I mean, Cyril has work to do, but I’m just sitting here.”

“How do I know you won’t kidnap me or steal my car?” Daniel rasps.

“He’s not worth kidnapping, and selling his car probably couldn’t cover an oil change for the kinds of cars you drive,” Cyril informs Max. He ignores Daniel’s protests, then pushes Daniel back down to the couch when he half-rises from it.

“Stay. I will get your keys and bag.”

The second Daniel’s brain understands that he’s off-duty, that it’s no longer expected to carry him through the day, it mostly blacks out, and everything is a blur from there.

He’s pretty confident Cyril steals his phone to call his mum, which is vaguely embarrassing but perhaps necessary given his current state. He knows Cyril gives Max directions to Daniel’s parents’ place instead of his own. He feels Max’s hands help him into the passenger seat, and he definitely mutters some fever-addled sentences on the drive. That’s about all he remembers until he wakes up in his childhood bed, shivering and sweating while his mum runs a hand through his hair and forces medicine down his throat, before he falls back asleep again.

When he finally comes to enough to make his way downstairs, he finds his parents seated at the kitchen table. His mum jumps up, forces him into a chair and fusses over him while simultaneously lecturing him about going to work sick. His dad just sits there, eyebrows half-raised, until Daniel is settled with food and water.

“So. You had an exciting day at work.”

He slides a piece of scrap paper across the table. There, under some advertisement for gardening services, is a scrawled message in red pen:

It was lovely to meet you (again). I hope the terribly named soup made you feel better! :)

- Max

Under his name, Max has scrawled a phone number.

Daniel runs his finger over the lines, feeling the imprint of each number that Max etched into the paper. It’s neatly written, far more cautious and intentional than the rest of the words, as if to ensure that no digit could be misread or smudged.

Daniel pauses, processes the full note, and double backs to the word ‘again.’

“Yeah,” Daniel croaks through the stabbing pains in his throat. He stares at the word harder, like it might reveal what the fuck Max means by again. “I guess today was pretty interesting.”

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 9: IF YOU CHOP FROM THE SHOULDER, THE AX WILL FIND YOUR HIP

synopsis: you, hank, and connor find yourselves in stratford tower. connor gets traumatized – twice. and you come to his rescue – again, twice.

word count: 2.9k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: finally a whole chapter that's just one scene. be proud of me

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

The elevator would be dead silent if it wasn’t for Connor flicking a quarter between his fingers. You watch out of the corner of your eye as it practically dances across his fingertips, the metal glinting in the harsh, fluorescent light. He flicks it to his other hand, catching it in between the first knuckles of his first two fingers and –

Hank snatches it from him. “You’re startin’ to piss me off with that coin, Connor.”

Connor looks at Hank’s hand, then at the silver elevator doors. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

You’d laugh and give Connor another quarter to fidget with, but considering the conversation that occurred this morning? You’re not willing to extend that olive branch. You didn’t survive as a Soviet in America by being a goddamn doormat.

The elevator dings and an automated voice rings out. “79th floor.”

As soon as you step out, you clock the amount of CSI agents loitering around. You’re sort of used to them by now, but their coveralls and masks still unnerve you a bit. 

“Hey, Hank,” Chris says. “Officer.”

“Shit, what’s goin’ on here?” Hank looks around. “There was a party and nobody told me about it?”

“Yeah. It’s all over the news, so everybody’s butting their nose in.” Chris sighs and nods towards the door at the end of the hall. “Even the FBI wants a piece of the action.”

“Ah, Christ, now we got the Feds on our back,” Hank groans. “I knew this was gonna be a shitty day.”

“If I wanted to be looked at and talked to like I don’t know English, I would’ve gone back to some Citizenship and Immigration Services building,” you mumble. Hank lets out a laugh mixed with grumbles of agreement.

He turns to Chris. “So what do we got?”

“A group of four androids.” Chris starts walking, and you and Hank follow beside him. You can hear Connor’s footsteps behind you, but you don’t turn to look. “They knew the building, and they were well organized. I’m still trying to figure out how they got this far without being noticed.”

“You check the roof?” Hank asks. 

“Not yet,” Chris says. “They attacked two guards in the hallway. They probably thought the androids were coming to do maintenance. They got taken down before they could react.”

You stop by the desk and look over it. There isn’t anything out of place. Your eyebrows furrow and you continue following Chris into the broadcast room. 

“One of the station employees managed to get away.” Chris glances back at you and Hank. “He’s in shock. Not sure when we’ll be able to talk to him.”

You look over at the wall, which has a paused video of an android. His skin is peeled back, and there’s no defining features besides his mismatched eyes.

“Oh, Officer, Lieutenant,” Chris says. “This is Special Agent Perkins from the FBI. Perkins, Lieutenant Anderson is in charge of investigating for Detroit Police. He’s been paired with a cybersecurity officer to provide a unique perspective on android-related cases.” He gestures at you.

Perkins doesn’t even look at you. Instead, he looks over at Connor. “What’s that?” (He says it like Connor is some breed of ugly dog he’s never seen before instead of something resembling a man.)

“My name is Connor,” Connor says. “I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”

“Androids investigating androids, huh?” Perkins’ eyes find Hank. “You sure you want an android hanging around? After everything that happened?”

“If you don’t mind,” you cut in, “we’ll be having a look around.”

“And a Bolshevik?” Perkins looks you up and down. “Watch your step, comrade. You or your friends fuck up my crime scene, and I’m gunning for your ass.”

Perkins walks away, his hands folded behind his back in faux-politeness.

Once he’s out of earshot, Hank nudges your arm. “What a fuckin’ prick!”

You smile and nudge him back. “I told you those bastards would give me trouble.”

“Have you experienced things like this before, Officer?” Connor asks.

Your lips draw into a discontented sort of-frown. Of course Connor knows your answer. Why the hell would he be asking? You’ve even told him about things like this before, not to mention Gavin’s stellar behavior and comments Connor’s seen pointed towards you. 

“Yeah.” You turn away and opt to look around the crime scene (not that you would be of any use, anyway). A set of footsteps follow – you can tell that it’s Hank by the heaviness.

You come to a stop by the entrance to the roof and lean against the bullet hole-ridden wall, facing the room. Hank crosses his arms and jabs a thumb over his shoulder at Connor.

“What the fuck was that?” He asks. 

“With… him?” You say. You don’t want to call Connor’s attention by saying his name. “He… he was just being an asshole this morning. I tried to talk to him about something serious, but he just deflected it.”

“About what?”

“I…” You swallow, then whisper: “I think he’s deviating.”

“Well…” Hank laughs. “You have a tendency to project emotions onto inanimate objects.”

“Yeah. I know.” You look down and scratch your cheek. “Just… you know how I am. And…”

You look across the room and see Connor talking to an officer. You hold up a hand to keep Hank quiet, then tap just below your ear and nod towards Connor. Hank gets the hint and eavesdrops with you.

“I was on that terrace,” the officer says. “That android that took the little girl hostage? I was shot. You saved me.”

You exchange a glance with Hank, then look back to Connor. He tilts his head to the side, like he’s searching his memory banks.

“I remember you,” Connor eventually says. 

“I could’ve died on that terrace. But you saved my life.” The officer looks away, then back to Connor. “I never thought I’d say this to an android, but… thank you.”

He looks a bit awkward, then nods and walks away. Connor turns and catches your eye, like he knew you were watching. Your eyes fall to the floor.

“Блять,” you mumble. “He saw me. Help me look busy.”

Hank nods to the side. “Let’s go watch the recording. Not like I haven’t seen it a million times already.”

You follow him to the large screen that takes up an entire wall. You extend your left hand towards the console and the wires from your glove slither out and connect with a port. The screen flickers, then plays the end of the video. 

“We ask that you recognize our dignity, our hopes, and our rights. Together, we can live in peace and build a better future, for humans and androids. This message is the hope of a people. You gave us life. And now the time has come for you to give us freedom.”

“Think that’s rA9?” Hank asks from your left.

“Deviants say that rA9 will set them free,” Connor says from your right. You look at him, but he doesn’t look at you. He’s firmly trained on the screen. “This android seems to have that objective.”

You disconnect from the console and return your eyes to the screen. The android has a slight lisp and mismatched eyes. You can’t see any other identifying features. 

Hank looks over at Connor. “D’you see something?”

“I identified its model and serial number,” Connor says. 

But there’s something else there – you know it. It’s telling in the way Connor’s jaw is set, the way he can’t seem to look away from the screen. “Anything else?” 

Connor continues looking forward, then faces you. He does a double-take, like he’s surprised you asked him. 

“No!” He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “Nothing.”

You look over at Hank with an expression that reads something along the lines of I fucking told you so! You take a step back, and Hank does the same. Connor keeps looking up at the screen.

Then, he quickly turns and walks away into the kitchen. 

“Hank,” you say quietly. 

“I know,” he says. 

You turn to face him and continue speaking softly. “He’s showing signs of deviancy. He has been, for a while now.”

“You think he’s gonna turn?” Hank asks. “Or has he already?”

You glance at the door to the kitchen. You can hear Connor talking to someone inside, but can’t make out anything he’s saying. “I think he’s on the decline. Not quite there yet. Just needs a push.”

“You planning on giving him that push?” Hank asks.

“No.” You turn back to him. “He needs to take that leap on his own.”

You hear a set of footsteps behind you. You look over your shoulder and see one of the station androids walking out of the kitchen. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

But… you swear you can hear someone saying your name. Their voice sounds choked, like they’re struggling just to talk. And when you hear them calling out for Hank, you immediately know something’s wrong. 

You make your way over to the kitchen, moving with a sense of urgency, but not enough to cause alarm. What you see makes your soul land in your heels. 

Connor’s on the floor, struggling and crawling forward. His hands are shaking as he drags himself along. 

You immediately fall to your knees beside him, grabbing his shoulders and pulling at him frantically. “Connor? Connor, what’s happening?”

He chokes out a string of unintelligible words and points to the side. You follow his finger and see a biocomponent. You scramble to pick it up and bring it back to Connor. 

You push Connor onto his back and pull his shirt open, exposing his chest. A faint flicker in your mind tells you, Ou, look at you! Getting all up in that – but you cut it off because now is seriously not the time. 

With a fluid motion, you push and twist the biocomponent back into the gaping hole in the middle of his chest. You really hope you did it right.

Connor’s eyes are still unfocused, staring blankly up at the ceiling. His face twitches, and he comes back to the real world. 

You help him up, Thirium staining your hand and your front as he falls into you. He stumbles away, then catches his footing and darts out of the room.

You follow and watch him bolt down another corridor and shout, “It’s a deviant! Stop it!”

There’s three quick shots, then the sound of a body falling to the ground. 

You turn the corner just in time to see Connor handing a gun back to an FBI agent, holding the barrel so that the agent can grab it by the grip. The agent takes it back, a look of bewilderment on his face. 

When you see Hank trying to get to his feet, you move over and help him. You keep your hands on his shoulders and look him over. “Are you okay? Have you been shot?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He grabs your wrists and pulls your hands away, looking over your shoulder. “Nice shot, Connor.”

You step away from Hank and turn to face Connor. His lips are drawn into a thin line, and he almost looks frustrated. “I wanted it alive.”

“You saved… human lives,” Hank says. He heaves a breath. “You saved my life.”

Connor looks over at him, then walks back into the broadcasting room, buttoning up his shirt as he goes. 

You look down at your hands. They’re stained with Thirium – more often than you’d like these days. You wipe them down your front, which is already stained with it anyway.

You turn and start to follow Connor. “I think he’s going to check the rooftop. I’d like to be with him when he does.”

Hank makes a sound of agreement and trails after you. You’re like two ducklings following after an android mother duck. Once you reach the door to the rooftop, Connor holds it open for you as he passes through, then you hold it open for Hank in turn. 

Hank walks in front of you both, surveying the scene. “They made their way up through the whole building, past all the guards, and jumped off the roof with parachutes. Pretty fuckin’ impressive, I’d say.”

Connor makes his way over to a splatter of blue blood and swipes two fingers through it. You can’t even bring yourself to make a sound of disgust as he samples it.

You have conflicting feelings about Connor. Saving him was an action made in a moment of weakness and panic. You know he’d just come back if he died – or, as he’d put it, shut down. But it doesn’t change that he told you that he’s not alive. That he’s not afraid of anything. That he stepped up to the muzzle of Hank’s gun and practically begged him to prove him wrong and shoot him.

You tear your eyes away from Connor and move over to Hank. He’s looking down at an open duffel bag. 

“How’d they manage to smuggle in a big bag like that?” Hank asks. 

You draw your jacket tighter around yourself. “I’d wager someone brought it in for them.”

“You’re most likely correct,” Connor says. You jump a little at the unexpectedness of his voice, but manage to keep yourself from saying anything aloud. 

“Huh, that’s strange.” Hank gestures down at the duffel. “They planned a perfect operation but got the number of parachutes wrong.”

Connor kneels and pulls the duffel open further. “Unless one of the deviants was left behind.”

He stands and walks off. You watch him, then return your eyes to the snow-covered rooftop. You huff, and your breath mists in the cold. 

“I’m going to have a look around,” you say. Hank nods, and you walk away.

You half-assedly wander around the rooftop, making sure not to get too close to the edge. You look at the air conditioners and the frost that’s built up on them. They’re pumping out cold air in an effort to keep the inside of the building warm. 

Suddenly, a shot rings out. Someone shouts “Take cover!” You dive behind an air conditioner and look to your right. Hank and Connor are hiding behind another one a few feet away.

“You have to stop them!” Connor pleads. “If they destroy it, we won’t learn anything!”

“We can’t save it, it’s too late,” Hank says. “We’ll just get ourselves killed!”

Connor looks over at you, then peeks around the corner of the air conditioner. Before you can command him to stop, he rushes out from behind cover. He vaults over a container and charges the deviant head-on. 

As soon as Connor has him pinned to the wall, the deviant presses the pistol’s muzzle to the soft underside of his chin and fires. Connor stumbles back, just watching as the deviant slumps to the ground. 

Hank comes out of cover first and runs over to Connor. You’re hot on his heels, fighting the proud side of you that shouts at you to stay away from him.

“Connor! Connor, are you alright?” He stands in front of Connor, trying to stay in his line of sight. “Connor?”

“Okay,” Connor mumbles, his voice shaky and quiet.

You move next to Hank, grabbing onto one of Connor’s shoulders. His LED is stuck on red, circling in on itself. His eyes are completely unfocused and he’s stuck in his mind. 

“Connor?” You shake him. “Connor, come back to us. Are you hurt? Did he shoot you?”

“I’m okay,” Connor mutters, his tone the same – scared, soft. 

“Jesus, you scared the shit outta me.” Hank draws away, and it seems all his emotions come crashing down at once. “For fuck’s sake, I told you not to move! Why don’t you ever do what I say?”

“I was connected to its memory.” Connor comes back to the real world, if only a little bit. “When it fired… I felt it die. Like I was dying.”

His eyes turn to yours. “I was scared.”

“Нет, нет.” You draw Connor into a hug on instinct. Your hand finds the back of his neck, guiding him to rest his forehead on your shoulder. “Всё в порядке. Ты здесь. Ты жив.”

His hands wrap around your midsection, unsure and scared. His hands come to rest on the small of your back. They’re shaking.

Fuck, he doesn’t deserve to go through this. Connor’s traumatized now, for god’s sake. He could keep a therapist in business until they retire. 

After a few seconds, you pull back, keeping your hands on Connor’s shoulders. “Are you okay now?”

He draws back and grabs your wrists. He nods, if a little jerkily. “Yes. Thank you.”

As soon as Connor lets go, the noble and proud creature in your belly howls in displeasure, cursing you for being so weak. But it’s not like you couldn’t comfort him! That would be cruel and just reinforce the stereotypes placed upon you – the ones that say you’re grim and stoic and an unfeeling person in general. 

“I saw something in its memory,” Connor says. “A word, painted on a piece of rusty metal… ‘Jericho’.”

You nod. “We should get back to the station. I’d like to have a copy of that for my records.”

When you start to walk, Connor follows.

[steviewashere]

Want to Go Home With You (Bring Me a Home)

Rating: Teen and Up (May Change With Future Chapters) CW: None, at least for now Tags: Alternate Universe - Mermaids, Hurt/Comfort, Dialogue Heavy, Took Canon Out Back And Pulled an Old Yeller, Mer!Steve Harrington, Fisherman!Eddie Munson, Soft Steve Harrington, Confused Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington Wants to be Loved, Mermaids with Animal Like Instincts, Future Propositioning, Lowkey Might Involve Some Omegaverse Aspects in the Future (Not Sorry)

This is chapter one of ????. Also this takes place in Oregon because that's what I know and the idea of a merman living in an Indiana lake-beach is odd to me. So...bear with me. This is my first like actual alternate universe, completely separate from Stranger Things, so be nice.

Also, I've written Steve here as a merman who's had no contacts with humans—his English is choppy and his understanding of basic human communication is weird. If that's a turn-off for you, turn back now.

Read Part Two Here

Can also be read on AO3

🧜‍♂️—————🧜‍♂️ Fishing wasn’t the ideal career to be going into after high school, but Eddie had to do something while he waited for his dreams to kickstart. Granted, going into this business was easy because his uncle owned the local bait shack. But it didn’t make the job any more appealing in the end. Not even the many beaches he had the chance to truck out to. There was Cannon Beach and Seaside’s, but he stayed close to home in Newport’s.

The beach wasn’t anything super spectacular. Sure, there were parts of it inhabited by the native seal population, some of the areas overloaded with crab shells. And it was damn near majestic during the summertime. Eddie, however, didn’t see the gist of spending time there, though. Maybe it had to do with how every single one of his work days would go, the hours spent sitting in the serene stretches of water. But nothing was intriguing or worthwhile about spending his time there.

That is, until one particular early summer day.

June isn’t a busy summer month for Eddie and his uncle. It was the right temperature, but there was still the risk of storms. Heavy duty kind of storms. Business didn’t stop, though. He woke up at 5:30am, when the sun was still acclimating to the baby blue sky, and readied himself in coveralls, thick and tall rubber boots, and a bucket hat that protected his lopsided mop of curls. His hair remained back in a bun and his skin was doused with paste-like sunscreen. In one hand he carried a red fishing rod and in the other, an old black lunchbox transformed for tackle.

He went out to the docks. To the few run down boats. And climbed aboard his uncle’s tried and true, S.S. Lenore—a tiny thing, made for up to four people, overrun with nets and crusted muddy footprints, and equipped with a singular cooler. The engine always took a few pulls to start up, jostling and crunching like food run through a garbage disposal, but it did the trick. And then he was off.

Eddie always took the chance to float out for a handful of minutes. Sometimes fifteen. Sometimes ten. Set himself up stagnant in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nobody, with no chance in hell he’ll be interrupted. Today he just needed to get a cooler full of trout. Rainbow trout, to be more exact. They’re easy fish to gut and debone, good for baking in the oven, and stuffing full of herbs for marinated fish stew. He’d gone out previously to hoist in mackerels and herrings. This was the last trip he’d need to take for a good two weeks, but he was going to do a damn great amount of work for it.

“This should be good,” he mumbles to himself, just barely breeching the edge of his boat. The ocean underneath him moves in subtle pushes, rocking him lightly against itself. Its color is bright and shining—bluer, somehow, than the last time he visited just a few days ago. He can see schools of trout idling underneath the sheen of the water. And so he rigs one of his nets, tosses it over the side of his boat, and slowly sinks it into the water.

And he waits.

It isn’t until half past when he came out that the net begins to rustle. Tugging and splashing, but it doesn’t settle the way it does when it’s some regular trout. No, this threatens to topple Eddie straight into the cold depths of the water below. To sink his boat and turn it over of all its resources.

He grips to the ropes holding the damned thing up. Pulling at it hard enough to give him the starts of burns on his soft palms. And he heaves. Groaning with it. Panting unrelenting in the face of this thing trapped inside his net. Whatever he caught is surely not some common fish for his soup, this is something more—maybe even more dangerous. And he hadn’t thought to bring anything with him to ward off danger.

There had been one time where a shark got caught. Eddie happened to have a knife on him that time. He gave in, cut the ropes on the net, and let it free—which cost him the equipment, but luckily saved his life.

This is a time where having that knife would be spectacular. But as he hefts the net, he realizes that this creature caught is no ordinary thing. It’s not a shark. Not a seal. Not a school of fish. However, through the floundering waves around him, he catches on a fish-esque glimmer. Scales of some sort shifting with the catch of light breaking through.

He wrestles with the net for a few minutes more before eventually getting a good enough grasp to tie it down. Pulling up the rest with his hands, he’s met face to…tail with this creature. It has scales—pearl white and baby pink and pastel yellows—they shine iridescent in the high rise of sunlight. The end of the tail sports two fins, both of them crescent shaped, thicker towards the base of the tail, and spindly where it faces Eddie. Before he can stop himself, he’s poking at the scales, where they taper into absence at the creature’s fins. It’s then that the creature really notices him.

In one fell motion, grand and heaving, the boat rocks. Teetering into flipping. The creature turns its head to him and…hisses. Like the guttural bubbling hiss of a harbor seal. It rocks in the net again, as it lunges towards Eddie.

Immediately, Eddie pulls his hands away and steps as far back as the boat will allow him. Granted, it’s only four feet in width, but that puts space between him and this thing. The thing that he calculates slowly with his eyes. Tail—yeah, he already knew about that. But then he rakes up to the torso of the fish like creature, where his tail is ombre with the glistening, golden skin of a nude torso.

“That—That isn’t right,” Eddie finds himself stuttering, surveying the torso once again. Sure enough, there’s skin. Dotted with moles and freckles. Dark brunette chest hair that could almost be mistaken as black. Toned arms and big, veiny hands. At the ends of this creature’s fingertips are short, curved towards the palms, white claws. Gills where its ribs are. And then Eddie goes to its head. Square-ish jaw, more freckles and moles, smile lines and baby crows feet. Thick eyebrows, triangular nose with a bridge that angles slightly to the left. Ears that threaten to point at the tops. Brunette hair that swoops to the right, falls to its collarbones, wavy and stringy with saltwater.

And its eyes.

Human eyes. Hazel, glowing honey in the sun. Long eyelashes. Drooping eyelids. Pupils that are pinpoint small, dilating with every hiss that leaves the creature’s throat.

A mermaid.

Eddie Munson is looking at a fucking mermaid.

Or…merman? It doesn’t have the seashell bra like all the mermaids he’s heard tales about, but maybe that’s just fable. He’s played all kinds of fantasy games, but he never thought what he described would be looking at him. Wild eyes and baby shark-like teeth, though without the second row. Hissing.

It struggles in the net again, lunging. Wrapping its hands on the edge of Eddie’s boat, squeezing at the metal material. The force of this merman’s grip enough to cause the edge to creak. Eddie’s stomach drops.

“Woah! Alright, okay!” He exclaims, hands up and placating. Briefly, he wonders if it has a good sense of smell and hearing. Like it can scent the excretion of his sweat even in the cold air. Or how his heart beats like the galloping of a race horse. “Easy! I ain’t—I’ve got no reason to hurt you!”

It seems to know what he’s saying, as it relaxes in the net for the first time. But it shoots him a pitiful, pleading look. Petulantly whining at him, though the sound is gargled.

Eddie wipes his sweating palms on his coveralls and takes a tentative step forward. “Easy,” he murmurs, “I’ll free you, but you have to stay calm.”

But the merman shakes its head. “No,” it croaks, “No free.”

Okay, so the guy speaks. It knows English. Even as choppy and awkward as it sounds.

“No free?” Eddie questions, “You don’t want me to free you?”

It shakes its head again. Whines, gargling again in the back of its throat. Its hands grip to the boat again, this time lugging some of its weight. As if it’s trying to…climb in.

Eddie startles back once more. “Hey, no,” he barks, “no climbing in. You can’t come onto my boat.” Though he wants to take it all back the moment he locks eyes again. If it didn’t have scales and gills, Eddie would almost think it was a sad puppy hybrid. He can almost imagine the droopy tail paired with the glistening, fearful, and pleading eyes. “Why shouldn’t I free you? My boat isn’t your home and I can’t take you back with me. You belong in the water.”

“Home,” the merman echoes, croaking. “Your home…warm?”

“Uh—“ What the fuck, he can’t help but think, exasperated. “—uh, sure. Home is warm. My, uh, home is warm. I live by the sand with my uncle, selling worms and cooking fish. The sun hits my skin every morning.” He doesn’t know why he’s answering the guy, but something in its stare, the broken words—Eddie’s allured. “Can you please answer my question? I’d like to go home. So, why shouldn’t I free you?”

The merman points a clawed finger at itself. “My home not warm. Cold.” Eddie nods along because—of course, duh, the ocean is cold. But it murmurs, “Love.” And now Eddie’s confused all over again.

“Love?”

Its voice is soft and sweet, curious. “You have love?”

Eddie shouldn’t be indulging this. He shouldn’t. But maybe the merman is a siren with how he’s drawn to answer. “I don’t have a partner, if that’s what you’re asking. But my uncle loves me. And I love him. That’s—I have love like that.”

It nods like it understands. Looks away over its shoulder, to the cold, salty water. And visibly shudders before facing Eddie again. “No love,” it says, pointing at itself again. “I no have love. No warm.” It tries to climb in again, even as Eddie’s moving to pry its hands away, but it holds tight and hisses again. “Want warm. Go with. Want to go. Go now,” it demands in a low timber.

And even as pretty as this merman is, Eddie has to refuse. He shakes his head softly. Gently, he says, “You can’t. I—I don’t know you. And…I don’t have an ocean in my house. You’ll die if you come with me.”

“Steven,” it mutters.

What? “What.”

“Know me—Steven,” it says. “Know you? Name?”

Tentatively, Eddie relaxes again. Realizes that this won’t be an end all conversation. “My name is Eddie. It’s short for Edward,” he answers, “but I like Eddie more.”

It hums, observing. “Eh-die,” it sounds out. “Eddie,” it whispers. Without warning, it trills at him. High pitched, chirping and bubbling from the back of its throat. Smiling with the sound, squinting its pretty honey eyes. Something in Eddie stirs. “Like that,” it chirps. “Short and easy. I want.”

“You want a short and easy name, too?” Eddie clarifies. It nods at him, squeaking an affirmative thing. “How about…Hm, what’s a good name for Steven?” He ponders as the merman continues to look on at him, eyes bright and curious. “How about Steve? Is that good enough for you?”

“Steve!” It crows. Trilling again, higher pitched than the last, squirming again in the net, closer and closer to heaving itself into the boat. “Easy, easy, easy,” it says at him.

Eddie can’t help but chuckle. “So…Steve, am I able to call you a he? Like…His name is Steve?”

He nods at Eddie. Wriggling again as if he can’t contain his excitement.

“Well, now I know you, huh? It’s a shame I still can’t take you to my home.”

And now Steve frowns, eyes saddening again. “But…My home is cold. You have warm,” he says solemnly.

“I know,” Eddie murmurs, “but I don’t have space for you, Steve. Your home is in the water. If I take you out of the water for too long, you’ll die. You need the water.”

“I will see you again?”

Eddie shrugs. “If you see my boat again, you can visit me. How about that? And…what’s special about that, is that I can bring you things that aren’t in the ocean.”

“Man’s stuff?”

Befuddled, Eddie asks, “What are man’s stuff?”

“Stuff I see from up here. From Eddie’s home,” Steve answers. “I find and I keep and I hide. Nobody knows. Just Eddie. Eddie is nice, though. You make me happy.”

Humming, Eddie assesses Steve again. Smiles softly. “You’re nice, too, Steve. Even though you scared me earlier. But you were scared, too, huh? Caught in my stupid net.” He takes a careful step closer, standing over where Steve rests in the net still. He places a hand on one of Steve’s, tentatively, but purposefully. “But if you see my boat again, you can come visit. Maybe next time I’ll bring some fish soup? Do you eat fish?”

“Fish are tasty,” Steve says as a response.

Eddie chuckles again. “Okay, Steve. I’ll bring you fish soup. Tomorrow, though. I have to free you and go home, okay?” He reaches down for the ropes that he tied down earlier. Tugs on one of the knots and frees one side. Steve yelps.

“Promise you come back?” Steve meekly asks.

“Promise,” Eddie murmurs intensely, unraveling the last of the rope. “Look for Lenore. She’ll bring you back to me.”

🧜‍♂️—————🧜‍♂️ If you'd like to be tagged in future updates, let me know. Taglist for this is open <3

[daydream-believin]

Like a Boiled Frog (you don't even scream) [ch 2]

Start here!

chapter summary: you get to officially meet Mr. Michael A. Coveralls.

warnings: implied child abuse, its english willy idk what you expect

word count: only 3784. this one is more easily chewable lol.

taglist: @spirit-of-the-hollow

The goddamn bear looked at you so fucking smug. God. So he did this. Cool, that’s so cool.

You took that fucker and tossed him into the oncoming traffic.

Watching a car run over Fredbear almost instantly as he hit the pavement was more than cathartic at this point. You stood with your hands on your hips, admiring your work. Take that you rat bastard ghosty son of a bitch.

Okay, not something you need to be directing at a child, even if he is more a vengeful spirit at this point. Actually, how do you even know it’s a child, huh? Demons often take the form of children to disarm their victims. You’ll keep that in mind while dealing with this.. thing.

Content with having watched Fredbear get run over at least once and not having the patience to wait for the *next* car to come this way in the wee morning hours in this small town, you turned back to head to your car again. Where you’ll be spending the rest of the night, unless Mr. Coveralls has a change of heart anytime soon.

You opened the driver’s side door, weary to the bone. Fredbear was in the seat, looking up at you just as smugly as ever. In perfect condition, not run-over roadkill at all.

In your defense, this is a plush, and he probably couldn’t feel anything as you violently strangled him. You angrily tossed him back into street, not even getting any satisfaction as you watched the plush make its arc back onto the pavement because you knew as soon as you turned your back, he’d be right there in the driver’s seat again.

You once again opened the door and grabbed the thing by the face, an eagle clasping prey in its talons. Bringing the damn doll with you this time, you went and banged on the glass of the front door. Very passionately, making sure Mr. Coveralls would clearly hear you over his tunes. Perhaps you pounded a little harder than you should’ve on this man’s obviously brand-new glass door but hey… Yeah, that’s the end of the sentence.

The music suddenly got a lot louder.

Cool. He’s on deck for strangulation.

You contemplated going to the back door, around the dumpster in the alleyway, but good ol intuition told you that being alone in a dark alleyway was never something you needed to be doing. Well, he has to come out this way sometime; His car is in the front. You can see it.

You dramatically slid your back down the wall until you were firmly slumped against it, sitting on the still-warm concrete. Feeling slightly more generous than before, and a bit more vulnerable, you cradled Fredbear in your lap. Guess you’ll just wait, then.

And wait you did. All night. This guy either was used to night shifts or just never slept.

The wall you rested your head against was so warm. It wasn’t even hard to get comfortable snuggling up to the hard surface. It had been so, so long since you’ve turned your brain off. Would it be too bad if you just dozed a little while waiting? You’re a light sleeper, there’s no way he’s leaving this building without waking you back up. It definitely couldn’t hurt to… close your… …

——

When Michael finally did try to leave, on his way to go pick up some more paint now that the sun was up, seeing you slumped against the building startled him. For a second there, he thought you were something else. But you weren’t about to bite him, thankfully. He was relieved, but then his mind quickly moved on to annoyance.

Why were you still here. It’s been hours.

His eyes scanned over you. You were ragged and dirty, like you haven’t showered or slept in days. Pathetic. Crumpled up on the pavement like this, you looked so small. And weak.

For a moment he thought— No, it wasn’t just his imagination. It felt like ice water dumped over his head. You were childishly clutching something close to your chest: one (1) all too familiar toy bear.

Christ alive.

No wonder you were tweaking like a mad March hare. That thing was probably frying your brains as we speak. Maybe messing with your dreams, if the grimace you wore in your sleep was any indication.

Well, it’s kinda his fault you’re here, then. In a way. That means he owes you. Great, he hated owing people, even if it’s just an apology.

He did have the option of just snatching the bear from you and letting you move on with your life. That would be the simplest, most painless route for either of you. But something tells him by the death grip you had on the bear in your sleep (as he tried to pry it from your grasp) meant it wasn’t going to be that easy.

You were snoring softly, completely dead to the world and oblivious of his little conundrum. And you didn’t rouse one bit as he shook you up trying to get the bear. You were out out. Michael sighed in defeat and grit his teeth. Might as well scoop you up and let you sleep on the stage inside the restaurant instead of the sweltering asphalt.

As he hefted you along bridal style into the dining room, you tucked your face into the rough fabric of his chest. Subconsciously seeking some sort of comfort, he guessed. Your face looked scared, but also innocent, like some kind of prey animal.

Too innocent for a place like this, at least, he thought.

You had mentioned driving here with no food or sleep. Where did you come from? How long had you been in this madness? Were you already reported missing? Would he see you on the milk carton?

Guess it wouldn’t matter. There’s no way you’ll make it out of here alive. You’re already marked.

You didn’t wake up, but he did cringe as he heard the dull thud of your body hitting the stage he laid you on. Not his fault, he was not used to carrying something so soft and alive. 

You tucked into yourself like a pillbug, encaging the bear with your body, and winced. Whatever was going on in your dreamscape must be terrible.

Well, sucks to be you. Time to go get yet another bucket of red paint. Apparently, he wasn’t that good at estimating how much paint he’d need, as this was now the third trip to the paint store. Hopefully this time will be the last.

——

You choked on a sob as you banged on the door. The party music blared from the dining room. No one was coming to help you.

It was so dark in here. Half of you was thankful you couldn’t see any of the horrors you knew lied in this room, but the other half of you was absolutely terrified because you couldn’t see the horrors that you knew lied in this room.

There was a scratching noise. You flinched, expecting a monster or a corpse. Relieved, you realized it was just a branch scraping the windowpane.

The window. It was like a lamp, guiding you. You walked carefully within the beam of moonlight coming from it.

If you tried hard enough, you could just get the rusty locks open…

MOVE. GET AWAY. KEEP MOVING! DON’T STOP! GET AWAY! GET AWAY!

The woods were parting to make way for the road, and you hesitated, not wanting to run on hot asphalt and gravel with your bare feet, but the sound of him approaching became louder, so you swallowed the pain and crossed. Speaking of crossed, you could hear him shouting swears as a car zipped past, a witness. You couldn’t breathe again until you hit the next treeline.

An elk bolted through the bushes and you could hear the snuffling of a hog but neither of them posed a greater immanence of danger as the grown man chasing after you. Hunting you like his prey.

As you ran, you spotted something gleam in the now almost completely set light of the sun peeking through the canopy. There was an axe embedded in the trunk of a nearby tree. You struggled to get it out but alas your weak arms just couldn’t. You even tried using your legs for leverage. After pushing with all of your might against the trunk, you landed in a heap at the base of the tree, the axe handle slipping from your sweaty grasp. The darn thing wasn’t going to budge. You could hear him trying to find you, you could hear his ragged breathing. You left it.

Running with abandon, you tripped over a tree root, scraping your knees as you fell. Try as you might, you couldn’t control the tiny, startled scream you let out as you made contact with the earth. Raking the tears off your face, you hoped it was as close to the dirt and the worms as you were going to get tonight.

“THERE YOU ARE,”

You winced as he called out across the forest. You wiped your nose with your sleeve as you ran, occasionally hiccupping out of your control, but there was no time for crying.

It was getting darker and darker each passing second. But there was a Light. That precious light pulled you in like a moth. There was smoke and thankfully that smoke was coming from a chimney. coming from a chimney. There was a House.

Your lungs burned as you continued to sprint to your new destination. If there was a house, and if there was a light, then there were people.

Normally you wouldn’t dare make such an obvious noise, but you didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t afford to care. There wasn’t a single second to spare. You furiously knocked on the door.

The door pushed right open.

Your eyes reflexively darted back to the treeline, seeing the silhouette of your hunter getting closer and closer. You had no choice, you had to go in. You had to find a Grown Up. You had to find a Human Being.

…There was No One. You searched; you called out for help. All the lights were on and the fireplace burning, but not a single person was inside. The kettle was even on the stove, heating, but not a kitchen attendant to be found. Unless somehow a ghost was making tea, they had to have just left.

Suddenly, you heard his ragged breathing outside the kitchen window. You had to think fast. You threw open quite a few cabinet doors before finding one empty enough to cram your body into. Gently closing the doors, you made your hideout. Just in time too, as you heard his heavy footsteps creak across the threshold of this stranger’s home.

“Where are you? ~” he called out in a singsongy tone, “Come on now, you know we need to be getting back soon. This little game has gone on long enough, Evan,”

You held your breath as long as you could, trying your hardest to release it now without too much noise. His footsteps got quieter, and with the creak of the door, he obviously was checking the one bedroom of the house. You panted as softly as possible, your lungs desperate for oxygen. They burned in your chest, and your throat was raw too.

The echoing footsteps came back. You could hear the sound of him moving a heavy piece of furniture, maybe he thought you under the couch. But suddenly, the most startling, terrifying sound rang in your ears.

The kettle was whistling. Screeching. Screaming.

You went to muffle the sound with your hands in your hair, but soon decided you needed to be able to hear as clearly as possible, as your hunter drew near. The kettle having called him over like an alarm.

You closed your eyes, praying to Saint Nicholas, please, please, please.

BAM-- he threw open a cabinet door, not caring if it slammed into the counter. It sounded only a few cabinets away from you. You prayed he’d turn the other direction— SLAM— nope, he’s getting closer.

You couldn’t help the tears that ran down your face, or the terrified sob that accidentally left your mouth. You tried covering your mouth, but you just choked instead.

Your blood turned to ice as you heard him chuckle to himself, his laughter building as he drew nearer.

An all too familiar dry laugh, that becomes almost a wheeze. A wholehearted chuckle that comes from the gut but lacks any semblance of warmth.

With the speed at which your cabinet door was slammed against the one next to you, and the blinding light flooding in and hurting your eyes, your father may as well have flash-banged you. Your head hit the counter as you were violently ripped from your hidey-hole, his talons gripping the collar of your shirt.

“FOUND YOU!”

—-

You desperately gasped for breath as you bolted awake.

What the hell was that.

It’s not like ‘something is hunting you, quick, run and hide’ isn’t one of your brain’s favorite dream scenarios to play, but this one was so… stable. Yeah, that’s the word. Stable.

Crisp. Clear. Coherent.

As you huffed air that was strangely chemically, trying to steady your breathing, you soon forgot the dream in favor of a different mystery: where were you?

And what the hell were those.

You were face to face with a milk crate with paper cartoon eyes taped onto it, with makeshift arms made out of a couple dowel rods with foam fingers stuffed onto them. Next that thing was a figure with a trash can body with a balloon tied to the lid for a head. You checked behind you. Yet another of these crazy sculptures was what had to be a bunch of mop handles tied together to make a body with oven-mitts for hands and the mop bucket placed as the head.

All of the sculptures looming over you wore silly grins drawn on with sharpie marker, and you were kinda concerned for whoever erected these things. Maybe some kind of prank, or perhaps it was just too avant garde for you. Guess “clowncore” was something the kids were into these days.

The smell of wet paint was starting to get to you. Probably. Really, your current headache could be any number of things. The list was pretty extensive right now.

You finally took a look around the greater area of the room, realizing you were on some sort of stage. This was.. a dining room?

The flooring was checkered. The walls freshly coated in red paint. There was a good size amount of tables and chairs. The cheap vinyl kind you’d find at a pizza hut.

OH.

You were in the pizzeria. The pizzeria. Freddy’s.

You had no memory of getting here…

“Oh good, you’ve been out all day,” a voice called from somewhere, “come help me take this out to the dumpster,”

Mr. Coveralls came into the dining room from some hallway, dragging a couple full black trash bags along with him as he dollied out a rather disgusting looking toilet to assumably the dumpster he mentioned.

Not one to disobey a direct order, oof let’s unpack that later, you find your way off the stage finally, tottering after him. You know, after you recover from the black out head-rush of standing up. He sort of half tosses you a bag, and when you catch it, you definitely understand why. It’s heavy af. Full of old tiles, judging by the loud clatter of broken ceramics the bag emitted.

There was no way that you were gonna be able to heft that thing into the open maw of the dumpster, and thankfully Mr. Coveralls seemed to realize this and did that for you.

Strangely, he didn’t look any more human in the light of day. He hadn’t made any effort to cover the missing flesh of his face, which was a ghastly purple, like you thought had to have been a trick of the eyes last night. You wondered just how much of him was bruised like that, considering the hands he used to take the bag of broken tiles from you were also undeniably purple as well.

And more frightening than anything, he looked like that horrible man from your dreams. The same face, the same smile. Younger, and his accent was a bit to the left. Was he… was he the little boy?

Speaking of...

“So, uh, what’s your name?”

“Depends, are you a cop?” he put his hand on your shoulder as he ushered you back through the door y’all came from, like he didn’t want you to see what was out there, “Let’s get back inside,”

He came off a bit pushy to you.

“Uh. No? I’m pretty sure I’m not,”

He chuckled, “You’re ‘pretty sure’?”

“Well, I don’t know, I could always be a CIA sleeper agent and I just haven’t heard the right activation phrase yet.”

“Let’s hope not, then.”

It was quite dim in the pizzeria in comparison to the outside, even with the lights on. A couple of the tacky florescent light bulbs were out and hadn’t been changed yet. You got the feeling he probably didn’t have plans on doing that anytime soon, with the way he was displaying garbage as a stage attraction.

“So are you going to tell me your name, or?”

“You haven’t told me yours yet, why should I?”

Took everything in you not to roll your eyes. Not like he could see, as he was currently shoving you along.

“Oh my god, it’s Y/n,” you were getting past impatient with this man, escaping his grasp and turning to stand your ground, “what is your goddamn name, Mr. Coveralls?”

He held out his hand, you took it annoyedly, “Mr. Michael A. Coveralls, a pleasure,”

God, that shit-eating grin. You shook his hand a bit harder than a person should.

“Y/n L/n, a pleasure to meet you too,”

Having mollified you, he started trying to herd you to the door again, despite your protests.

“Look it’s getting late, it’ll be dark soon, let’s get you back home or to your hotel room or whatever,”

Oh, that reminded you. You looked around frantically, “Where’s the bear?”

“Ah— Uh-“

You turned back from the direction he’d been pushing you, past the arcade machines and heading into the dining room once again. Once inside, you spotted Fredbear’s golden fur like a beacon and made a beeline for the stage.

Michael somehow made his way in front of you again, effectively stopping you with his hands on your shoulders. You could feel how cold they were even through the fabric of your shirt.

“Listen to me, I really think it might be best for everyone if you just go home, leave this here, and forget about the whole ordeal.”

Oh hell no. You did Not drive all this way for him to just take this haunted doll from you and throw you out the door like a messenger pigeon. You were at the very least getting some answers.

It was your turn to now shove him. Which startled him, Michael didn’t think you had it in you. But with him out of the way you stomped over to the stage, grabbing the bear before he could protest.

“Tell you what, I’ll leave when you tell me just what the fuck is going on.”

He clenched his jaw as you two entered a staring match. A glaring match, really. You held his gaze. Ha, you had the advantage of having spent the last couple of days staring unblinkingly at the sun-bleached roads. Your eyes were already so dry, you could unsettlingly stare at him for hours. But unfortunately, he also didn’t feel the need to blink, probably related to the fact that his eyes didn’t look real.

Finally, he relented, “Man, you really want to die, huh?”

“I don’t think any of this cares what I want.”

You returned your attention to the toy bear in your arms, cradling him. Palming his cheek, you swiped a thumb along his face, watching how the gold fur appeared darker depending on which way you rubbed it.

“Do you…” you couldn’t meet Michael’s eyes, “do you know what happened to him? I feel like you do.”

He chuckled to himself, and that made it all the more worse in your mind. It was almost the same laugh that had burned itself into your brain, serenading you like a broken record. Almost. This one sounded like it came from something still capable of human emotion.

“What makes you say that?”

“Not to be weird or anything but you kinda look like the psycho he was afraid of in my dreams. Like, a younger, but also somehow worse version of him. Like a version of him who got dragged behind a car on the highway for miles, like—“

“Okay, you can stop.”

“Sorry,” that probably wasn’t helping your standing with him, and thus decreasing the likelihood he’ll tell you anything. Shit, you and your big mouth.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, “…for the record though? I’m the version of him who got gutted like a fish,”

He laughed when your face screwed up in horror and empathized pain, your teeth grit tightly.

“But that’s not the story you’re asking for right now,” he motioned to the stage, giving it a pat, “Come on, sit.”

You hopped up there on his request, pulling your knees up to sit Indian style with Fredbear taking his seat in your lap. Michael didn’t make any effort to get comfortable, which was probably foreshadowing that this was about to get really UNcomfortable. For the both of you, most likely.

He smiled at you. Fair enough, you probably looked really goofy, sitting here amongst the trash sculptures, cuddling a toy bear in a top hat.  And, oh, there was that laugh again.

It really wasn’t the same, as much as hearing it made you silly brain panic at first. Whereas the laugh from your dream had been choking, dusty smoke, this one was a smoldering fire. There was still warmth hidden underneath all the ash, and all it needed was some kindling to get the flames going again. Or maybe some kerosene.

You weren’t sure if you could be the one to give that to him, but you sure as hell could try.

He nervously rubbed the back of his neck, “Okay, so, I guess I should start off with a question: Do you have any younger siblings?”

[teddyeyeseddie]

Never Let It Drop

★ Eddie x Reader

★ CW: Drug Use, Marijuana, the death of a cart, a funeral

★ A/N: I wrote this for my beloved @lofaewrites when she mentioned she needed a funeral for her cart preached by Eddie Munson. Thus ensued. I really hope you enjoy it my lovely darling lo, I love you to the moon and back <3)

Eddie went through all the rules when he bought you your first pen, something he had gifted you when you complained of aches and pains that seemed to plague you on the daily. 

There weren’t many, just the basic “be careful” and “call me if you need me” sort of direction. But the one, golden rule Eddie really hammered home- never let it drop. 

“Yeah- Never let it drop- Carts are glass, it would be a real shame to drop one and send 40 dollars down the drain,”  he mumbles as he screws the cart into your new device. 

He takes a few puffs from it, testing it out before offering it to you. You inevitably cough, Eddie coaching you on how to hit it, finally giving up and hitting the pen himself. 

He leans over, lips ghosting yours as he exhales the smoke into your mouth. It’s easier to tolerate this way, the smoke not as hard on your throat and lungs. 

You eventually get the hang of it, confidently taking puffs on your own.

You felt a little like a baby stoner, watching Eddie power through a blunt and seem unfazed had your mind thoroughly fucked, the man was like a freight train.

A few hits off the pen? You were good for a good while. Eddie loved it though, loved how you giggled more and rambled about things important to you- and he loved how cheap it was to smoke you out. 

You’re in Eddie’s trailer one evening, waiting for him to get home from work, Wayne long gone as he went on a date Eddie had set him up on. 

You’re relaxed on his bed, notebook in hand as you finish up your English 2040 homework.. You’d had classes all morning so you hadn’t seen Eddie all day, so to say you were excited when you heard the front door open was an understatement. You hop up from your place on the bed, pencil and papers flying as you practically run to the front door.

You round the corner, peeking out the hallway and standing in the kitchen.

“Hi peaches,” he muses, smiling widely when he sees you.

“Kiss me like you miss me?” you mumble sweetly, shifting from foot to foot.

“Well c’mere,” he holds his arms out, you launching yourself into them, allowing yourself to be held by the man as he leans down to catch your lips in a sweet kiss. 

“You able to hold down the fort without me?” he questions as he makes his way past you and towards the kitchen- not before he places another soft kiss to your forehead. 

You nod sweetly, mouth turning upwards into a soft smile while you watch Eddie pull his tin lunch box in front of him. He looks over at you, playfully rolling his eyes when he realizes you’re stoned. 

“Been hittin’ the pen?” he questions as he transfers some bud into his grinder, looking back up at you with a cheeky smile on his face.

“Don’t make fun of me Eds, know how easy it is to get me high,” he gets up from his place at the kitchen table, pulling you into him and looking down at you.

“Baby- Peaches, I’d never,” he feigns the heartbreak, his hand on his chest as if you had actually wounded him.

“Go get out of your stinky clothes, I’ll start dinner,” you playfully smack his chest, he ignores it and leans down and kisses you anyways. 

He retreats to the bedroom, coveralls slung low on his hips as he makes his way into your shared bedroom. 

You hear Eddie suck in a breath through his teeth, a dramatic little thing he does when something not that serious happens. You roll your eyes as you turn to the cupboards to find something to cook Eddie. 

“Peaches- what did I tell you was the first rule of having a pen? I found this on the floor” he states, hands on his hip as he holds the now shattered cart and luckily okay pen in his hand. 

“Fuuuuuck- Eddie I am so sorry- I-I’ll buy us a new cart, I just got paid. I know you like to use it when we are out and you can't smoke real bud-” he cuts you off. 

“Babe- Baby it’s okay,” he rushes out, digging in his lunchbox and pulling out a fresh new cart. 

“Knew this was gonna happen- kept a spare for when it broke or ran out,” you smile up at him, a wave of relief washing over you when you realize he wasn’t mad at you for breaking something so expensive. 

“But first-” he fake sniffles, retreating to his bedroom and returning with a small matchbox, placing the cart inside and offering a salute as he places it on the table. 

“We must lay him to rest-” Eddie states matter of factly, “We had a good man die, we can’t just let him go to the trash,” 

You giggle, the weed coursing through your body making the whole thing that much funnier.

He marches to the front door, handing you one of his jackets as he heads outside with a spoon, a spoon. 

He digs in the dirt by the front door, luckily unthawed from the cold winter you had just had. He forms a perfect little hole to place the matchbox inside, setting it inside and wiping a fake tear from his eye before covering the box with the dirt he had just dug up. 

“Any words?” he questions as he gets up from his place on the ground, dirt covering his knees and palms of his hands. 

“You-You were good to me. Always got me high and gave me some of the most mind blowing sex-” 

“Heyyyyy-“ Eddie pouts, “I’m the one giving you mind blowing sex,” 

You roll your eyes, grabbing his hand in the process and tugging him back into the warm trailer.

“Come on, dinner isn’t gonna cook itself,” 

[nerdyvocals]

Spark Plugs

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, Gen

Fandom: Grease: Rise of the Pink Ladies (TV)

Relationships: Gil Rizzo & Cynthia Zdunowski, Lydia/Cynthia Zdunowski (mentioned)

Characters: Gil Rizzo, Cynthia Zdunowski

Additional Tags: Big brother Gil Rizzo, Little Sister Cynthia Zdunowski, Cynthia is a little shit, Gil is overprotective of his car, Cynthia has already come out to the T-Birds and the Pinks at this point, Autoshop, the author knows so very little about cars, this was supposed to be a ficlet send help, Betaed

Language: English

Stats: Published: 2023-09-03, Words: 1,346, Chapters: 1/1

Summary: Sibling: An annoying little shit that you would do just about anything for.

Notes: Betaed as always by my beloved friend Bee (@look-at-those-nice-ass-rocks on tumblr).

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

“Gil!” The shout of the boy’s name, cutting through the relative and rare quiet of the unusually empty shop, startled him enough that he nearly cracked his head on the car he was working under.“Gil, are you in here?”

“I’m a little busy,” he snarked. Sneakers scuffed against the concrete seconds before two hands grasped the edge of the creeper he laid on. “ Don’t-! ” he started, only to be cut off by the person yanking him bodily from under the car. He let out a long-suffering sigh and met the blue-eyed gaze of his assailant.

“What do you want, Cynthia?”

The girl extended a hand. “I need to borrow your car.”

Gil snorted. “That’s funny,” he said, taking the girl’s hand and allowing her to haul him to his feet, “You’re real funny.” 

He clapped her shoulder, leaving an oil-slick print on her sleeve that she wrinkled her nose at as he stepped around her. A little uncalled for, probably, but, well, that’s what she gets for being in the shop without coveralls. Some lessons are better learned the hard way. He snatched a rag from a table as he passed, scrubbing the oil from his hands so he could dig through a toolbox on the counter.

“C’mon, please?”

Continue reading on A03

[firstprince-ao3feed]

it's just not fair of him (to make me feel this much)

by alwaysou28 Henry didn’t know that when he called Diaz’s Garage about an oil change that he left for too long his entire life would be flipped upside down, but he was gone the second he saw the owner of the shop. Alex Claremont-Diaz strode up to Henry wearing a grease-stained white vest that clung to his body like a second skin and a pair of green coveralls hanging around his waist, showing off the tantalizing dip. Course hair covered his arms and peeked out of the vest, so dark that Henry wanted to know what it would like tangled around his fingers. His curls were loose and wily, held back with a red bandana that Henry wished Alex would use around his wrists. Alex had greeted him with a knowing smirk, asking if he was Mr. Fox in the sultriest voice Henry thought he had ever heard. His eyes, a beautiful rich brown that reminded Henry of a warm coffee on the coldest winter day, looked Henry up and down slowly, taking in librarian chic fic, as Bea called it. Thankfully, Alex had been able to change his oil right away, and twenty minutes later he was giving Henry the bill, along with his number and the offer of a date the next night. Henry hadn’t hesitated to accept. OR mechanic Alex!AU Words: 4305, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston, Red White & Royal Blue (2023) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Alex Claremont-Diaz, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Nora Holleran, Original Characters Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Additional Tags: Fluff, Domestic Fluff, No Angst, Mechanic Alex Claremont-Diaz, Writer Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Alternate Universe, Married Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Loves Alex Claremont-Diaz, Alex Claremont-Diaz Loves Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Smut, Fluff and Smut, Top Alex Claremont-Diaz, Bottom Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Domestic Bliss, This is pure fluff, and SMUT, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Creampie via https://ift.tt/Cyp6hMs

[honourablejester]

Call of Cthulhu Character Concept: 1920s Funeral Home Dreamer

Because I just really wanted to try making a CoC investigator. I’m not sure what I intended to make initially, but browsing the occupations list gave me ‘undertaker’, and then I decided to roll for characteristics initially (I later added points on so the total would equal 460, as if for point buy), and that gave me a starting Appearance of 20, which is just above ‘ugly, possibly disfigured due to injury or at birth’, which gave me a bit of a starting seed. Then I was browsing the period names suggestion list, and saw ‘Asenath’, which I’d never heard before, and looked that up. And it’s a biblical name, but an Egyptian figure, so the name means ‘dedicated to the goddess Neith’. Which, in a Cthulhu setting, was … interesting.

So. Asenath Webber, a 34 year old assistant at her family’s funeral home in Arkham, Massachusetts, who has a troubled relationship with her brother since he permanently scarred her with embalming chemicals in an ‘accident’ as kids, and whose beloved uncle helped foster her education and interest in literature, history, and just a bit of the occult. Heh.

Call of Cthulhu Character Concept: Asenath Webber

Name: Asenath Webber

Occupation: Embalmer’s Assistant/Hearse Driver (Undertaker)

Age: 34

Gender: Female

Birthplace/Place of Residence: Arkham, Massachusetts.

Characteristics:

Strength 50, Constitution 80, Dexterity 60, Intelligence 50, Size 50, Power 70, Appearance 20, Education 80

(I initially rolled, then brought them up to total 460 as if for point buy (my original rolled total was 435), but the initial rolls are why her appearance is in the toilet. I could have brought that up, but I figured let’s roll with it)

Hit Points: 13

Magic Points: 14

Luck: 55

Sanity: 65

Move: 8

Skills Above Base:

Brawl 35%, Drive Auto 60%, Dodge 30%, First Aid 35%, History 65%, Intimidate 50%, Language (Own, English) 80%, Language (Other, Ancient Egyptian) 11%, Library Use 50%, Occult 65%, Psychology 40%, Science (Biology) 45%, Science (Chemistry) 51%, Spot Hidden 50%

Credit Rating: 20

Wealth: Average, Spending Level $10, Cash $40 ($10 on her, $30 glove box of the hearse), Assets $1000 (rented apartment ($10/wk rent), used car ($300), refrigerator ($49))

I did look up 1920s hearses to see if there was any option for the hearse to be the part of the family business she owned, but hearses are very expensive, so not a chance. She probably does have access to it, if she wants to alienate her family altogether, but I decided she’d have her own, used but in good condition, 1920 Chevvy Coupe that she keeps at Jo’s so the family don’t know about it. She keeps it mostly for the promise that when things with her brother finally degrade past saving, she can just bug out in her own car, and then the world will be her oyster.

Personal Description: A short, compact woman with bland features once you get past the shiny, twisted burn scar on her face. She smells faintly of chemicals, and tends to be faintly off-putting at the best of times. She’s usually found in driver’s coveralls or men’s clothing, which her family tolerate because she’s generally just not seen, at least not attached to the business.

Ideology & Beliefs: There are forces at work in the world, both evil and spiritual. When you work with the dead, you realise quickly that the body is a frail, useless, damaged thing. There must be more, a breath of some vaster thing, that makes us what we are.

Significant People: Eldridge Webber, her brother, with whom she has a tense relationship, to put it mildly. Edridge is the ‘& Son’ of the Webber & Son funeral home, and will inherit it once their father dies, and has made no bones about the fact that he’ll cut her loose to survive on her own once that happens. He’s also the cause of the scarring on her face, an ‘accident’ when he was 12 and she was 8, and he’d dared her to venture into the embalming room with him. She firmly believes that if her father wasn’t as traditional and had even once considered allowing a female to inherit the business, her brother would have arranged for a much more permanent ‘accident’ for her. Eldridge focuses on the business and glad-handing clients side of the funeral home, while their father still does most of the embalming, so she’s mostly given odd jobs such as driving the hearse and assisting their father in the embalming rooms. She’s almost fine with the knowledge that as soon as the business belongs to her brother, she’ll be out on her ear.

Barnabas Webber, her uncle, who taught her and sponsored her interests despite the ire from the rest of her family. He’s the one who taught her to drive, and the one who sponsored her education so she could get her English and History degree. Now that he’s dead, relations between her and the rest of her family have cooled significantly, not that they were good to start with. He used to be the second Webber in ‘Webber, Webber & Son’, but when he died, Josiah Webber, her father, simply removed that part of the name.

Josephine Razner, a friend from college and fellow spiritualist who shares Asenath’s fascination with history and the occult. Despite Asenath’s generally off-putting demeanour, Jo was delighted by her unusual name, and Asenath’s knowledge of its origins, and they hit it off. Jo is constantly encouraging her to leave the family business altogether and strike out on her own before Eldridge forces the issue for her, but Asenath still feels that would be disloyal to the family as a whole.

Roland Bleeker, a shady sort who has dealings with her brother, and who Asenath is 90% certain is a criminal of some stripe. Both he and Eldridge have attempted several times to get Asenath to do ‘deliveries’ in the hearse that are outside of business hours, and she’s refused them, which has done her relationship with Eldridge no favours either.

Meaningful Locations: Webber & Sons Funeral Home, Arkham. The center around which her world has revolved for almost her entire life, the cause of her worst scars, and the link to her most beloved person, her deceased Uncle Barnabas.

Secondarily, Miskatonic University, the site of some of the happiest times of her life, and the place she met Jo.

Treasured Possessions: A small illustrated copy of Lord Dunsany’s ‘Gods of Pegana’, with a handwritten note on the inside cover from Uncle Barnabas: ‘Dream all the things, dear one. Never stop. Uncle B.’ *(Key Backstory Connection)

Traits: Loyal. Not a lot of people are kind to Asenath, so she will move heaven and earth for the ones that are. She loved Uncle Barnabas with her entire body and soul, and she probably would kill people (or at least find some way to make bodies vanish) for Jo. She’s also stubborn and inclined to stick to her guns in general.

Injuries & Scars: Old chemical burn scars on her right cheek and jaw, deforming her mouth slightly, from an ‘accident’ as a child with the embalming chemicals.

History: From nearly the moment she was born, Asenath Webber’s life has been tied up in the family business, the prosperous Webber & Son funeral home. A dreamy, bookish, stubborn child, she wasn’t popular with most of her family, save only her mother (until her untimely death when Asenath was four) and her Uncle Barnabas, who she utterly adored and has missed terribly these last seven years since his death. After a childhood incident involving her brother left her with permanent scars from chemical burns on her face, she was shunted into the background of family life, away from the public. As a teenager, she had started training as an embalmer, at her father’s side, but her uncle managed to secure a college education for her at Miskatonic University, arguing that it would only enhance the family’s reputation to be able to send her. After her brother, of course, who studied accounting and finance, as befit the heir to the business. Asenath had other interests, however, and a fanciful streak, so her studies were in literature and history. Her own name, and lifelong experience with death, bodies, and the spirituality around them, had also inclined her to more … esoteric studies, and through these she met her dear friend Josephine Razner.

Once she had her degree, however, duty demanded that she return to the funeral home and put her back into the family business. She couldn’t be publicly seen, of course, she was off-putting and inclined to scare off clients, but she found roles as assistant embalmer and, through her talent with automobiles, driver of the funeral home’s hearse. After the death of her uncle, however, and her increasingly strained relationship with her brother as their father gets frailer and the time of his inheritance gets palpably closer, Asenath is looking more and more for a way out before she’s thrown out.

[conformityofagenius]

Benefits of Playing at Online Casinos

There a ton of smart motivations to pick online or land-based Casinos anyplace. However, there are a few focuses you ought to consider before choosing which one to pick.

Online Casinos and Bingo Games present a few intriguing and special benefits over their property based counterparts. Playing online is actually simple, requires less skill and is more convenient in comparison to going significant distances to Los Vegas, Atlanta or Macau. Plus, a player doesn't need to stress over strolling through dark parking parts.

There are a ton of benefits to playing online from home that most people could not have possibly even thought of. For example, you don't need to stress over getting tainted or debilitated or stress over the individual sitting close to you. The player can play from his home PC without agonizing over issues like clothing standard, smoking issue and other such issues. As an additional benefit a considerable lot of the large online casinos acknowledge various monetary forms so that people in different corners of the world could be playing a similar game.

Most online Bingo organizations offer the two forms of the game: 75 and ninety number. What this does is that it presents more decisions for players. As a matter of fact most players who play at land-based casinos probably won't have even heard about a subsequent rendition. Online casinos typically have a few rooms or hours that offer a scope of card costs. This way the players can play conveniently and pick as per his spending plan.

Online casinos license players to choose free casino games that the individual in question needs to play. This is all in all a shift from the unbending construction followed via land-based organizations. A significant number of these destinations offer wide a variety of games from moderate bonanza games, coveralls, regular bingo as well as other variations. Players can likewise exploit various side games to win extra money. The player can use the auto-dauber and doesn't need to check cards or mark numbers. It is a lot simpler and convenient than playing Bingo, in actuality

Online casinos are multilingual - a significant benefit. Regardless of whether English isn't your most memorable language, you actually have the chance to play online casino. You can play in your local language in solace. While playing online, there are a few means to pay, for example, Visas, FirePay and NETeller. This is very convenient in face of the genuinely rigid decisions accessible in land-based casinos.

[brideofkylosolo]

A short one-shot I wrote, part of a larger piece I plan to write

Fate Brought me to You

Commander Mills X Charlotte (OC) (65)

Mills meets another survivor.

Warnings: n/a

     They’d been walking for months.

     At least that was what it felt like.

     Mills and Koa, the only two survivors of the wreck of Homestead 27, had been walking for the better part of the day in search of not only food but shelter as well on the unknown planet.  Mills had decided their best course of action would be to follow a river north from where their ship had crashed, mostly due to the water in said river being safe to drink.

     Luckily for them, there were no aliens or creatures on this planet.  At least none that they had seen yet.  Mills had heard more than one growl of something out there.  What it was, he had yet to find out.

     They had rounded a bend when a flash of movement ahead caught Mills’ eye.  He motioned for Koa, his young companion to be still.  He put his finger to his lips, signaling her to be as quiet as she could.  He readied his weapon and cautiously peaked through the brush.  Up ahead, kneeling at the edge of the water was a woman.

     She was dressed in a set of dark blue coveralls with several patches on the upper arm and shoulders and laced-up boots; Mills couldn’t tell from where he was what they said but he assumed it was some sort of military ones.  Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back in a single braid to her shoulder blades, a few strands falling around her face.

     Mills went to take a small step forward and stepped on a twig, the tiny branch cracking beneath his large build.

     The woman quickly grabbed her weapon at her hip and spun towards where he was.  Mills lowered his gun and raised his hands in a gesture of peace.

     “Don’t shoot,” he said as he stood up.  “Commander Mills of the Homestead 27.”

     “Doctor Charlotte Hawkings of the Litavis,” the woman replied, her gun trained on Mills.  “You’re American.”

     It wasn’t a question.  “Yeah, and you’re… Irish?”

     Charlotte gave him a very peeved look.

     “Scottish?”

     “Are all you American’s this daft?” she asked.  “I’m English.”

     “Right.” Not off to a great start. “Did you’re ship crash here?”

     She nodded and slowly lowered her weapon.  That was something.  “We hit an asteroid and went down here.  I’m the only one that survived.”

     “Same,” Mills replied.  “Well, me and someone else.”

     As if on cue, Koa stepped out from where Mills was hiding.

     “There are two of you,” Charlotte said.

     “Yeah,” he said with a nod.  “Everyone else died.  I tried to call for help but couldn’t get through.”

     Just then, a loud roar broke the air.  Mills and Charlotte exchanged looks.

     “Come on,” she said, pointing to her left.  “Before what that is finds us."

[merrock]

CHARACTER INFORMATION

face claim: Haley Lu Richardson

full name: Stevie May Lane

nickname(s) / goes by: Stevie, Ms.Lane, Mama

pronouns & gender: Cis woman & She/Her

sexuality: Heterosexual

birth date: August 14th, 1995

birth place: Waco, Texas

arrival to merrock: Arrived in November of 2023

housing: small house in the suburbs that she rents

occupation: Sixth grade English teacher 

work place: Merrock Junior High

family: Elijah Jaxon Lane (July 8th, 2013), Joshua Lane (Cousin), Mom & Adopted Father in Texas

relationship status: single

PERSONALITY

Stevie is sunshine personified. She’s seen around town with her sketchbook. Always willing to help, if she has the time. She’s the one who always has a book in her bag, and hosts the weekly silent book hour at the library. The coveralls that fit over her hips, doodles on her converse and bandanas in her hair showcase just how her style is. She would do anything for her son, and if that means be snarky, you bet she’ll be snarky. She would give up her own world to make sure her son has everything in his. Stevie is caring and considerate. 

WRITTEN BY: Kay (she/her), est.

BACKGROUND / BIO

triggering / sensitive content: pregnancy, bullying

Stevie May Lane was born in San Antonio, Texas on a beautiful and hot summer day. Stevie grew up in Waco, Texas. A small city in between Dallas and San Antonio. She grew up in an easy household. Her mother being a stay-at-home mom, and her father was a lawyer. She was a good kid in school, gravitating more towards the artsy kids. She liked getting her hands dirty. Being able to sculpt, or draw, or paint was her favorite pastime. Stevie was about 16 when she found papers in her mothers drawers while she was looking for a pair of shoes, claiming that her father was not her real father and that he adopted her at the age of one. That had immediately put a divide in their relationship. Stevie was hurt and confused as to why they had never said anything. She became someone who’d stay out all night, getting high with some friends. When she was just about to graduate high school, Stevie found herself pregnant at eighteen. Her family wasn’t the most supportive when it came to Elijah, her beautiful baby boy. But she fell in love. Her parents kicked her out and she did her best to try and make ends meet by selling some of her artwork online. She did her best going to college with a newborn, but it was almost impossible. Online classes, a lot of coffee and energy drinks, late nights studying and feeding, and night classes where she could have friends watch her child became the norm. Graduating from Baylor University in Waco, Texas, she became a middle school teacher. Elijah being the sole reason for her to continue pursuing a degree, and job. He is the one person in her life that she would do anything for. And that meant doing everything in her power to make him happy. Thus, moving. 

After finding out from the local gossip mill in Waco that her son was getting bullied, she decided it was time to leave her hometown full of gossip and rude looks.  With the help of her cousin, Josh, she was able to move to Merrock. She had no idea what was in store for her in the Northeast, but she figured she’d might as well try. With the little money she was able to save over the years and having her ten year old child in tow, she was able to rent out a small house in the suburbs. She took over a position in the junior high as an english teacher and has gotten Elijah into school, and even flag football where he exceeds expectations. As an almost twenty-nine year old mom, she’s starting over. It’s been over six months of them finally able to settle in. They adopted a cat named Button, Elijah has made some friends, They’ve been able to get to know their family, and have finally found their footing in this cute little town. 

[rokhal]

ANGR fic: Olfactory

Gonna brute-force 15minutefics back into existence with Oxford English Dictionary's Word Of The Day. (research does not count against the 15 minutes. It was critical for me to know the merits and characteristics of mens' colognes from the 70's and 80's). (This was not in any way shape or form a 15 minute fic. Bad rokhal.)

Word: OLFACTORY

Canelo's on the day after Christmas was always chaotic; customers would cancel appointments at a minute's notice. Walk-ins would wail for assistance getting their cars road-ready so they could return home. Lucky mechanics would look for any excuse to break out the new tools their significant others had gifted them. Mysterious plates of cookies appeared in the break room. Robbie had to break the news to a hollow-eyed woman that three of her Celica's brake rotors had worn through, making her car unsafe at any speed.

Robbie scrubbed his fingernails with Gojo before returning to the locker room to strip off his greasy coveralls and go home. Alejo was already clean and tidy, hair combed, spritzing his throat with a tiny green bottle whose scent rocked Robbie back fifteen years into a half-forgotten version of himself, clinging to Papa's waist as he changed out of his heavy work jacket as Papa's hand cupped the back of his head and the world went dark and quiet and warm for a few moments, until Papa asked Mama what she'd cooked and Mama asked Papa how the new lineman was working out on his crew.

"Hey, kid," Alejo said. "You gonna move?"

Robbie realized he was blocking the door. He sat down on the bench by his locker. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the bottle.

"Present from mi vida." Alejo held out the bottle so Robbie could see the label: Brut spray cologne. Robbie fished out his phone and snapped a photo just like any other unique part he'd want to reference later. "You like it?" He had a little grin under his beard.

"Smells like my dad," Robbie explained.

Alejo's smile grew a little softer, a little warmer. He patted Robbie on the shoulder, and Robbie, for once, didn't flinch away. "Then I'm glad you found something to remember him by."

Robbie nodded hard. He sat on the bench, taking up space as the other guys cleaned up and left, until his head cleared enough to roll up his coveralls and shrug on his jacket.

The name of the cologne niggled at him for two weeks. Robbie had aftershave, he already liked his scent, he didn't need more, and it wasn't like wearing Dad's scent would magically make him...capable. Strong. Confident. Everything he'd imagined Dad to be when he'd been around. But maybe he could remember. Maybe he could pretend Dad had given him the bottle; that was normal, right? Dads gave their sons their leftover aftershave and stuff when they started shaving? But that was stupid, and slightly pathetic. Anyway, it was probably a hundred bucks a bottle.

Check, Eli snapped, exasperated.

Robbie looked it up on Amazon. It was less than twenty, with shipping.

_

When he got the notice from Amazon, his whole body buzzed with anticipation until he got time free to pick it up from the hub. He handled the little bubble-wrapped package delicately and stuffed it protectively into his jacket pocket. After picking Gabe up from the Valenzuelas, and dinner and homework, just before bed, he sat at the table opposite Gabe and opened it up. Gabe watched him, curious about this as he usually was about Robbie's passions. But even though Gabe wouldn't remember, this was for them both. "This is what Dad smelled like," he announced, and passed Gabe the bottle.

Gabe sprayed his hand and sniffed it, wrinkled his nose. The whole kitchen filled with its sharp spices. "It's really strong."

"It's gotta last all day," Robbie explained.

"It's like Christmas and. Um. Shoe store."

Robbie supposed it did have a bit of a rubbery note to it. "It just reminds me of Dad."

"You like it?"

That was an unexpectedly complex question. The puff of scent Gabe had released had Robbie half-expecting Dad's ghost to wander in from the hallway, yearning for the solid embrace he'd never feel again. "I'm glad I found it."

_

He'd worn the cologne every day for a month, having finally acclimated himself to its scent and suppressed the childlike longings it stirred, when Eli let slip, Feel like myself, fucking finally.

Robbie froze, staring himself down in the mirror. What.

What?

What'd you mean, you feel like yourself?

I had a good rest, Eli lied. What's it to you?

Robbie bared his teeth. Try again. Eli was silent, but Robbie made himself even more silent, until the stillness in his mind was a vacuum demanding thoughts to fill it. Eli broke first, a flash of a little green bottle on an unfamiliar bathroom counter. Robbie dropped the real bottle. It clattered, but did not break, in the sink. This was yours?

Beto had good taste, Eli explained. Cheap, too.

Jesus. Robbie shuddered, the herbal spicy scent rising from his skin. He threw the bottle in the trash.

You petty little bastard.

[arcanewhoosh]

Funny Business

Where you just wanted to get your work done and over with, but your truck had other plans.

2,500 something words

God the self restraint to keep this a oneshot

not proofread

English not first language

Mechanic Jinx x GN!Reader

Today was not a good day.

First of all, what should've been a quick trip between your project sites was quickly derailed by your truck making weird click noises. Second, You were three cities away from home and you couldn't risk driving on a highway with that weird clicking sound doing its weird clicks; so now you're stuck. Third, there was a distinct lack of open garages today; today is a holiday. Fourth, you realized you were working on a holiday.

You grumpily mumble to yourself as your truck slowly drives down the road. After a grueling Google search for open garages, you were able to find one nearby at a Square in the middle of the business district. And after navigating through the unfamiliar streets of Zaun-you were briefly stopped by a cop and had to beg them to not to give you a ticket-you finally saw the large billboard of the Square's entrance. Welcome to The Lanes! It read.

You slowly make your way around the Square and finally find the garage. Thankfully, the place was huge, and it looked like there were only two other cars being worked on. Good for you; the faster they could fix your truck, the faster you can do your job and get home.

"Welcome to the Last Drip, what can we do for you today?" A lanky, spikey haired man says as he walks up to your window.

"Uh, something suddenly started to make a clicking noise. I can't tell where it is." You say as you grab your bag and exit the truck.

"Hm, you mind if I take the car for a bit? You can take a seat in the lounge over there" He points to an empty seating area with a few couches and a vending machine.

"Uhm, no sure, take your time, uh, Mylo." You say as you read the name tag on his coveralls. Mylo nods and gets into the truck, driving it to one corner of the garage with different lifts. You start walking towards the seating area, when your phone starts to ring.

Dad. The caller ID read. You quickly pick up the phone.

"Hey dad."

"Hey bud, I heard you had some car trouble. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, something started clicking in the car. I couldn't tell what it was and I didn't wanna risk driving to the sites."

"It's fine, I'll send someone else to handle the sites next week. Why are you even working on a holiday?" You stop walking. Weren't you told to go here today?

"Wasn't I supposed to come here today?" You hear a sigh on the other side of the line.

"...Maybe."

"Probably, but it's a holiday today, it's a day off for everyone. Didn't you get the announcement?" Now that he's mentioned it, you vaguely remember receiving an email from HR about a long weekend or something.

"It's already a holiday today, it's already a long weekend. I don't need Monday off, too."

"Jeez, you're not even in your thirties, and your memory is already worse than mine.

A pause. "Tell you what, take Monday off too. Take a break, book a hotel there and do those mental health days you kids do nowadays."

"Yeah, okay, love you too, dad. Tell mom too."

"If you're forgetting holidays, that means you're working too much."

"It was just a lapse in memory-"

"Take the extra day off, I'm saying that as your boss. I have tee time in fifteen minutes. Have fun, love you."

You pocket your phone and realize that your halway through making a lap around the garage. Or was it your second lap? You don't recall, so you shake your head and make you way to Mylo, who was now writing something on a chart.

"Alright, so I hear the clicking, but I can't see anything immediately when we run the car. We'll have one of our mechanics take it apart, depending on where they think it is."

Uh oh.

"How long do you think it's gonna take?"

"Two, maybe three days, tops. All I know is you're not getting that done today." You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose.

"Alright, anything I need to sign?" Mylo hands you a chart.

"Fill this out, hand me an ID, and we should be good to go. Take a seat and one of the mechanics will hand it back. They'll have a better timeline for your car."

"Cool, thanks." you say as you take an ID out of your wallet and hand it to Mylo.

You walk back over to the seating area and take out your laptop. It might've been a holiday, but the fifty-seven new emails you got definitely didn't think so.

You pore over the screen for a while; either marking seemingly unimportant emails-mostly those you were cc'ed in-as read, briefly skimming through department reports, and replying to concerns that were directed to you.

"Ahem."

You now have three meetings rescheduled for Tuesday, and another site visit the day after. Twenty three emails removed, a pretty decent chunk.

"Hello?" A face suddenly appears in front of you, her hand pushing down the screen of your laptop. You blink. How long had she been there?

"Uh, sorry." You manage to say. Her blue eyes scan your face briefly, a look of annoyance on her face. She straightens up and lets go of your laptop.

"Hi. I'm your mechanic."

"...Hi." She stares at you. You blink. She blinks.

"So, anyway, your car might have a steering problem, I'll be able to know for sure when I take it apart, that'll take the rest of the day. If there's a part that needs to be replaced, we'll have to place an order if we don't have it in stock, that'll take another day. So your car is gonna be stuck here for at least two days. Capeesh?" She says as she hands you back your ID.

"Capeesh." You nod dumbly. Still feeling a bit sheepish for not immediately noticing her presence.

"Right, I'm gonna go work now." She quickly turns around and starts walking to your truck.

"Uh, wait!" She turns to look at you, an eyebrow raised.

"Do you know any place here that I can plug in my laptop?"

"Bar next door."

"...Cool." You were supposed to say, thank you [insert name], but the top part of her coveralls were down and she was in a crop top and had cloud tattoos running up her right arm and over to her chest and waist and oh no she's got a pretty face too.

So, like, you couldn't see her name tag cause the top part of her coveralls were down.

"Cool." She says as she starts walking again.

The bells on the door make a chiming sound as you push it open. Yup, this was a bar alright. Nearly empty, sure, but it was still in the middle of the afternoon. The bartender greets you, and you give a half hearted nod back as you enter. You walk around for a bit, looking for any sockets to plug in your laptop, praying you don't look sus to the bartender. Eventually you find a small table with a socket next to it, so you dump your bag on the chair to call dibs, and make your way over to the bar.

"Hey, how you doin'?" She asks, wiping off a cup. She didn't look that much older than you, but you couldn't really tell, since the only things you had to go on were her facial features and her pink hair.

"Could be better."

"Hm. What could be better?"

"My truck, for one." She raises an eyebrow.

"Took it to the last-"

"The Last Drip, yeah. I'm assuming that and this bar is owned by the same person?" You gesture around the bar with your hand. The Last Drop, it was called. You had a good chuckle to yourself when you saw the signs next to each other earlier.

"Family businesses."

"Ah."

The both of you have small talk for a good bit while Vi-you two exchange names somewhere in the conversation.- got you a glass of wine. A safe choice, you'd have something to drink while working, but you wouldn't run the risk of getting sloshed the longer you drank it. Eventually you go back to your table and start working. Ignoring the rest of the world as you read more emails and progress reports and approve requests for this and that.

It's only when the door to the bar chimes again, and a particularly loud group of people enter, that your focus is broken. Your eyes flit towards them for a split second before going back to your screen, until you're forced to do a double take when your brain registers that you saw a flash of blue hair. You shake your head, trying to bring your focus back onto your work.

"Need a top up?"

It works for a while, until someone puts down a glass of wine on your table.

You look up, and it's the pretty mechanic from earlier. Your brain isn't at social functioning capacity, and you blurt out the first word that comes to mind.

"Jinx."

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and you immediately try to save face.

"The bartender, your sister, Vi, she told me your name." That doesn't seem creepy at all, in your head. Apparently Jinx, or Powder, Vi calls her, also doesn't think you're creepy. instead, she grins and takes the seat in front of you, once again pushing down your laptop screen so you can see her face fully. She has a few freckles on her nose that you wouldn't be able to catch, unless you were this close to her face.

"Oooh, so you asked about me?" She says as she takes a sip from a metal cup with little doodles on them. Your hands don't leave your keyboard while you talk.

"You came up in the conversation, yes."

"How so?"

"Vi asked which mechanic was working on the truck, I said I couldn't see your name tag cause your weren't wearing half your coveralls, and she kinda just... Knew." She shrugs.

"Yeah, that checks out. So why are you still working?"

"Huh?"

"It's past eight, and it's a holiday."

"So people say." You take a look at your watch; yup, it's past eight alright. You let out a breath and put your laptop away before grabbing the glass of wine Jinx had put down on your table earlier.

"So did you ask about me too, or did you just happen to stare long enough to notice what I was drinking?" You ask as you take a sip of your drink. She grins, then props her chin on her hand.

"Who knows? Maybe I was just trying to see if you'd actually respond to someone calling you this time." Oh. You scratch the back of your head.

"Sorry about that."

"It's fine, though if we're being honest, I was kinda peeved when I saw you her. Thought you were some stuck up accountant or something, but Vi said you were cool so..."

"So this is an apology drink for being peeved at me for no reason?" She smiles at you and Sips from her straw.

"Perhaps. So why are you working during a holiday?" Why were you, again?

"...I may have forgotten it was a holiday." You clear your throat. "Why were you working on a holiday?"

"I like working on cars. Also that's sad as hell; pardon my French."

"It's not that sad-"

"It's pretty sad."

"Okay, can we move on to a different subject other than my working on a holiday?" She nods.

She asks you about your job, and is clever enough to connect the dots. Your company owns the development projects in the city,

So you ask her how they came to own the garage and the bar. Apparently, her dad had owned the bar for decades, and was one of the first establishments in The Lanes, before there were tall buildings everywhere. She and her siblings had started the garage next door, and got lazy with the naming hence the one letter off theme.

"And you," She says as she takes out her straw and points it at you. "Your'e probably the owner's kid, right?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Your company is Solomon Construction. Your last name is Solomon."

"How'd you get my last name?" You cock your head to the side as you ask.

"You literally gave us your ID earlier."

"Oh... Yeah I did do that." You manage a laugh and grab your glass of wine, only to find it empty. So you grab the wine bottle you and Jinx (Powder?) had decided to get earlier in the conversation, and top up your glass. You gesture to her glass, and she lifts it up. She's gotten a little wobbly and a bit of wine spills on the table. The both of you snort and try to gather napkins to wipe off the wine.

You check your watch again. 11:38 PM

"Damn, it's getting late." You say.

"It's pretty early in bar time." She looks around the bar, and you do too. There's a bunch more people around now. When the hell did they get here?

"When did all these people get here?"

"Literally while we were talking."

"Huh."

"Like I said, early in bar time."

"But it's late in Solomon time, also I'm pretty fucking sloshed." Come to think of it, if you turn your head a bit, the room tilts.

"Ya know, you have a tendency to like, do a tunnel vision thing, ya know?" She gestures at your face with her hand, making little circles with it.

"A what?"

"Like... You focus on me, and you didn't notice everyone else come in."

"Well that's cause you're pretty." Did you just call her pretty?

"Did you just call me pretty?" Oh, guess you did. Whoops.

"Did I just not?" She grins. She seems to like grinning a lot.

"You got a pretty face on you too, Solomom." You laugh.

"Did you just say Solomom?"

"Did I just not?"

"Okay, okay" You say as you shake your head. "We're... We're both done." You lift the glass of wine to put it away, only to realize that it's empty. "Oops."

"Damn, did we really drink all of it?" You turn the bottle over for good measure.

"Yup."

A rogue hand suddenly takes the bottle from you.

"Okay, that's enough for both of you." It's Vi, stands for Violence, or Stupid, according to Jinx. She puts down a glass of water for you and Jinx. "Drink."

"Okay, yeah." You take the water and down it, while Jinx makes a face at her glass and pushes it away as you hand Vi your credit card. She scolds Powder for a bit before walking back to the bar. The latter sticks her tongue at he sister.

Eventually, Vi comes back with your card and a receipt, and offers to call you a cab.

"No thanks." You say, your words still a bit slurred. Vi shrugs, and walks back to the bar.

"So how're ya gonna get home?" Jinx, whose face is now on the table, asks.

"Mmmmm dunno. I don't live here." She looks up and slams her fist on the table.

"What? then where the heck are you gonna go?" You shrug.

"A hotel or something."

"You can stay at my place if ya want." You shoot her a look.

"D'you invite all your customers to sleep over at your place?"

"D'you drink with all of your mechanics?"

"Touche."

"Are you a serial killer?"`

"Are you?"

Now it's your turn to slam your fist onto the table. A few bar patrons look at the both of you.

"Touche!" If you were a little bit more sober, you would've noticed Vi face-palm from the bar.

"Look look look, we'll set up a No Funny Business rule." She uses her fingers for air quotes."

"Agreed."

"Like... Murder funny business, or... funny funny business?"

"Funny funny." You mull this information over. Well, as much as your inebriated brain could mull over something, and then nod.

"Mmmmkay, no funny bussiness."

"Agreed."

You two were halfway through Jinx's doorway when that rule was thrown out the window.

Needless to say, it was a pretty great weekend.

[beepbeepstop]

Daddy Diaz

Summary: You’re the teacher of an eight year old girl named Diana Diaz. Pairing: SingleFather!Oscar x Teacher!Reader POC Visuals Warning: If you are not a POC (specifically black women) some things mentioned/said may offend you. All things said in reference to PWOC (people without color) can be proven true. PWOC heed at your own risk lol.

I grabbed all my supplies out of my car and began to walk towards Brentwood Elementary (ik its not creative). As I heard my heels click and clack against the freshly cleaned tile floors of the hallway I thought about the long unnecessary conferences I would be having with my students’ parents. The principal mandated that all teacher must have face to face conferences with parents to discuss the progress of the students. I say that is useless because I had already held a parent teacher conference last week, but the principal only wants us to re-hold (is that english??) the conferences because of the observers that are supposed to be visiting. 

“Ms. (L/N)” 

A scratchy voice boomed through the hallways. I turned to see that it was Mrs.Adams the 4th grade history teacher. I turned to face her with a half hearted smile.

“Good morning Mrs.Adams. Can I help you with something”

“I just wanted to remind you that the observers were coming today and I was wondering if you were going to fix your hair”

She said this with a look of distaste.

“I don’t know what you mean Mrs. Adams. Can you be more specific as to what is wrong with my hair” 

I was biting my tongue trying not to waste any of my energy on this white lady’s shenanigans.

“I mean it’s just so unprofessional. Did you forget that the observers are coming today, because I don’t think you would’ve come to school consciously with your hair looking like that”

The more she talked the stronger I had to suppress myself from unleashing a whole world of hurt upon this white lady. She knows what she’s doing. She wants me to act out in front of the guests and parents. She’s had it out for me every since I transferred into the history department. It’s pretty obvious what her problem with my hair or should I say her problem with me is. Just before I could say something I felt a strong somewhat reassuring hand land on my shoulder. Just as I turned my head to see the owner of this reassuring hand a deep commanding voice began to softly echo off of the walls of the hallway.

“Don’t you think it’s pretty unprofessional to comment on a co-worker’s appearance” 

A tall Latino man wearing grey coveralls with a name tag that read Oscar spoke.

“I wasn’t making a comment on her appearance i was simply making a suggestion. I’m entitled to voice my opinion, don’t you have some floors to clean” Mrs. Adams glared at Oscar with a condescending tone.

“Keep your opinions to yourself, nobody cares for what you have to say. I’m actually here for the parent teacher conference, but i don’t know about having my child in a school with such a racist bitch like you” he glared back at her.

Mrs.Adams’ jaw dropped. She had just insulted a parent this could be the end of her career. 

“I definitely hope yo ass aint Ms. L/N because then I think we might have a fucking problem”

“Actually I am Ms. L/N. If you follow me I can lead you to the classroom and we can begin the conference” I spoke up as I politely pushed Oscar away from Mrs. Adams.

As we walked away from Mrs. Adams Oscar sent her the evilest stank eye I have ever seen. I would personally never want to be on the receiving end of his glances of disgust, because if looks could kill Mrs. Adams would drop dead in the blink of Oscar’s eye. 

I fumbled with my classroom keys as I attempted to make small talk with Oscar. 

“Thank you for intervening Oscar. It’s too early for me to handle her” I said with a hand gesture in her direction. (i didn't know how to describe the specific hand gesture but if you know you know) 

“No problem Maestra, but how you know my name? Did we fuck?” he smirked.

I quickly opened the door and replied with a swift No.

“Then how you know my name Oscar Morenita “

“Your name tag. Your name is literally plastered across your chest” 

“You checking me out Maestra” He stepped closer to me and stared at me playfully.

“Maybe” I matched his playful energy and smirked at him. 

I know i’ve been gone for a long ass time and this is hella short, but I just wanted to show y’all i’m still alive cuz some of yall seemed a lil worried. Tell me if I should turn this into a mini series✨

[slipping-through-my-fingertips]

Can you do #14 for the meet cutes?????

Hi, anon! Yes, I certainly can...

Send me a meet-cute and I'll write Klaine

14- They cover the small amount of change you are short on for a purchase.

Kurt is digging through his bag for those loose pennies he knows are in there. Likely sitting together at the very bottom laughing at him. It’s what he gets for picking up spare change in the parking lot of Lima Mall. He’s holding up the line and about to just give the cashier another dollar to cover the 17 cents of change. Apparently, it’s too much to ask to be able to pay exact change for his medium, iced, low-fat mocha. 

Seems like it’s just one of those days when everything goes to shit. 

It started this morning when Kurt literally fell out of bed. Tangled in his favorite fluffy blanket, which had twisted around his ankles in the middle of the night, he reached to shut off the blaring alarm clock, and instead of finding his hand on the nightstand to steady himself, he found himself flat on the hardwood floors of his bedroom. 

When he went downstairs, Carole and his dad had left just enough coffee in the pot for him. Despite it having sat for a good ten minutes, Kurt still managed to burn his tongue on it upon his first sip. Hence his want of an iced coffee this afternoon. No chance of being burnt. 

After scorching his taste buds, Kurt had gotten dressed in coveralls ready to head over to the garage—he offered to help out over spring break—when he noted a sticky note on the counter as he was grabbing his keys. 

Kurt, 

Take the day off, we got it covered

Dad

Slumped down on a bar stool, Kurt decided he might as well cook a decent breakfast. He had planned to grab whatever the garage had out before getting his hands dirty. Usually, someone got doughnuts or bagels. A breakfast sandwich sounded yummy. He started with an English muffin in the toaster, bacon in a pan, and cracked his eggs into another. 

When the toaster popped, the English muffin was a shade too dark and the bacon wasn’t crispy enough, but at least the eggs were cooked. 

With a deep sigh, Kurt put his plate away and went upstairs to change into some real clothes. He slid into his dark denim skinny jeans before bending down to tie his boots. The sound of ripping echoed off his walls. No, this wasn’t happening. A few inches long right down his leg exposing his lavender boxers. 

Trying to find a bright side to ripping his favorite jeans, Kurt decided he was in desperate need of a mall trip. That was how he’d spend the rest of his day. 

Now he was standing in line trying to pay for coffee before venturing off to find new jeans and couldn’t find any change. Seventeen cents. He found a nickel and dime easily but those last two pennies vanished. 

Just when Kurt’s about to hand over a dollar bill and apologize, the person behind him offers up a couple of pennies. 

“Thanks,” Kurt says, turning around. 

And oh my god…he swallows hard. 

The boy looks around his age, impeccably dressed in a blue polo and slightly darker colored chinos, boat shoes with no socks. Curly hair gelled down and bright hazel eyes filled with laughter. 

“Thought I’d give you my 2 cents.” 

And a dorky joke, who was he? And was he single? Because Kurt was ready to fall head over heels. 

The cashier interrupted with a cough and his receipt. She indicated Kurt could wait at the other end of the counter for his coffee. That was that, the beautiful boy behind him stepped up to order and Kurt was left to wait for his drink before disappearing into the ether. 

It’s not often Kurt hopes to be waiting on coffee but today he’d give anything for the barista to move a tad slower. He’s watching the cute boy hand over cash when Kurt’s order is set on the counter. 

Would it be weird to wait around for another minute or two just for the chance to talk to the boy again? 

Yes, it would be, Kurt decides. With one last look at the boy, Kurt walks back into the mall. 

He’s on a mission to find new jeans after all. In and out of stores, getting distracted by wonderful window displays, and an empty mocha a half-hour later but still no jeans. Where is a fashionable gay man in Ohio supposed to find decently priced but still sinfully delightful skinny jeans? Clearly, Kurt was going to have better luck thrifting than at their only shopping mall. 

Still, this store had a decent clearance section and Kurt Hummel was never one to turn down a sale. He checked his phone and it was almost lunchtime. Plenty of time to hit up a Goodwill or two before he needed to be home for dinner. 

As he scans the clearance racks, Kurt bumps into someone. 

“Oh sorry!” 

“Sorry!” 

When he looks up it’s the boy from the coffee line. 

“Hey, I know you,” Kurt blurts, “thanks for the two cents.” 

The boy chuckles, turning slightly pink in embarrassment.

“I’ve been that person digging for change, I hate feeling like I’m holding up a line so I thought I’d help you out.”

“I appreciate that,” Kurt says. 

“I’m Blaine by the way.” 

“Kurt.” 

“Nice to meet you.” 

They’re silent for a minute. It’s a tad awkward. 

“Sooo….” Blaine says, “if that corny line earlier didn’t scare you off, I’d love to get to know you better…over lunch perhaps.” 

Maybe Kurt’s luck was finally turning around. 

“I’d love that.” 

Together, they went to the food court.