#What is the difference between overalls and coveralls? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pinkrelish · 2 years

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶On Monday, he was a ghost. By Friday, he was a man. Saturday night? He was the unintentional third wheel to your and Adrie's Trick-or-Treating antics.✶

NSFW — slow burn, fluff, flirting, mutual pining, reader wears eddie's jacket, light angst, 18+ overall for eventual smut, drug/alcohol mention/use

chapter: 4/20 [wc: 10.8k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 4: Ghost Days

Eddie went through Monday like a ghost.

A spectacle in his youth, now a specter. A phantasm phasing through walls. Not a hello, nor a goodbye. Existing in the corners of the room, watching. No attention on him, just working, and thinking. Tending to his dying garden of thoughts when the sun didn’t shine. Moving around you, and the tug of your gravitational pull, with your gaze firm on the desk in front of you, not on the haunt who brought this upon himself, and hurt you in the process.

“You okay, Eddie?” his uncle asked, running a hand up and down his back. “You’ve been staring at that pot of boiling water for ten minutes.”

Eddie fluttered his lashes at the bubbles bursting on the surface. “Sorry, got a lot on my mind.”

————

Tuesday, Wednesday he was a full-body apparition.

No morning smiles, no afternoon laughter, but a single sentence.

“Oh!” You hugged the files to your chest, not knowing Eddie was passing in the hallway to break room right as you were leaving Mr. Moore’s office. Several of the papers crinkled from running into him. Your eyes were screwed shut, expecting an impact. All signs Eddie was real; a thing of worth, a precious brick wall who cupped your arm when you stumbled, who slotted his thumb in the crease of your inner elbow. A chest to brace your hand against. Fingers grasping his dirty coveralls. He was there. He caught you.

And the next day–

“Eddie?”

Your sudden presence scared him. He slammed his black spiral-bound notebook shut and kept his palm over the devil-horned skull he drew on the front.

Sat alone at the table to eat his lunch, the low drone of the vending machines camouflaged the sound of you approaching, and he was too absorbed bin what he was writing down to notice you had entered the break room. Did not realize how close you had gotten until the heel of your palm pressed into a particularly sore muscle in his back from how you steadied yourself on his chair as you bent over.

You picked your gaze up from the notebook, and landed on his eyes. Even if you didn’t mean to, the knot between your brows relaxed the smallest degree–a nearly imperceptible amount–but with how he drank in your appearance, he detected it.

“You wrote O2 for this part here, did you mean X2?” you asked, referring to the invoice in your hand. He watched you bring the question to life. Voice and lips working together to create a lullaby for the unrest in his head. Breath cooling the wet trace of his tongue on his lips.

He was desperate for interaction. He knew. You were too. You just hid it better.

“Eddie,” you reminded him, keen on the five-o’clock-shadow peppering his cheek from neglecting a shave.

If things were different, would you have caressed your thumb along the grain? Would you have pushed his bangs off his forehead, run your fingers through his hair, and pressed your lips to the delicate curve of his temple? Would you tell him he was a good dad for fixing the water heater again, and getting his daughter to school on time, even when he wanted to do nothing more than lay on the couch and cry?

“X2,” he confirmed, “Yeah, I meant X2. Sorry.”

————

Thursday? He was corporeal.

Carl returned from his stay-cation. Stay-at-home-vacation, also known as his wife’s birthday.

He was taking a break in his story to microwave his lasagna when the fading voice of a customer went out the front door, ringing its chime. There was shuffling in the lobby. A backpack being unzipped.

The microwave beeped, and Carl picked up his container with the tips of his fingers, bringing it over to the table, where he sat in the chair facing the hallway.

You walked in with your lunch container, saw the back of Eddie’s head, and walked out.

Carl watched Eddie’s demeanor wilt at the swift exit, gaze falling to the corner of his eyes in acknowledgement of where you were just standing. Face blank, except for the heavy depression drifting his eyelids half-closed. Posture sagged more than normal.

“Is Adrie excited for Saturday?” Carl asked, keeping the conversation light, because boy, did he know that heartbroken look.

“Mm?” Eddie jerked his head up, attentive. He processed the question, and crowded his packed mish-mash of leftovers to his chest, chewing his horrible attempt at replicating Wayne’s pork chop supper as he talked, “Oh, yeah, yeah. Free candy and seeing her friends? She’s been bouncing off the walls all week.” He stabbed an undercooked carrot and brandished it with the same motion he rolled his eyes. “But,” he drew out for comedic effect, “She wanted to dress up as a bat again. Great! Same as last year. No problem, right? So, I take out her costume from the closet, have her try it on, and you know what she says?”

Carl shook his head with a slow grin stretching across his face.

“It’s not pretty enough!” Eddie ate the carrot. “She never wants to be a princess, but all her friends do, and now she’s gotten it in her head that if her costume doesn’t have the same glitter and pizzazz theirs does, it’s not good enough.”

He laughed, “My boys were easier. When they fought over who got to be Donatello, and who got to be Michaelangelo, all we had to do was switch mask colors and weapons.”

“See, they knew what they were doing with the Ninja Turtles, man. Easiest costumes to reuse.”

“Exactly.”

“Now I gotta figure out how to navigate telling her most of the stores are sold out of everything.”

“It’s a toughie, that’s for sure.”

The conversation ended with two knowing nods, sharing the same shallow gripes about parenthood. Carl finished his meal first, and left the table to return to work, while Eddie picked away at his, submerging himself in his thoughts.

A recent drizzle cast Hawkins in a misty haze. The drink machine clicked, and the steady hum rose to a higher frequency. Footsteps squeaked down the hallway. The nervous hand of a once confident woman gripped the doorframe, and she leaned into the room, speaking in a small voice, “I can help.”

Eddie perked up. Head visibly lifting, shoulders drawn back and down. He didn’t respond. Not until he turned around in his chair, and you persevered through the awkward amount of eye contact; wide and unblinking.

You reiterated, “I can help fix up Adrie’s costume so it’s glittery.. Or whatever you said.” Totally not eavesdropping. You waited for a response. “More her style,” you mumbled, filling the void when he forgot what words were.

“Y-Yeah! That–Uhm.. Yeah, you have that kind of stuff?” He clutched onto the back of his chair, knuckles white, bending the plastic from the weight he leaned on it. His face was of equal intrigue, eyes pleading for more interaction, lips parted for more questions, eyebrows pinched in and upwards to show his humility. His thanks.

In a valiant effort for normalcy, you started with a self-deprecating comment, “I mean, it’s not like I was performing on Broadway with a whole costuming department’s worth of tailors, you know. Bobbie and I had to pull all-nighters to finish our own shitty ensembles, so I’m pretty handy with a glue gun, and my sewing skills are serviceable, if I do say so myself.” You stepped further into the break room to put your unfinished lunch in the fridge. “I have tons of fabric and crafting supplies left over. Seriously, I don’t mind spicing up her costume if you wanna bring it by tomorrow. I think I can make something she likes.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to–”

His mouth sealed itself shut at the incremental smirk sneaking its way across your face.

“Well, you see,” you said, exuding pure charisma, “Now you’ve gone and phrased it in a way which enacts my policy. I have to say ‘yes.’”

Given his current state, Eddie was little more than a mess of nerves; sleeping in uncomfortable positions that had his bones aching due to Adrie’s fear of monsters under her bed sending her to sleep with him on the couch; along with the general up-and-down rush of stress when he passed by your desk, and nothing came of his sad glance in your direction.

Unfiltered relief slipped past his chapped lips as he looked up at you, “Thank you.”

————

By Friday, he was a man.

Eddie skipped his morning cigarette. He wore his lucky Metallica t-shirt under his coveralls. Adrie had to beg him to release her from his powerful hug this morning, flailing her arms and pretending to choke, until the other parents in the carpool lane stared, and he relented.

He walked into the garage’s lobby with sure steps, making a quick stop behind the receptionist desk to drop off a neatly folded pile of black fabric. Then, he looked down the shadowed hallway leading to the lively break room, and he breathed deep.

You were framed by the doorway. Your back was to him, bent over the sink, just beginning to wash the coffee pot.

One thing was for certain.

If anything ever happened between you two and it didn’t pan out, work would be weird. That much he learned this week. And that was just another reason to keep his boundaries up. Another good fucking reason to apologize, turn around, and go back to being cordial work buddies, and have that be the extent of your relationship.

And yet, here he was, flirting with the ring of fire he lit himself.

Crossing his arms, he squeezed his biceps, and leaned his shoulder on the wall outside the room, mind racing as he organized the same speech he rehearsed hundreds of times this morning. “Can we talk?”

Now, the unfortunate thing about rehearsing one-sided speeches was the unpredictability of which you’d follow the script.

“If you’re here to apologize–again–for spending a runtime of 83 minutes with me because it was just that awful, I’ll scream.”

Eddie had to manually force himself to relax out of his wince. “I deserved that,” he exhaled, speaking to himself only. He deserved your stern tone, your angry way of scrubbing the pot. The stiffness between your bunched shoulders. The tight annoyance in your throat from the way he treated you.

Yesterday was a nice break from the tension, but he hadn’t yet made amends, despite the olive branch you extended to him in the form of fixing up his daughter’s costume. “What if I apologized for something else?”

“The jury’s still out on that one.”

“Good enough,” he said. “Listen, ah, I’ve been reflecting on what happened Friday, and I realized I came across like an asshole,” –He shut his eyes, and shook his head– “I was an asshole, whether I meant to be, or not. I mean, yeah, I had a lot on my mind, but that doesn’t justify my behavior in blowing you off like that, especially when you were nothing but nice to me when you saw they set us up together, and you just wanted us to have a good time.. I can tell I hurt your feelings. I’m sorry.”

You rinsed out the soap suds and filled the pot with water, turning off the sink.

There, he apologized, now he should turn around, and go back to being cordial work buddies.

But he was so fucking stupid.

Committing to something he may come to regret, he entered the break room and stopped when he came to the counter beside the sink, bending sideways to rest his arm there, and kicking out his hip. “I didn’t even get to tell you how pretty you were.”

Immediately, you angled yourself away to pull the coffee machine towards you, and poured water into the reservoir.

Eddie let out a groan as his brain caught up with his mouth. “I meant are. How pretty you are..” he spoke at your back while you still refused to acknowledge him. “I meant to say how pretty you are.”

His stomach seized. None of this was going how he planned, so.. fuck it. “I think you’re really pretty right now, actually.”

Nothing seemed louder than his quick breaths, and heart beating in his throat.

The longer you went silent, he considered getting a new job bagging groceries for the supermarket they built on Cherry Street last year.

You slotted the pot onto the hot plate, and opened the cabinet in front of you, blocking his view of you as you reached for the coffee container. But when you closed the door, he had to clench the tremble of annoyance out of his hands.

Try as you might–lips scrunched to the side, cheeks sucked in, making a big production of counting the spoonfuls of grounds you scooped into the filter basket–your smile was obvious. Obvious, and irritating; leading him on as if his advances were a worse offense than his attitude after your date.

“Fine, fine,” you sighed like you were doing him a favor. “I guess you’ve appealed to my ego enough for me to forgive you.”

“You’re the absolute worst person I’ve ever–”

“Yeah. But you think I’m pretty.”

“Whatever,” Eddie grunted, tugging a strand of hair over his mouth, embarrassed to hear his own honesty repeated back at him. “So we’re good?”

You had a sarcastic statement ready on your tongue–he saw it in how you narrowed your eyes, and tipped your head. A loftiness to the way you regarded him; all pompous and teasing and so sure he was being silly and asking questions for the sake of bothering you.

Then, you witnessed his shy quirk, and were instantly disarmed.

“Yes, Eddie, we’re good. The best of friends.. And are you sure you weren’t disappoint–”

“If you’re about to ask me if I was disappointed that you were my date for the third time, I’ll scream.”

You laughed. You tore your gaze from his fingers playing with his curls, and closed the lid of the coffee machine, but in doing so, you turned away, and you both discovered a subtle truth about him.

Eddie was the type who wanted to witness the full scope of the joy he brought on others. When he made someone laugh, he wanted to drink it all in. He wanted to observe the exact way they smiled, how far back they threw their head, if their eyes closed with mirth, if tears sprang, if they giggled to appease him, or if they were expelling a cathartic release. When he made someone happy, he leaned in to hoard the revelry, collect it, and share it. Seeking out their gaze, mirroring them to experience their pleasure first-hand. It’s what made him happy.

It caused him to encroach on their personal space subconsciously, pursuing the pride, and sense of achievement he felt when he accomplished making someone else feel good.

He stood close to you. Very close to you, studying you unabashedly, basking the pure unadulterated validation of making you smile.

You idly scratched your thumbnail over a stain on the counter. “Pretty, huh?” you mused quietly. “Is the hoodie really doin’ it for ya?” It was once black, now sun-faded and overwashed. There was a logo on the front for a random high school. Your high school, Eddie assumed. Clearly, a beloved item, and one you wore when doing craft projects, as indicated by the layers of glitter, dried paint, and burn marks from a hot glue gun marring the sleeves.

Still leaned over, he dropped his hand from his mouth, and swept his hair to one side, exposing the length of his throat. “Maybe it is.”

“Shut up,” you snorted.

“The frumpy ‘just rolled out of bed at noon and forgot to get milk at the grocery store’ look really gets me going.”

“Frumpy–?” In the middle of pressing the ON button and shoving the coffee machine into its place on the counter, you went to pin Eddie with a glare for laying the teasing remarks on thick today, but your attention drifted. Your focus found his eyes shining with slyness, and dropped your gaze to the crook of his neck, where you spied something dastardly. “How does this keep happening? Do you not look in a mirror?”

As you nagged him, you reached for his coveralls. Somehow, the collar kept managing to tuck itself on the inside, and you were at its beck and call, slipping two fingers underneath to unfurl it, coaxing it out in a long stroke over the peak of his collarbone, and down the slope of his chest, over his heart. Longer than two beats worth. The fabric was quite rolled up today. You had to slide along his lucky shirt to find the pointed end, and pull it out, laying it flat. Smoothing down the edges, and securing his tan work jacket over it. Patting them both to seal the kind gesture.

From his periphery, he watched you tend to him, and his smirk grew.

Fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

“Guess I don’t look at myself too often,” he said, eyeing your hands lingering on his person–flattening your palms over his pec for a prolonged moment before retreating–and he nodded for you to follow him out of the room to your desk. He needed the extra seconds away from you to rid himself of his smugness.

Talking about the costume, he rounded to the taller side of your desk, while you sat opposite him in your chair, “Luckily it was big on her last year, so it still fits. It’s just a little short in the legs.”

“Gotcha.” You shook out the bat wings and rubbed the fuzzy material of the suit between your fingers. “Does she have room for another layer underneath? Warm pajamas, or something? The temperature’s supposed to drop tonight. I think a cold front is coming in.”

“Yeah, there’s room.”

“Okie dokie.” You cracked your knuckles and looked at him expectantly. He raised his eyebrows. You raised yours higher. You made a more obvious face. He made a confused one back at you. “Dude, leave. I can’t work with you watching me.”

He curled his lip in a mocking sneer, and went to work in the garage, where–ironically–you could watch him.

~~~

Turns out, you were serious about the double standards of your relationship.

Eddie caught you sneaking glances in his direction whenever he’d wheel out from underneath a car, or when he was bent over the engine of a truck, but as soon as he took his sweet time locating his favorite socket wrench from the tool cabinet (that most definitely wasn’t already in his back pocket), you blocked your project with your body and moved your lips like you were telling him off.

And when he knocked on the glass to gesture for more clean rags from the supply closet, you scrambled to hide the felt shapes you were cutting out, and sent a tube of glitter paint rolling across the lobby.

Even as he relaxed into the plush seat of his car after a long day of work, and the rumble of the engine soothed his mind from exterior worries, his eyes traveled from the bright red stop light swaying in the wind, to the custom crimson interior of his Dodge Omni Shelby, to the pile of black fabric next to him.

He drove with one hand on the wheel. He could just.. take a peek at what the hell you were doing all day.

“Don’t even think about peeking! It’s a surprise. I want Adrie to see it first, and then you can look when she’s trying it on.”

He snatched his wandering fingers away from the bat wing and cupped them around his inner thigh–his usual place for resting them.

~~~

When he opened the door to his trailer, the little lady of the hour came running at him full-speed.

“There’s my facehugger!” Eddie announced through his laugh, stepping backwards to soften the blow of her enthusiasm. And yeah, maybe he shouldn’t refer to his daughter as a parasitic alien from a horror franchise, but the clinginess comparison was accurate.

Adrienne made her immediate attempt to climb him known–clutching onto the hem of his work jacket, and shaking it. “Daddy!” she demanded, making grabby hands at him.

“Hold on, hold on.” He knelt to her level, and promised to pick her up in a few minutes if she exhibited an ounce of patience. “You remember that nice lady from work you drew pictures with?” Thinking about it, she twisted back and forth with excess energy, and gave a big nod, pressing her fingers along her smile. “Well, she heard your costume wasn’t up to your standards, so she wanted to make your Halloween extra special this year. She worked on this all day..” he said slowly, drawing out the grand reveal.

True to his word, Eddie unfolded the outfit he had clutched under his arm, and held it out in front of him, showing it to her first and watching her reaction.

Uncle Wayne opened the bathroom door in the midst of tidying up his beard, dragging a towel around his neck to wipe away the excess shaving cream. Interested in the commotion, and especially curious as to why the person he referred to as his own granddaughter was currently running around the coffee table screaming at the top of her lungs, he questioned anyone who could hear him, “What’s all this goin’ on?”

“The lady at work made my bat costume pretty–Look!” Adrie tugged on the bottom of Wayne’s flannel.

“I see,” he said, vaguely recalling the young receptionist she was referring to. He raised his eyebrows at Eddie. “She did all that?”

He shrugged. “She’s nice.”

Too excited, Adrie unzipped the back of the jumpsuit and climbed in while Eddie held it open. Still, he did not peep at the finished product. Not until every foot wiggled out of the appropriate amount of leg holes, and every sleeve found a hand.

Adrienne walked backwards into the living room and struck a pose with her arms out, flapping them.

Wayne ‘aww’d and clapped.

Eddie sat back on his calves, mouth slightly agape.

You really were nice.

The costume was magnificent. The black fleece was painted with thin strokes of white paint to give the illusion of hair, with special attention around the turtleneck collar where you glued white faux fur into a short mane. Cleverly, the pants were extended with layers of iridescent tulle that caught the light in shimmery rainbows, disguising how short they were on her.

The wings themselves were works of art. Showstoppers. Instead of hanging limp from under her arms, you had used flexible plastic to create bones, giving them some structure.

They were exactly what Adrie wanted. Silver glitter served as a mere backdrop to the myriad of foil stars glued to the fabric. As one’s attention panned downwards, they grew in size and frequency, until there was a disco ball amount of flash and pizzazz. To top it all off, there were felt clouds and crescent moons dangling on strings from the bottom. The stuffed and stitched celestial motifs swung with Adrie’s grand gestures.

And as if that wasn’t enough, Wayne picked up two little black triangles that bounced onto the carpet when Eddie revealed the costume. “C’mere, Adrie,” he said, holding them up to her head. “You’ve got two little ears on barrettes, too.”

“Jesus,” Eddie exhaled.

His next breath caught in his throat. He discovered why you snipped the fabric where it was previously attached to the suit, and gave it an extra bone structure to wrap around.

It was so he could slip his arms around his daughter, and hug her tight without any impediments. “You like it, yeah?”

She threw her arms around his neck, and imbued all her surprise into her little voice, “Are you kidding me? It’s my favorite–the best costume ever! I love it.”

“We’ll have to find a way to thank her when I see her on Monday.”

The hug lasted until Eddie’s knees ached. Still, he clung to her as one clung to a lifesaver. He passed his palm over her hair. He stroked his thumb on the back of her head. He pressed her into the darkness against his throat. He squeezed her to conceal the way he shook. If anyone were to notice the secret of his actions, it would be the person who raised him as one would raise their own son.

Wayne walked over and ruffled his nephew’s hair.

~~~

Later, after Adrie had gone to bed, Eddie confessed, “That took me so off guard, I almost cried. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s done for me, or Adrie, in years.. I mean, outside of everything you do for us. And Steve, too. I just didn’t expect her to put that much effort into a costume.. Or to care that much.”

“I know, son,” Wayne said, patting him on the knee as they sat on the couch, lit by the muted earthy tones of the local news channel. “She seems real nice.”

————

It was a howling Halloween night.

Eddie pulled off the main road into the nice neighborhood on the west side of Hawkins. Everyone knew you went to the rich houses on Halloween, as evident by the agonizing minutes it took to find a place to park, while Adrie was oblivious and just wanted out of her car seat.

Crowds swarmed the doors handing out the best candy. Groups of friends gathered in the streets. Kids ran down the sidewalk to ogle the elaborate decorations. “Is the entire population here, or somethin’?” Eddie grumbled, shifting the gear stick into park.

Once Adrie was out, he asked her, “Do you wanna stop by a few houses on the way to Steve’s?” She eyed the rowdy bigger kids pushing each other on their way up the driveway next to her, and she held out her hand for Eddie to take as a silent answer.

When she was with her friends, she was outgoing, but in this unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers in the dark, she needed her dad to guide her.

“You’ll feel better once we have some candy in your bucket,” he promised, swinging the orange jack-o-lantern pail back and forth.

In reality, Eddie dreaded this part. Hated it. Going up to houses, knocking on doors, glancing away the second they were answered. He dressed differently. Tried to blend into the back of a big group. Kept his gaze on his daughter shying behind his legs, speaking for her, and hoping her cuteness distracted the adults from taking too close of a look at him. Shuffling away before they could recognize him, remember his last name, and make that same face they always did:

Barely concealed disgust.

Eddie held her hand for several streets until she felt comfortable going up to doors without him, thanks to finding a friend or two from preschool. Those parents were easier. Some he’d gotten to know over the last two years due to birthday parties and school events. Yet, they returned his greeting out of politeness. Waited on the sidewalk like him, but at a distance; in a circle, not inviting him to their grown-up talk.

That’s okay. He felt less alone when Adrie came jogging back to show him her candy. And although she insisted she was a big girl and didn’t need to hold his hand anymore, she walked as if she were glued to his side, three steps to his one stride.

“I don’t need you, Daddy.”

“Yeah, you do.”

On and on, they made their way up the streets, and came upon a white-picket fence dwelling sat modestly between two larger statements, right as the porch light turned off and a group of people left the home.

Fate was a funny thing.

Steve held the gate open for Nancy and whispered something in her ear as she passed, earning a withered glare before she turned and the moon caught the smile flitting across her lips. Behind her, dashing from the shadows, was their son. He held his plastic sword high above his head, and gave a brave battle cry against the person who emerged next.

Robin, also dressed as a pirate, jumped from the top of the stairs and clashed her sword with his. They tussled on their way to the fence, stopping when she feigned a dramatic death, and had to chase down her tricorn hat from rolling into the street.

Eddie’s hand was sweating–Adrie said so with a yuckiness to her words as she ran to join Steve’s son and their group of trick-or-treaters, leaving him behind to stare. And stare. And stare. And try not to burst into a grin.

He wouldn’t have to wait ‘til Monday to thank you.

Step by step, you helped their daughter teeter down the stairs. Patiently holding her hand, encouraging her to the bottom, and brought her to Steve, who was getting out the stroller from the trunk of his car.

“No! I’m–I.. Will walk,” their little girl finished in a disjointed manner, engrossed by the array of bedsheet ghosts, lispy vampires, and corn-syrup-blood-covered werewolves moving around her.

“Yeah, okay, kid,” Steve said sarcastically. “You wanna be a big girl and walk on your own, but we both know after two houses you’re gonna be begging for the stroller.”

Like most girls, she brushed him off, and turned to you for assistance with her jacket. The puffy orange snow suit hindered her movements; her walk was a waddle, and her arms stuck out from her sides helplessly. She was warm, though.

You, on the other hand, were dressed in what Eddie could only call an adult onesie. A fitted one; hugging you in places he shouldn’t notice it hugging you while you were squatting down to zip up her jacket, but a onesie, nonetheless.

“There we go.” He heard you say from where he stood, roughly a car-length away, lurking in the darkness like a creep.

But he’d have to find a way to repent later. His fate tapped you on the shoulder, and his heart set the tempo for his plucky courage’s passion.

“Adrie!” you squealed at her. She greeted you with equal fervor. “Your costume is so, so pretty!” Without a second thought, you bent over, put your hands on your thighs, and asked while waggling your eyebrows, “Wanna fly?”

“Yeah!”

Adrie unveiled her full glittery wingspan, and you clasped her under her arms, instructing her to jump. Up she went. You raised her above you to your full extent and spun in circles. Giggly, messy circles. Showing her off for everyone to see. Parading her for the slew of compliments coming from onlookers. And when your strength tired, you brought her to your hip, and held her tight, still spinning. Dizzy, silly twirls. Savoring the closeness of your foreheads almost touching.

You slowed to stop to scan the scene around you, searching the shapeless night. “Where’s your dad, hmm?”

She pointed behind you.

Over your shoulder, your gazes connected in between a family dressed as Peanuts characters.

Eddie raised his hand, but forgot to move it back and forth.

Your face brightened. The love you showed Adrie reflected in your eyes when you found him. Smiling bigger, somehow, at his stupid wave when he remembered how to perform one.

“Nice costume,” you teased, sauntering up to him with a swagger. “Light-wash blue jeans instead of black. How different.”

“Yeah, and what are you? A cat? So creative.” He meant it as an insult to your gray onesie with a tan belly, but he was the one who followed your quick glance at his stupid hand still waving like an utter moron, and he stuffed his fists in his pockets, wondering if he’d ever recover his dignity after this encounter.

“Uh, I’m clearly a mouse,” you drawled, inclining your head to show off your rounded mouse ears on your headband.

Adrie copied your exact tone and inflection to serve as a gut punch, “Yeah, Daddy, she’s clearly a mouse.”

His greatest fear mocked him. With Adrie on your hip, and your two matching smirks taunting him with your cheeks pressed to one another, he shook his head, and pinched his eyebrows up in worried exasperation. “I don’t need two of you.” A revelation he should take more seriously as you looked at Adrie, and you both giggled. Tips of your noses grazing. Hugging you around your neck. Touching your animal ears and calling you ‘Miss Mouse.’ Thanking you for her costume, and you asked, seeking her genuine approval as you fitted one of her tiny hands in yours to stretch a wing out.

“You like it?”

“I love it!”

You swayed with her in the new position, resembling two people slow dancing despite there being no background music other than shrieks of laughter, and a chorus of “trick-or-treat!”

Yeah, this feeling in his chest was evolving past the boundaries.

Shit.

Eventually you had to support her with two arms again, thus ending your waltz, and you remembered Eddie was there, and Eddie remembered to direct his tender expression at his daughter.

“So, really,” you said, nudging his white tennis shoes and giving him a once-over, “Who’re you supposed to be? A grumpy guy who couldn’t be bothered? A wet blanket?” You leaned in. “Don’t tell me you’re dressed as a stick in the mud for the second week in a row. That’s just gauche, Eddie.”

Adrie latched onto one word specifically. She pointed at him with all her might, and declared, “Grumpy! You’re Grumpy.”

“Great,” he groaned. Yet, there was not a trace of annoyance tugging at his lips–just his tongue poking through as his daughter reduced him to an unpleasant character. “Tell her what movie you watched this morning.”

“I watched Snow White with grandpa,” she said. You gave an understanding ‘ahh.’ “Grandpa is Sneezy. Daddy is Grumpy. You can be..”

“I’ll be Dopey.”

Eddie snorted, “Fitting.” You cut him a soft frown, and he shifted his focus back to his daughter. Eye contact with you was too difficult. He felt exposed. Vulnerable. A single longing look gave away too much, he had to put an end to them. “You think I’m Grumpy, huh?”

She jabbed her finger at him again. “You! Most definitely are.”

The immediate flash of devilry in his eyes was her only warning. “What’d I tell you about pointing at people?” He snatched her wrist in a weak grasp, and lunged at her, snapping his teeth, pretending to bite her finger off with a smile. She scream-laughed and buried her face in your shoulder.

“Aw, it’s okay, Adrie,” you consoled her, “I always knew he was a biter. Lemme count your fingers, ‘nd make sure you have all six.”

“Six?” she cried.

Besotted by your willingness to indulge his humor, Eddie lost track of his inhibitions, and acted on a deep-rooted impulse from his youth, when he was more expressive of his urges. He crept in close while you were busy doting over Adrie, and lowered his face to where he was allowed to whisper in a deeper register, “Hey, no picking on my kid. That’s my job.” To make matters worse, he reached for your side, aimed for your ribs through the single layer of fleece, and prodded. It was a success. You yelped. You were ticklish. Another trait to add to the list of things he shouldn’t know about you.

Steve’s bafflement pierced the rambunctious Jedi fight happening in the middle of the road, “Are you three gonna catch up, or do I need to make you get in the wagon?” he threatened. Sure enough, he was hauling a red wagon of someone else’s kids behind him dressed as various dinosaurs, complete with masks.

More parents had joined the trick-or-treat cavalry, milling about on the sidewalk, waiting for Adrie before they knocked on the next house. You recognized this quicker than Eddie, and offered to take her by, well, simply walking off with her in your arms.

For the first block he was alone with his thoughts. Watching you go from house to house holding his daughter’s hand. Sitting back while you took over for him, and lessened his burdens. When it was you crouched next to Adrie, smiling up at the adults with buckets of candy, they didn’t see Munson. They saw a cute little girl and her supposed mom participating in innocent fun.

“Hey, bud,” Steve said, swinging around to his side, tossing an arm around his shoulders, and shaking him. Eddie could sense the subject he was about to bring up from his consoling squeeze alone. “So, how goes the whole ‘not falling in love’ thing?”

Eddie had his correction at the ready, “I said ‘attached,’ not ‘fall in love.’”

Steve gave him a long, hard stare.

“And I said it was Adrie I was worried about getting attached.”

Steve deepened his stare.

Eddie looked away, then back, then away again. He was quiet for a few strained moments, shuffling his feet while the kids thanked a woman dressed as a witch for her cauldron of candy, and his passing gaze lingered on the Mouse holding his daughter’s hand.

You glanced in his direction, where he stayed on the outskirts of the group, and suppressed a giggle. You were listening to Adrie and her friend’s story about mermaids with full interest, asking questions, and gasping at the information they were disclosing, acting as if they knew the world’s secrets and deemed you worthy of its knowledge.

It was sweet. Endearing, adorable, attractive in the worst ways, and exactly the sort of fun Adrie craved that he couldn’t provide when he was overworked, tired, and stressed to the point of crying frustrated tears.

Except, of course, those bad days had become less and less since you started working at the auto shop..

Eddie surrendered. “How does it look like it’s going?”

“Like you're happier when she’s around,” Steve replied.

“Real good that’s doin’ me.”

They had reached the end of the street, and waited to cross at the stop sign.

Steve shrugged, and said, “I think it’s cute you finally found someone to have a crush on–Ow!” He clutched his side where Eddie elbowed him.

He hissed, “Not so loud,” even though you were several feet away, and talking animatedly with Robin.

“Oh, c’mon, it’s precious.” Lifting his chin, Steve alluded to the way you picked up Adrie and herded the other children across the road like sheep. “Y’know, you were right about her saying ‘yes’ to everything. Her and Robin have some wild stories. Did you know someone came up to them at one of those sleazy hole-in-the-wall bars and asked them to perform on stage–like, obviously meaning you know, stripping–but she accepted his offer, and that’s how they started doing stand up together? Yeah, they just went up there and started shouting jokes at all the drunks. Dodging beer being thrown at them, and whatever. Sounds fun.”

“Yeah, real fun,” Eddie muttered with a horrified expression, wondering how you managed to survive this long with your absurd policy.

“Anyway,” Steve surmised. “I think you should go for it.”

The mood shifted instantly. Eddie’s face went lax, aside from his flared nostrils. He spoke firmly, “I can’t do that, man.”

“Why not?” When Eddie refused to elaborate with a scornful shake of his head, and sudden tenseness to his jaw, Steve softened his nature. He tightened his hold on him in a make-shift hug, and requested, “Talk it out with me. Tell me what you’re going through, and what you want out of this, because you sure do flirt a lot for someone who keeps denying themselves a real relationship.”

“I don’t know what the fuck I want anymore,” he exhaled in mind, body, and spirit. Just a complete depletion of all his anxieties under the weight of Steve’s arm.

Eddie ran his tongue along the back of his bottom teeth while he observed you crouch in someone’s driveway to make a case for Halloween themed pencils, and how they may not be exciting as candy, but there were bats on them, and Adrienne liked bats, therefore, the pencils were cool.

The anxieties were replaced with the blooming realization of how deep his crush went, and the stab of reality pierced the good feelings.

“There’s a million reasons why it’s a bad idea,” Eddie sighed, and gathered his thoughts to list them out as succinctly as possible. “Uh, let’s see. First of all, we’re coworkers, and this week has already been a real glimpse into how this would all pan out if I took the risk and things didn’t work out.”

Steve rocked his head to the side. “Fair, but it’s pretty obvious she likes you too, with how she flirts back.”

“Perfect segue. Okay, so maybe she does like me. But does she like me? And does she like Adrie? Can’t have one without the other. And, man, she made it clear at the movies that she doesn’t even ask if her dates have kids, because there’s never been a second one–a second date, I mean. She’s that casual about it.”

“Why not try something casual, then?”

“When have I ever approached anything casually in my life?”

“You raise a good point there,” Steve answered, shivering at the sudden uptick in frigid gusts biting through his thick jacket.

You and Robin pulled off to the side so your gaggle of kids could take turns stomping on crunchy brown leaves before they blew away.

Ensuring they were at a good distance to watch, but not be overheard, Steve kept his voice low, “What else?”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Gee, I dunno, how about the fact she hates this place, and is going to leave eventually? Hate to break it to you, but even if she likes me like that, and even if things worked out for a while, I’m not ready to explain to Adrie why the nice lady she loves so much doesn’t come around anymore.”

“So make her stay around.”

“What?”

Shrugging with that stupid grin of his, Steve explained, nonchalant and lackadaisical, “You said she says ‘yes’ to everything. So just ask her to stay.”

Leaning into it, Eddie pulled an overjoyed face, and threw his arms up, gesticulating overdramatically. “Okay! Yeah, you’re right. I’ll just ask her to marry me, then she’ll be forced to stay in this hellhole with me forever. What a grand idea!”

Steve’s full-bodied laugh sent them both doubling over. “Okay, stud, going straight for marriage. It was just a suggestion that maybe she’s over the crazy party-til-dawn city life, and is looking for.. whatever it is you’ve got.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” he said with more than a hint of sarcasm. Easing out of his glare, he broke himself out of considering Steve’s validation as anything more than an audible feedback loop of the things he wanted to hear, and not the facts he needed to hear. “Doesn’t matter. She could like me, she could not. She could want kids, she could not. She could stay, she could not. I still have to see her every day, regardless. There’s not a lot of other options out there for me, and even if she didn’t want the city life anymore, I don’t think she’s gunning for the single dad whose biggest aspiration is getting a trailer of his own, so his uncle can have his room back.”

Cynicism, cynicism, cynicism. Denial.

Steve’s mouth twisted, and he became serious. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“It’s true, though.”

Ahead, a guy caught Steve’s attention and signaled that it was his turn again on wagon duty, which was the perfect excuse to make his exit because you were standing on your tip-toes, seeking out Eddie in the sea of Stormtroopers. You spotted him and waved with childlike glee, making your way over.

Steve’s hair fell into his eyes as he drew Eddie in. “One last piece of advice,” he began, gaze set on the side of his friend’s face, accepting not even he could win over his attention when it came to existing in the same universe as you. “If you’re serious about not pursuing her, maybe stop looking like you’re gonna blow your load every time she smiles at you.”

Eddie sputtered, “Jesus Christ, dude.”

With that last remark to recover from, Eddie was forced to rearrange his pale face into anything remotely appropriate while Steve got to stroll away as if nothing happened.

“Uh, hey,” he said, eyes scared wide, and showing too many teeth in his tight smile under your scrutiny.

You brought your hand up, and stepped into him until your chests were nearly together. Cocking your head, you pointed at something over yonder, and slowly, unwillingly, he stopped analyzing the nuances of your face to look at the group of kids at the house across the street. One kid in particular. Dressed in black, and with six additional arms dangling from his two human ones.

You couldn’t keep the sheer triumph out of your voice, “That spider is certainly bigger than your palm.”

He winced as if your joke physically pained him. He curled in on himself, and depleted himself of oxygen to groan a long, contemptuous, “So lame,” stressing both words to exaggerate his misery. Shaking his head as if his grievance was anything other than a ploy to discover what it felt like to reject reality, and satiate the envy he felt when Adrie got to be this close to you. Foreheads almost together. Noses almost grazing.

As if your hand trapped between your bodies was anything other than a ploy to rest the backs of your fingers on his chest as you laughed. As you leaned into him. As you tugged on his sweatshirt underneath his leather jacket, begging him to give in until, at last, he broke.

Eddie laughed with you, recklessly.

“Did you really abandon my kid to run over here and tell me that?”

“She’s safe with Bobbie,” you promised in a whisper. “And yes, I did.”

Leaf-shaped shadows danced across you both, cast from the orange glow of the streetlamp above. Autumnal bare branches, electric wires, swaying in the wind, revealing your faces in quick pieces; a wrinkled forehead here, contours of a nose there. Flashes of a puzzle you both collected and assembled in the scarce seconds before it was time to move on to the next house.

You crossed your arms tight over yourself and walked beside him, smiling at the ground.

“How’ve you enjoyed your Halloween experience?” he asked, swinging his arms wide to gesture at Hawkins in general. “I’m sure it’s a lot different than what you’re used to.”

“Oh, I love it!” you said in earnest, surrounded by all the things you’d only seen on screen before. “It’s just like the movies. Trick-or-treating, little kids running around in costumes, the weather, the decorations. It’s surreal. Usually I’d be drunk in a nightclub by now.”

Furrowing his brow, he looked upwards as if he were reading a nonexistent clock, and asked with a twinge of parental disapproval, “Isn’t it, like, 8PM?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, unperturbed. Too impassive to put him at ease. Like you were lording a secret over him. “Don’t act like you weren’t the same before you had Adrie.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Harrington’s been telling me stories about you,” you informed him, and rolled your bottom lip inward, biting it as he zeroed in on your cheeky grin getting a rise out of him.

He squinted at you. “Calling him Harrington, huh? Well, aren’t you two chummy.” Mentally rolling a Nat 20 for Stealth, he lifted his hand to your side without you noticing. “What’d he tell you?”

You made an ‘X’ over your mouth with your fingers.

The perfect position to leave yourself open for attack. I mean, the opportunity presented itself so splendidly, how could he not? How could he resist the greatest temptation?

His impending threat continued to go undetected. Giving you one last chance, he dipped his face to yours–relishing how the apples of your cheeks intruded on your eyes when you smiled this hard, forcing them to scrunch closed–and he asked, “What did he tell you?”

“I’m not repeating!” you giggled.

Oh, you were giggling all right. And in the next gasp, you were squealing, jerking away from him.

Eddie was merciless. His large hands proved too difficult to escape. He poked, prodded. Tickled you until his every, “Tell me, tell me, tell me,” was met with your, “Stop, stop, stop, please!” You fought him fruitlessly, grappling at his forearms, and failing to do little more than slip against his sleeves. He cackled at you. Mocked you with the tip of his tongue to his teeth each time you thought you got away, only to be caught again. You resisted. Resisted. Persevered in the face of evil–knocking your forehead into his chin on accident. Eddie thought you would’ve caved by now, but it was him who stopped; and not because of the unwanted attention your antics drew.

You pried him away from your ribs.

“You’re freezing!” Eddie’s mood changed on a dime at feeling your frigid fingers on top of his. He shifted so that he was enveloping your hands, encasing you in his warmth in exchange for the cold seeping to his bones.

“Yeah,” you answered sheepishly.

“You made a fuss about reminding me to put Adrie in extra layers, but you’re not wearing a jacket?”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, distorting your grin. “Yeah.”

“You’re irresponsible, you know that?”

“Yeah.”

“A real bad example.”

“Yeah.”

“An absolute pain in my ass.” Eddie grinned with you. Eyelids falling half-closed. Searing your skin with his heat. Enacting the subtle art of asking questions for the sake of prolonging the moment. Not like it was obvious, given you readily accepted his fingers curled around yours with a coy glint to your gaze. Totally discreet as he let go to shrug off his jacket and hand it over.

Obliging him, you raised your eyebrows. “What a gentleman.” You slid your arms into the sleeves, snuggled into his blanketing warmth, and tugged the collar over your mouth, rendering yourself to a pair of pretty eyes.

He was a goner.

“Tell me what Harrington said.”

“Okay,” you indulged him, breath coming out as a fog. “He said..” You were back to giggling behind the collar, remembering the story. “He said one time at a party there was this big watermelon keg he spent all day working on.” Eddie pressed his lips into a line, knowing where this was going. “He scooped out the innards. Spent painstaking hours cutting up fruit to put inside it and soak up all the rum. And then you wandered in. Already hammered, and you, you–” You snickered and peeled back the collar. “You knocked it over within ten seconds of walking in the kitchen, smashing it everywhere like a crime scene.” You hid behind the collar again, then opened it, voice gone high-pitched with suppressed laughter. “And he said you panicked, and tried to scoop it up in your hands and put it in people’s cups!” More laughter. “And when they said ‘no’ because it was fucking gross floor juice, you tried eating all the fruit yourself.” One more hide and seek of the collar as you lost it in a final squeak, “And you cried!”

He waited until you calmed down to show how thrilled he was in a deadpan tone, “Great, great. I’m so glad he told you that one.”

“It certainly conjures an image.”

Thinking the conversation was over, you took a step in the direction of your trick-or-treat group, but something caught your eye. You tilted your head. He mirrored you, tilting it the same way. You shuffled to the side. He turned with you, more, more towards the streetlamp. Curious as to what you were doing, and why you were staring at his chest, mouthing something.

“What’s Corroded Coffin?”

“Uh–It’s–It’s nothing,” Eddie said a bit too loud, wiping at his sweatshirt like the self-printed logo was a crumb he could discard himself of.

Fortunately, a wild Adrienne appeared, interrupting him from making a bigger fool of himself. “My hands are cold. Can I have my gloves?”

Eddie glided his hands over his stomach out of habit, and realized his pockets weren’t there. Without warning, he grabbed a fistful of his jacket, and yanked you to him, spinning you, manhandling you. Forcing you to catch yourself on his braced muscles–shoulder to his chest, hip to a place he’d rather not dwell on. Not gentlemanly at all.

You released a string of flustered remarks, and pushed away from him, making it appear to be a benign accident in front of his daughter.

“Here,” he said to Adrie, holding the black mittens above her head, out of her reach.

She jumped, and jumped, and stomped. “Daddy,” she whined.

Dusting yourself off from the previous encounter, you agreed, “You’re so cruel, bullying your own child.”

“She knows the magic words,” he led on.

“Please!” She jumped higher, huffing and puffing.

“And?”

“And thank you!”

He relented. His evil reign came to an end. First, the tickling, now, the height advantage over a little girl. He gave Adrie the mittens and she stuck her tongue out at him before bolting off faster than lightning.

It was you turn to poke a stern finger into his ribs. “Awful, awful man,” you scolded him. Unlucky for you, he wasn’t ticklish there, nor was he ashamed of any of his actions these past few minutes. He might come to regret them when you move back to New York and these were the memories he was left with, but he wasn’t ashamed.

No, not ashamed to overstep the boundaries he resurrected in pursuit of happiness. If only a little. Enough to feel the thrill of danger, but remain safe inside his walls.

Casual.

You liked casual.

Fuck what he said earlier. He could keep it casual. He could handle innocent flirting without it getting out of hand.

“We should probably catch up with everyone before they send Scooby and the gang to search for us,” you said, walking backwards, throwing your thumb over your shoulder.

He snorted. “Terrible joke. Are you sure you were a comedian?”

You answered him with two middle fingers, which you promptly put away. Adrie came running back after just one house, hunched over, dragging her feet; hair a loose mess, barrettes dangling. Displaying all the theatrics of her father.

She made grabby hands at you. Not him. And before he could voice his hurt, you scooped her into your arms, and she rested her chin on your shoulder.

“Hey,” he complained weakly, walking up to you from behind so he could take the treat bucket before it spilled, and talk to Adrie directly. “You told me you were a big girl who could walk on her own, and didn’t need to be held.” Her refute was a babbling grumble laced with fatigue.

Speaking to you, he said, “You don’t have to carry her.”

“I don’t mind. I think they only want to do a few more houses before we head back. Do you wanna join?”

At first, Eddie was quiet, and you spun in a slow circle to see him, catching the end of his wistful expression at the rich neighborhood and its opulent houses owned by affluent people who heard a rumor or two about Munson, and decided he wasn’t worth more than their wary glances when his kid played with theirs.

“Nah, I’m good over here.” He ran his hand over the back of Adrie’s head, and relaxed his stance, staying put.

“Let me help ya out there, Cool Guy,” you said, motioning for him to bend to you. You picked a narrow, apple-red leaf out of his tangled hair, and flicked it away.

“How long has that been there?”

Shrugging your mouth to disguise your beaming grin, you feigned ignorance while walking away. “Who’s to say?”

To further exacerbate his embarrassment into genuine distress, after two Mummies answered the door, and you were coming down the sidewalk, he saw you pull off the side for Steve to pass with the stroller, and you laid your cheek on the top of Adrie’s head. You whispered something in her ear. Something most intriguing, on account of her coming to life, no longer sleepy. The exchange was short; her asking a question, and you answering. But as you nodded with heavy-lidded eyes, and she pressed her fingers to her smile, you both turned, looked at him, and giggled.

Eddie gulped.

He didn’t like this new feeling of you two sharing secrets about him. Especially ones he couldn’t threaten out of you, no matter how many times he put his hands on your ribs.

~~~

As the evening came to a close, Eddie carried Adrie on his hip while you lugged her bucket of sweets. The plastic handle bowed from the weight of the candy, and your fingertips went numb from the burden. And maybe for your troubles, you took a piece. Or two.

The group petered out until it was left to the core of you returning to Steve’s house. The goodbyes were truncated due to the three sleepy kids in tow. You handed off the bucket to Eddie, first asking if he was sure he didn’t need help getting to his car, and when he assured you he was fine, you squeezed Adrie’s ankle and whispered a goodbye she didn’t hear, too lost in Dreamland and drooling on her dad’s shoulder to know the night was over.

He said he’d see you Monday and parted ways, walking in the opposite direction, and you waited at the white-picket fence gate for Robin to stop swapping sneaky peeks at Steve and Nancy to join you.

“Bobbie, I know you don’t want me driving.”

She made eyes at Nancy one last time, and descended the porch stairs at a leisurely pace. “Yeah, we can leave.”

~~~

The drive home was a welcomed respite after the constant overstimulation. The radio was set to low, the heater caressed warmth along your wind-burnt cheeks, the headlights spotlighted deer grazing on the sides of the lonely road. Robin kept lofting soft smiles in your direction, which you returned.

Parking at her parent’s house, you closed the car door behind you, hearing it echo off the forest. The rocky driveway crunched under your shoes on your way to the door. The porch light was on, elongating your shadows across the ground, following you step by step.

“So, you and Eddie, huh?” Robin asked, turning the key in the lock.

You snapped to attention, schooling your features from giving you away. “Just friends,” you reiterated at her suggestive tone. “Just friends and coworkers. He’s dropped more than enough hints that he’s not looking for more.” You finished in more of a sigh, “Not with me, anyway.”

“Is that so?”

Her lopsided smirk struck undesired hope in your heart.

Robin pushed open the door, and curled in her forefinger to tap her knuckle on her upper lip. She dropped her gaze to your general upper body, and hummed, “You, uh.. forget something?”

You looked down at yourself. “Oh–”

————

Eddie dropped his shoulders back expecting to feel something slide down his arms. Then, he patted his chest, and realized. “–Shit.” He stared at his coat hook next to the front door where his leather jacket usually hung, and reprimanded himself in a soft laugh. “Guess I’ll have to get it back on Monday.”

“How much candy can I have?” Adrienne asked, dumping out her bucket on the coffee table, and scrambling to pick up the Tootsie Rolls that fell on the floor. She began sorting into piles of most favorite to least favorite.

“One,” Eddie stated sternly.

He turned on the TV and sat on the couch, decompressing while Adrie cackled over her hoard like Smaug. He should’ve known something was up when she wouldn’t stop giggling to herself.

His suspicions were answered when she turned around to show him the one piece she picked out–perfectly following his rules.

“Uh, absolutely not!” Eddie swiped it from her. “Seriously, who gives out full size Snickers bars on Halloween?”

“But, Daddy, you said!”

Leaning forward to rest his arms on his thighs, he demanded her attention before the pitiful crocodile tears started. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, and reached past her for a mini Musketeers to compare. “You can have the Snickers, but you have to share half with me. See, half is still bigger than one of these little ones, so you’ll still be coming out of this a winner. ‘Kay?” She nodded and went to grab it. “But! I don’t want any tantrums when I tell you it’s bath time.” Again, she agreed and he reeled the candybar back into himself, away from her quick fingers. “And! You have to brush your teeth after.”

“I will,” she promised with a deep frown.

“And you still have to go to bed at the normal time.”

Pushing her hair out of her face, she dropped her head in another big nod.

Eddie was satisfied and went to give it to her. But another thought crossed his mind–one of true luxury–and the allure of the idea proved too good to ignore.

Much to her dismay, he snatched the candybar away before she could get a good grasp on it, and he deepened his voice to show he was serious, “And I want to shower. Ten minutes. Uninterrupted.”

She groaned at the ceiling at his never ending list of rules. “Fine!”

~~~

Riding his tingly feel-good high, Eddie opened the bathroom door to let the steam out, and toweled off the fog on the medicine cabinet mirror. He took out his comb and scissors, and sectioned out his bangs.

Brunette snips of wet hair fell in triangles onto his white tank top and around the sink. It wasn’t a noticeable trim, just enough to get them off his eyebrows when dried.

With some amount of clarity, he looked his reflection in the eye as he evened out the cut, and didn’t know if he should be wearing the faint smile he did, or if he should listen to his better judgment, and stop making modifications to his barriers.

He knew you deserved a better life than what Hawkins could offer, but he could enjoy the innocent workplace flirtations, right? They were harmless. Little compliments here and there to boost his confidence. That’s all it was. It’s not like you actually found him attractive, right? You’d been on enough dates to know what to say to a guy. That’s all.

Though, he did need to remember to have a talk with Adrie about setting her expectations and understanding Daddy could have friends without it leading anywhere, and that was okay.

“–some.”

Jumping, Eddie said a prayer that was not righteous, and thanked the stars he was not trimming closer to his eyes when his daughter scared him. “Jesus Christ, kid,” he exhaled.

“Handsome,” she said again.

Taken aback, he let the flattery sink in. Besides last week at the movies, he didn’t get compliments often, or at all, and to receive one now while his thoughts circled back to that familiar sting of ugliness with the way other parents looked at him tonight, Adrie’s kindness matured his grin into a real smile.

“You think I’m handsome?” he asked in a mild, quick laugh. “That’s sweet.” He leaned over the sink and worked on his bangs again, snipping up into the strands between his fingers.

“Miss–ouse does.”

“What–?” Her words were incoherent from her fingers stuffed in her mouth. “Did you say..?” He dropped the comb and scissors, and spun around, eyes set on her. Adrie released a high-pitched shriek and ran from the doorway. “Wait! Adrie! She said that? She said that about me?” He chased her into the living room, dodging back and forth around the coffee table. Duping left, right. Catching her as she made a quick escape to her bedroom. “Tell me what you said? Did Miss Mouse say that about me? Did she call me handsome?”

Try as he might, threatening to tickle her until she repeated herself, Adrienne refused to tell him the secret you whispered in her ear.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #mechanic!eddie #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #the yes policy

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t4tails · 10 months

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Since we already got Venus and Spectra's finalized looks, what's your top ten of the Core Signature dolls?

No Clawd and Deuce don't count, boy dolls are fake.

okay here we go. warning that i start out as a bit of hater. teehee

10. spectra. im sorry, but the way its just a worse version of an already released collector? the complete lack of anything new fashion wise? this is nothing. the clear hands and feet are cool, but i heavily doubt a later deluxe version of her in a different line isnt going to blow this out of the water. absolutely nothing of interest is going on here.

9. toralei. between dumbing down g1s mean girl personality, AND giving her long hair? horrible. at least give her pants. she looks like the protagonist of a disney channel original movie. camp rock lookin ass. shes the most plastic & playline looking, easily.

8. ghoulia. the fashion, with the exception of the hunk of textureless fabric that is her skirt, is great. i love the jacket especially, and making her a skater is so fun. however the base doll is SO UGLY!!!!! whyd they give her BROWN EYEBROWS? an unflattering green skin tint? obscenely light pink lips? none of it matches. i hate it. i take offense to it

7. clawdeen. kind of the reverse of ghoulia where the base doll is mostly really nice, except the pastel hair 😒, but the fashion is... a mess. the first red flag of them not having a direction to take her style. the shoes and coveralls give sporty, but then theres the gold jewelry and fur coat...? at least her freckles are cute.

6. draculaura. big step up! from here on its mostly my personal taste. this is cute! im generally just of the opinion that most draculaura dolls are very similar, and its not a style i tend to LOVE, so they blend together for me. cool heart and bat motif, just not for me specifically.

5. cleo. the really busy patterns kind of drag it down, but overall shes really pretty and definitely reads pharoah! her makeup especially stands out. so nice

4. lagoona. some people dont like g3 lagoona. i am not one of those people. her pink and blue serves, sorry. she always has such nice makeup, not to mention a fun sporty mermaid motif. im a lagoona lover

3. frankie. the icon, the myth, the legend. already giving us transgender swag in their very first doll. could have a little more detail/accessories, but their color scheme is so nice i cant complain.

2. venus. FINALLY. DIFFERENT HAIR! she is so fucking beautiful, i need her. her color scheme? great. her fashion? fantastic. her accessories? so fun. dont look at her weird fucking pet

1. ABBEY. her comfy swag. her beautiful colors. shes so peak and she does it so casually too. the light freckles are so adorable, and shes able to look cold and welcoming at the same time. slay

#og post #ask #theunstablejester

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bokettochild · 11 months

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Opera house AU, had a Flora and Four idea

Based on my own experiences, Flora, Groose and Four all apprentice under Grandpa. Flora's an electrician, Groose a carpenter and Four a plumber. However, they all have plenty experience in each other's trades (I was an electrician for years and learnt plumbing and carpentry as part of the job)

They all passed their theory tests, they just need the hours working and thanks to the Opera House there's never a shortage of it XD

Grandpa gave Four his old plumbing wrenches, Groose his toolbelt and Flora a set of overalls. She's always wearing them

I don't think they're all apprenticed officially, but I like the idea!

None of the three have official areas of expertise. Four's nickname is more because he's mastered four different fields (plumbing, electric work, programming, mechanics). Groose is more their special effects and stunt gear worker, and tends to work more as a set builder and stage manager (preparing the stage between scenes and working the ropes and whatnot for special effects or stunts while four handles lights).

Groose was an accident for the opera. Sky brought him over one day because he needed to pick something up from work and Groose just wandered around and got himself lost before proceeding to insult Legend and Twilight's set design. Both were insulted, but then Groose showed them how to make it better and the affront was quickly fixed, especially when Groose lifted the set for them to help them move it. Twilight asked him to apply for work on the spot and Groose did. Despite is attitude, Grandpa is fond of him. The redhead doesn't like being tied down and isn't much for having others tell him what to do, so he's not exactly apprenticed, but he does appreciate having Grandpa come around and review his creations and help him at times when even Four is stumped (or too tired to properly think).

Flora's parents are under the impression she's working at the Opera as an actress, and because she's underage she can't technically be apprenticed anywhere without parental consent. Four took her under his wing to teach her what he knows though so she could still work at the opera but do what she loves instead of being on stage, but I feel Grandpa probably helps out where he can. Purah and Robbie (the basement gremlins) have a claim on her as well, but it's generally agreed that no one lets it out of the opera house itself that she's not acting, so there's no official papers or studying going on, just unofficial (Wild's trying to help her apply to classes online though). She appears in minor roles on stage to keep up appearances but prefers this arrangement.

Grandpa doesn't work at the opera of course, he runs a bike shop in the downtown district, but he visits. He definitely supplies the techs with materials, and he 100% got Flora her first set of coveralls (and got a huge hug in return). He and Four adore Flora and are hoping to officially apprentice her once shes of age, but she doesn't want to have to leave the opera, so Four's probably going to become her mentor, with Grandpa offering assistance and advice whenever they need it.

That said, Grandpa practically sees Flora as his bonus grand-daughter, and they spend her days off together a lot and get coffee or go bike riding. She doesn't own a motorcycle, but Four and Grandpa let her ride with them and she loves it! Grandpa's working on a battle-jacket for her as well, but shhhhh! she doesn't know, it's a birthday present :)

Flora's own father (Rhoam is a business tycoon) doesn't make much time for her, so he has no idea he's almost been replaced by a common bike mechanic and his weirdo grandson. Her mother has a bit of a clue, but she doesn't mind because it means Flora is out of the way and safe so she and Rhaom can work without worry that their daughter is up to no good behind their backs.

#lu flora #lu four #lu groose #opera house au #grandpa smith #linked universe #linkeduniverse #asks and answers

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myers-meadow · 3 years

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Michael Myers x OFC/You

Title: Care for me, part three :)

Part 1 is here.

Part 2 is here.

Part 4 is here

Part 5 (final) is here

Warnings: possesive, obsessive behaviour. References to murder. This part has smut, 18+, very explicit, fem genetalia. Light choking, stalking.

Contents: Rob Zombie’s Michael Myers in Smith’s Grove meets a new therapist with unconventional ideas. Michael x you/ Michael x OFC. ‘You’ have a name, since i find y/n somewhat awkward for longer fics.

I am also proud to say that this fic is heavily inspired by Michel Foucault’s ideas on power difference and how this comes into play in the anti-psychiatry theories. Also: 80s fashion. I’d love to have feedback on this.

Halloween came. Trick or treaters visited and you had to restrain yourself from eating too many sweets. Sleeping had not come easy the night before, so eventually you got up early to read. The entire day, and you felt yourself become tired so early, you kept coming back to the last pages of the journal. That journal was another thing you and Michael shared. Each time you looked at the drawings there was that pang of desire, like a punch to the gut. It was rather evident murder had not been the killer’s intention, but there was something in his eyes, something in the way he touched you, that scared you.

The news was even worse. Hearing the newscaster interview police, ‘suspect still at large’, ‘several presumed victims in the Haddonfield area’, ‘armed and dangerous’, has never felt as complicated.

On the 2nd of November, most news outlets had calmed down. Dr. Loomis, however, had been contacting you twice a day since Halloween. He thought you held the key to figuring out where Michael had gone. Each time you just repeated yourself; that he had not told you anything during his sessions, nor drawn any locations that he could have gone.

.・*・.・*・.・*・.・*・.

That night, you woke up around three. It wasn’t unusual, but you got up to use the restroom and drink some water, before trying to go back to sleep. Settled back in bed with the soft nightlight still on, your eye fell to the old journal again. It did not leave you undisturbed, rather; the thought of his hands, his eyes boring into yours, what he imagined of you were enough for that particular feeling to arise in your belly. For something to warm you in between your legs. Without noticing the figure that loomed just beyond the light, on the edge of the doorway, you bit your lip and grabbed the journal. It fell open on the pages you had intended to see with ease, as if it had become a habit already. Trying to lay on your side comfortably, you flipped through those last drawings of Michael’s. Seeing his hands grip your hips, being underneath him, tasting his lips – how would he feel? His warmth, that much you remember, but it had been short lived. You touched your lips. He really seemed to focus on your face in the drawings. And he had touched you with such reverence… The floorboards creaked behind you, and you turned around. It was him. You snapped the journal closed like a child doing something naughty. The knife glinted in his hand. His overalls were messy with dirt and most likely blood, the mask was splattered with it too. A gash in the fabric over his chest spurred you into action.

“Michael- are you alright?” you ask, raising yourself up until you’re standing in front of him. With unsure hands, you trace the rip in the coveralls. His hand is quick to cover yours. He nods in answer to your question and you sigh in relief. “Have you taken a shower since you left Smith’s Grove? It’s late, but you can’t sleep with- I’ll show you the bathroom.”

Avoiding looking at the stains any closer, you squeeze past him, and expect him to follow you to the bathroom. You hang a clean towel on the radiator – would he need two with how huge he is? The shower cabin took up most of the space in the bathroom, its glass doors textured and matte, only allowing an outsider to see colour and vague shapes.

“Warm is on the right, cold on the left,” you idly explained, if only to shift your attention from his penetrating gaze to the world around you. “Do you need anything else? I have a spare toothbrush too, if you need. Just use whatever’s in the shower.”

He made no move, nor uttered a word. Just observed you as you moved awkwardly around him to get the extra toothbrush from the cabinet under the sink. There was no space to bend down to get it, so the two of you were touching. He felt hot, even through the thick material he wore.

“I’ll leave you to it,” you said, putting it down by the sink and moving to leave. A firm hand stopped you. Slowly you looked up at him, one hand on the door. “Want me to stay?”

A nod. You crossed your arms and leant against the door. “Alright, is there anything else you need?”

Slowly his hands moved up, each movement deliberate, as a cat trying to silence their movements through the bushes when they spotted a mouse. He pulled the zipper down, taking unnecessarily long. Then it hit you. Did moving hurt him? Was that why he was behaving like this?

You pressed a hand to your eyes, massaging your temple shortly, before reaching out and taking over from him. The denim was hard with caked blood in some spots as you pushed the fabric off his shoulders. He wore a black shirt underneath, which was not doing much better. It was torn around the gash, which you could see clearer now. It was indeed a wound, with mean jagged edges. The bleeding had stopped, it was just a scab now.

“Your shirt seems to be stuck on the wound, I’m sorry if it hurts,” and with strange sensation in your stomach, you slip your fingers underneath his shirt to move it up carefully. His skin was so hot. He takes over and instead of moving it over his head, he splits it in two from the rip that was already there and drops it. His chest… Embarrassed, you pull your hand back, that still laid against his stomach. He was well-built, with a delightful softness over rippling muscles. Shoulders that were even broader now that they were no longer hidden beneath clothing.

You were about to offer to turn around, but he pushed the coveralls down, and his underwear with it in one fluid motion. Then his socks. Something even hotter hit your abdomen. His hands were on you before you could step away.

“Michael,” you said, firmer this time. “I’ll wait for you outside, find you something to wear.”

.・*・.・*・.・*・.・*・.

For Michael, this was his first shower that wasn’t in a shared space. This was your space and he was surrounded by you. Your smell, your soft towels, your choice in toothpaste, the water set to the temperature you preferred. He felt he could drown in it, as he drank the warm water as it rained down on him. His reflection in the foggy mirror unsettled him less than he expected. He smelled of your sandalwood bodywash, even used your shampoo with the sole intent of being more of you. His coveralls were part of your laundry pile. They would be washed with your detergent and perhaps softener if you felt generous. If Loomis were to meet him now, he would notice that the two of you had began to seep into each other. That he smelled of you now. That he had find a place among your things, as he belonged to you.

Michael’s pulse quickened. Only one last thing to do for the two of you to merge. To make you belong to him.

.・*・.・*・.・*・.・*・.

He came back after a good twenty minutes, leaving wet footprints on the carpet. You found a bathrobe that belonged to your grandfather, and a sweater from your dad – but looking at it now it wasn’t big enough. He barely shrugs on the robe, being more interested in crowding you back into your bed. It was a long twenty minutes, you had too much time to think about what you were doing. Being an accomplice in crime, that’s what you were doing. Assisting murder, resisting your civil duty to report on a murderer. Fuck, that was a lot. But looking at him, awkwardly tugging the still small robe over his shoulders, how could you turn him away? Would one extra night of his freedom change that much?

“Did you find everything okay?” you asked, holding on to his sleeves to keep yourself upright. Your legs hit the bedframe. Breath hitches, but you were unsure whose. His hand fell to your hip, warm and tickling. His fingers found the hem and trail under it, up your stomach. He smelled clean, mint on his breath, but still like him, masculine and your sandalwood shower gel. The urge to reach up and kiss him grew, but he still wore that blood-spattered, emotionless mask. His hand found your neck, thumb resting on the pulse point. Your breathing quickened. Slow and with controlled force, he pushed you on the bed. Sitting down, it took all you had not to look straight ahead at his cock. You folded your legs underneath yourself, looking up at him, then trailed a finger over his length. It’s an impressive size, although that is hardly surprising. His cock gave a little bounce and you moved back to make space for him on the bed. From down there, he seemed even more imposing.

The robe fell to the ground and he lowered himself down to the mattress, over you. The bed dipped underneath the weight, creaking almost dangerously. Daring to touch him, you laid your hands against his chest, feeling the slight fuzz of hair, his warmth, the muscles moving underneath as he touched you in return. Hand on your hip, pressing you down. He was so strong, he was holding back. For you? It was easy to give in then, to trust that he would be good. That he would feel good.

Something caught his eye however, it was the journal. He cocked his head to side, before throwing it to the floor. He smelled so strongly, of just him. You bit your lip, feeling flushed, feverish. He trapped your legs and straddled you, one hand moved up your shirt, the other found your lips. You opened up, gently biting his thumb. Even his fingers were thick. His eyes were intense as they were when he had you caged before, ferocious, unforgiving, glittering with dark intent. From just that, biting his nail between your teeth, the roughness of his fingers on your skin, you shifted beneath him, filled with a wanton need. How his eyes were always on yours, what did he see that you didn’t know? He smeared his thumb over your lips in a circle. Your grip on his arm turned urgent as you pulled him down to meet you.

“Michael,” you whisper, “it is forbidden, but I want you.”

That did it. With a snap the nightlight was out, large hands pulled your shirt from your body, tore your panties with a harsh snap. The darkness and heat was all there was. A third thump on the floor. Then his lips found yours, stumbling at first, but a hand on your throat forced your head so he could kiss deeper. His tongue exploring your lips, teeth, then met your own. His long hair was still wet, as you raked your fingers across his scalp, neck, shoulders. Soft gasps filled the air. Despite being inexperienced, he seemed to know exactly how to touch you to make you buck your hips up into his, to make you moan from the back of your throat. His chest moved along yours, feeling the bumps of each his muscles against your nipples.

Michael groped your breasts, circling the nipples, experimental. Swallowed up each sound you made. You arched your back to feel his chest against yours, nothing was separating you. So much hotter and broader and bigger he was, his hand pushed you back down, but relented and lowered his weight down until he covered you fully with his body. He leaned on his elbows next to your head, one hand pulling your hair, never letting up for air. His hot minty breaths made you feverish. His cock pressed harshly against your pubic bone and stomach, the pressure unbearable. There was little room to move, but you tried to touch him, feel more of him.

Harsh nips and bites that will leave a mark, slowly he reached down his hands to where you wanted him most. He traced rough fingers over your heat, finding it wet and sticky. Unable to suppress a moan, you bit down on his shoulder.

“For you,” you whisper. With some effort, you move your legs from underneath him so he was in between your legs. Grasping his velvet length, you guide him closer. His size and girth left you breathless with anticipation and fear. He bit at your lip, thrusting his hips blindly, before holding himself and pushed in properly. A scream died in the back of your throat, sounding more like a moan, mouth wide open in the dark. Michael let out a raspy groan, thighs trembling with the sensations of it. He stretched you painfully wide, but he was mercifully, cruelly slow as he continued to fill you. There was nothing you could do but take it. You touched your clit and it was electrifying. His hand returned to your neck.

“For me,” he growled in your ear, and pushed in as far as he could go. You grasped at the sheets, spreading wider to accommodate him. Teeth are at your ear, neck, chin, lips… Never before have you felt so full, so fully taken. With groans and whines, he moved his hips, slowly. His nails dug into your hips so harshly they’ll surely leave bruises. You gasped out his name. It was wonderful how he felt inside you. The slickness drawn out of you and back in, out and back in, made filthy noises, barely audible over your combined moans.

The movements grew faster. The bed creaked dangerously, but it seemed nothing existed but him and the way he made you feel. Through his groans, you thought you could hear him utter words, but you were too far gone to quiet your moans to hear him. His hands kneaded your breasts, before pulling you up to his chest. Crushing you to him with hands spread out over your back. You sought eye contact, and he was there, despite the dark. He was beautiful. Faster now, and the sensation was building. Blinding. His eyes were ferocious, unfair, unrelenting. His mouth opened in another groan, eyes fluttering closed. A sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. Bites along your jaw. The pitch of your sounds grew higher, breathier. He noticed, pushed you back down and moved into you harder, faster, keeping your hips in place with strong hands. Each time he pushed in, he hit that terrible spot inside that set your nerve endings alight with a blinding pleasure.

A cramp grips your feet as your toes curl involuntarily. Gasping out his name, and he crashed his lips to yours as you convulsed powerfully around him, gripping his arms, clawing at his hair. With similar stuttering movements, he came inside. Out of breath, he whispered something over and over.

“Mine, my Marion, all mine, all mine.”

He stayed like that for a while, inside, and you held him, his face in your neck as he peppered you with kisses. Tiredness overcame you as the sparks and peaks of the orgasm subsided. Slowly he pulled out, with a long, tortured groan. As if being apart now was too much to bear. Moving your legs was uncomfortable, they trembled like a new-born fawn. Michael sank beside you, pulling you to him, leg over his hips. A trickle of cum tickled out.

You pushed some strands of hair behind his ear to look at him. “I love how you touch me, I love touching you.” Your voice was raspy from before, and you reached over to drink the water on the nightstand. He took the glass from you when you offered and chugged it entirely. Settling back down, you let your fingers play with the soft blond hair on his chest.

He didn’t answer you, but rested his hand on the back of your head, and it felt safe.

.・*・.・*・.・*・.・*・.

In the morning, the bed was empty beside you. The sheets were cold. The art journal was open on the pillow, and you reached out to read it with sleepy, satisfied eyes. ‘I will keep you safe from cruelty and yearning’, a drawing of you, asleep, hair sprawled out over the pillow, resting on his chest, both necks speckled with dark markings. The other page had another sketch, of your body, and his fingers as they left bruises behind, and of his cock as it connected him to you. Written, very small, ‘only for me’.

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babblydrabbly · 3 years

Text

sunshine, rainbows, and lollipops | harley quinn x reader | oneshot

a/n - semi-dark fic? this one's more on par with how they portrayed belle reve in suicide squad (2016). reader is a way too over-powered metahuman but this is my sandbox and I had fun playing in it :)

harley quinn x gn!reader (w/ telepathy) - general - 2.4k words - warnings: language. canon-typical violence. blood. mentions of torture.

[ I do not give permission to repost my work anywhere. ]

You’re in love with the one-of-a-kind phenomenon known as Harley Quinn.

You push your mop and bucket down the halls, basking in the quiet.

It’s never fully silent down here. Not with the guards posted around every corner. But it’s heaven compared to upstairs. Upstairs, gen pop is where the thoughts and voices and overall despair never stops. You move your equipment toward Harley Quinn's holding area, making sure to stay outside the painted square on the floor where you aren’t allowed to get close to her cell.

Most people emitted only voices. Echoing thoughts that reached you in fragments. Incomplete pieces. Hate, anxieties and dread filled up your days when you weren't assigned cleaning duty down in solitary. When they offered you the position for good behavior, you had to conceal your excitement.

You've made a life of keeping your real powers to yourself. You ignored the thoughts that poured out of the people trapped in this shit hole, just as you had tried to out in the real world. —God forbid someone found out about your abilities while you were in here, in Hell Reve. You’d prefer not winding up under a scalpel, or with a power dampener around your neck 24/7. Or worse.

Harley has her back turned to you now. She's sitting on her cot, the sleeves of her orange coveralls off and tied around her waist to reveal her pale arms.

The guards in the room ignore you, their thoughts on other things. You mop the floor idly, careful not to draw attention to yourself as you gaze around the room in awe.

Most people emitted only voices. But Harley Quinn? Her brain was like a kaleidoscope.

They dance around her body and cell, as clear as day. Birds, flowers, and all manner of colorful things drift their way over to you, even though you usually need to be much closer to see someone's articulated thoughts. Especially as well as Harley seems to be projecting her's out into the universe. You can almost smell the fragrant petals of daisies and lilies as they float past you.

They produce sound and interact with one another as if truly alive. You've never seen something so bizarre, or so beautiful. Harley perks up when one of the birdies flies over to her, whispering something in her ear. She laughs, and to the rest of the guards in the room, it appears she's laughing at nothing at all.

She's reading a paperback. You hear her bits of dialogue echo around you in her curious voice. Voices. You heard the distinct difference between all manner of people speaking, and they all really seemed to be coming from just one woman. She can make it through about half a page without getting distracted by other thoughts or ideas.

You try to figure out what she's reading just by the words you can catch as you clean. But you draw your own attention away when the slap of too much water hits the dirty cement floor.

You swear under your breath, feeling the water soak into the holes of your stupid plastic shoes.

"Hurry up over there." One of the guards barks. You stop yourself from rolling your eyes. He can bitch at you all he wants. You catch the flash of insecurity. Of the brief flicker of joy at telling you what to do. He gets off on ordering inmates around. How original.

You jump when someone psst's at you, and you whip around to see Quinn staring at you through the bars. Her eyes are wide and bright, though they also seem a little sunken around the edges. Either she doesn’t eat often, or they don’t give her enough to eat.

"I've seen you before." She states.

You grip the handle of your mop nervously. You feel as Harley recalls a vivid memory of noticing you last week, the same mop and bucket beside you. You want to cringe at how you look in her mind; prison certainly made you look the way you currently felt. Tired, alone, and sad.

But it's sweet the way you can sense how bored she is and how this single, little interaction is enough to stimulate her mind. You try to keep your eyes on her and not the birds and flowers.

"I come in here every Thursday. You're asleep sometimes." And even sleep can't stop her from imagining things so clearly.

"Hey!" The guard is storming over now, his rifle swinging around to aim at the two of you. "I said hurry the fuck up and get the fuck out." He snaps.

"Fuck off." Harley bites back, unimpressed. You freeze when the guard reroutes his rampage right past you and over the white line. Harley grins, delighted that she's getting a reaction out of him.

"I'll fucking come in there today, Quinn. Don't fucking test me."

Harley dares to move toward the bars. Her pale fingers wrap around them slowly with calculated glee. "Good. Come play."

It ignites a fury in the guard, and you have to back away as his palpable hate threatens to wash over you. Suddenly, there's a loud alarm sounding, and you're being yanked back by another staff member and thrown outside as they swarm Harley's little cell. The automatic doors shut while you watch them surround her, the flowers scattering and dissolving into thin air.

You find every reason to linger. You get on your hands and knees and fine-scrub every spot on the floor. And like clockwork every Thursday, Harley always seems to be awake and waiting now.

You know you’ve been made when she sends a little birdy over to you and you pause from cleaning to stare up at it. It dances around you- even sings to you a little- and you marvel at it, twisting this way and that while the guards aren’t looking. When it flies back over to the woman in her cell, she’s watching you.

She presses her forehead to the bars and keeps watching. You shy under her gaze. There was an odd innocence to her when she was being unbothered. Aside from the giggles and the mumbling, Harley Quinn seems so harmless when the room is quiet. You’ve always heard about how much trouble she was for the guards. Even living on an entirely different floor, everyone knew the crime queen of Gotham was more than trouble. She could be wicked.

There’s a hint of that now that you have her attention, and your skin prickles under her scrutiny. But is it ill-intended? You honestly can’t tell. When you read her surface thoughts, her inner voice is so clinical, so sterile, you wonder if there’s a different person in there now. It was quite common in Belle Reve. Many prisoners were diagnosed with DID and other conditions. It just made you more curious. There was Harley, the happy one, but there was also this other woman. Dr. Quinn, as she sometimes thought of herself. From what you could hear, she certainly seemed like a doctor.

“She’s fucking looney. The Joker made her that way.” Your cellmate tells you when you ask her what she knows. You sigh, already bored. Everyone knew about the Joker. You were hoping for a little more nuance. A little more story about her. Not the man everyone was obsessed with associating her with.

Your dull life sentence with only Thursdays to pique your interest finally gets the best of you. Steeling yourself, you grip the note in your palm as you push your mop around Harley’s cell that day. It mostly takes timing- you can only put the closest guard to sleep at this wide distance. They’re head bobs minutely, and you take the moment to toss the piece of paper at her while no one else is looking.

You can’t talk to her directly. Observing people was easy. But talking back via your powers often resulted in the kind of cross stream that could damage you both. So you pretend not to notice the way Harley crawls over with curiosity.

Pretty flowers. How do you feel about fireworks?

Her grin turns into full fledged giggles.

You nearly drop your mop when the first firework goes off- hot pink and blinding. The first few pop with no sound, but then the boom is so loud you almost fall over, and Harley laughs even harder. Laughs until she can’t breathe. One firework explodes in the shape of an ugly beaver, and you have to bite your lip to keep from joining her contagious sounds. They’re joined by the high-pitched whistle of spinning rockets and the crack of sparklers. It’s an entire show. You can almost smell the ozone burning the way she immerses you in her imagination.

The guards approach again, of course. This time one of them shoves you to the ground.

“What’d I say about taking too long huh? Huh?” The backhanded slap makes your head spin. You whimper without an answer as the man shakes you by the front of your jumpsuit. “You wanna kiss your little shit-cleaning job goodbye?”

The fireworks disappear in a puff.

You freeze when the paperback book hits the guard square against the side of his face. It lands down next to you with a thud. The dead silence of the room makes your blood run cold.

The guard lets go of you slowly, standing back up.

“You know what that just earned you, Quinn?” He grinds out through his clenched jaw.

Harley presses herself to the bars again with a wicked grin.

Nausea washes over you. You pick up the flash of somewhere dark, somewhere terrible. A room you’ve never seen before but you know is here, in Belle Reve. A place they take her. Hurt her. You don’t know how she can be smiling, if she knows what’s waiting for her now. Your vision blackens a little as her fear and hatred and deeply concealed despair threaten to fill you up and wash you away. Your face pinches tightly with these visceral memories of pain that don’t belong to you.

“Wait, no-” You try. But another guard is dragging you out of the room so roughly you can’t even get on your feet. You slide against the floor, grappling to resist them, but it’s no use. You want to object. Want to shout that it’s your fault. But a life of keeping your powers secret has scared you into keeping your mouth shut. You watch them drag Harley from her cell, too. Watch as they strap a horrible jacket over her body and something from a nightmare made of metal and leather straps over her head so she can’t move.

They shut the doors in your face again. You sit in the hallway outside, trembling there on the floor for a while, forgotten by every guard. They’re all so hungry to jump at the chance to get their hands on her, they leave you alone, unattended.

You lie awake feeling empty that night. Harley Quinn was like a hit of something pure and chaotic. Life, you realize. You’ve made yourself so numb to everyone else. And now you’re consumed with something so out of reach, you don’t think you’ll ever feel the same.

You don’t wait for the next riot. You start one.

“Isn’t it rude? How she thinks she’s so much better than you?” You murmur to the inmate next to you in the mess hall. She looks up from her tray at you in a daze, her face twisting in confusion.

“What?”

You nod your head to another woman at the end of the table. A complete stranger. You don’t doubt the two have never even spoken before. But it doesn’t matter.

“I said, she’s got a shiv with your name on it.” You say to her. The words drift into her ear like a seed on the wind, catching and planting there in the woman’s mind. You watch as it takes form, multiplying and spreading until the rage becomes real. Igniting rage was so easy in a hell like this.

The woman beside you gets up without a word. You watch her stalk over to the other inmate, and in a matter of moments, there’s blood and teeth and hair everywhere. But it doesn’t stop. You sit quietly with your hands in your lap as the anger spreads to everyone else at the table, everyone else in the room. You slip out of the neglected doors when even the guards start pummeling bodies without thinking.

It follows you across the cellblock. You put one foot in front of the other, letting muscle memory take you back down to solitary while you nudge person after person in your wake until the alarms across the entire compound are sounding.

The guards are already fighting each other when you get to Harley’s cell.

She, too, screams and pounds at the bars without thinking. When you approach her, she bares her teeth at you with blind rage. You reach in and grasp the sides of Harley’s face, willing the artificial hold on her to let her go until she’s blinking it away.

Harley looks around the room with clarity slowly before her blue gaze finally falls on you.

You smile. “I’d love to see what you’re like when you’re not trapped in a cage. Would you come with me?” You ask her.

“You’re doin’ this aren’t ya?” She counters with delight. You nod your head shyly.

No hesitation. Not even an ounce of fear at the carnage happening around the two of you. Harley steps back when a buzz sounds and the cell door opens. From the control booth a few feet away, the guards go back to ripping each other to pieces.

Harley grins at you in return. She takes your hand. “Where to, Sweetpea?”

She could just be using you. Hitching a ride out of here. You wouldn’t be surprised if she slips away soon and gets as far away as possible. It’s what someone like her would do now that she was free.

The fragrant bloom of wildflowers hits you again. You breathe in deep. Harley’s wicked laughter is enough to challenge the sirens, the chaos. She delights in it all the way no sane person could.

Harley, Harley, Harley. With a mind so strong, you wonder if she’s somehow got a hold on you just like you’ve got a hold on everyone else. It’s enthralling. Intoxicating. You could easily get swept away wading into the deep with the woman beside you. You already have, maybe.

You join her freeing laughter. You can’t help it. And you can’t find it in yourself to care.

#harley quinn #harley quinn x reader #harley quinn x you #harley quinn fanfiction #dceu fanfiction #mywords*

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omgreally · 4 years

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The Apprentice Read on AO3 Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader Rating: E for Explicit, Soon Wordcount: 5k+ Summary: Peli Motto took you off the streets of Tatooine to become one of the best apprentices she's ever had - but honestly, the DUM droids are setting the bar pretty low. Still, you work out well for the first few months until an armored Mandalorian stranger lands with a busted-up ship and a strange magic baby and, well, you're intrigued. Even though you know you shouldn't be. Peli's always teling you to keep away from anything hot but sometimes, to fix something, you have to stick your hand straight into the fire.

Chapter Two - The Beholder

The Mandalorian is always watching you.

You’ll be working on something on his ship and feel it - like standing with your back too close to a fire. The heat of his gaze gathers between your shoulder blades, amplified by the blankness of that damned visor.

He doesn’t give a flying kriff that you notice, either. You’ll glance over your shoulder at him and he’ll be there, lounging against something, effortlessly casual, and he’ll just look at you and shrug, as if daring you to say something.

You tell yourself that Mando is just protective of his ship. There’s a lot of surprisingly expensive hardware on it - the contents of that weapons locker, for example - and he doesn’t want you to fuck something up. After all, you are the apprentice. Peli vouching for you doesn’t make a damn lick of difference. This floating metal trap is his home, and the first time you met you spent some time insulting it. It’s understandable he’d want to keep an eye on you after that.

And you tell yourself you don’t like it.

At first you try to ignore it. You work, and you work hard because Peli expects nothing less. You end up with the arms of your coveralls tied around your hips, your tank damp with sweat and sticking to your skin, your hair an absolute mess, covered head to toe in engine grease.

You descend the recently-repaired ramp wiping your forehead on your arm, and here he is, leaning against one of the landing struts. “What are you doing?” he asks, making you jump near-out of your skin; you whirl to glare at him, clutching at your pounding heart.

“Taking a break,” you say, when you’ve recovered enough to speak. “I’ve been working all day.”

He surveys you impassively. Is there anything under that helmet, you wonder? Or is it just air and wires? Just like one of those droids. But no, the way he moves - all coiled, unreleased power, the potential for violence - you can feel he’s more than that.

You’re not sure if it terrifies or intrigues you.

You tell yourself it’s fine, that it doesn't really bother you. That every time he appears behind you your heart doesn’t skip a beat. But the sheer physicality of his presence is full of a devastating uncertainty and potential that you don’t know what to do with.

And he’s always watching you.

He says nothing, and you turn and shake your head, stomping off away from the ship. Razor Crest, it’s called. You think it should be called Tetanus Crest.

“What’s his deal?” you ask Peli as you grab some water inside. Your boss still has that weird green baby, but she’s given back your shirt, although you’re not sure you’ll wear it ever again. The thing coos and surveys you with googly eyes that creep you out only marginally less than Mando does.

“Whaddaya mean?” Peli’s only half-paying attention, too busy rocking the kid - Grogu - as she tries to get him to sleep in her arms. He waves his stubby claws, evidently enjoying himself too much to do so.

“He’s...very intense. Always watching me.”

“Well, he is a Mandalorian. They’re not exactly a friendly people. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s personal, Peli,” you say, shaking your head, “Every time he looks at me, I’m not sure if he wants to shoot me or fuck me.”

You expect Peli to tell you off for your mouth. She only covers Grogu’s ears and glances around to make sure Mando isn’t listening when she says, “Careful, Girl. It could be both.” She laughs as you blush, from cheeks to collarbones, and she wriggles her hairless brows at you suggestively. Then, her fun had, the mechanic shakes her frizzy head and sits back, her tone turning a little more to the serious.

“Don't worry yourself too much. I trust him. Mando won’t hurt you. If he did, he’d owe me even more credits'n he already does. But he’s...he’s a good man, kid. Grogu here is proof of that.” The stubby creature makes a happy burbling noise and claps his tiny hands together. You can’t help but smile a little.

“Plus, if he hurts you, he’ll be answerin' to me. And you can remind him of that, too.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind him hurting me in a couple of ways,” you say breezily, if only to see the shocked look on Peli’s face. You walk away laughing.

Well. Overall, that was...unhelpful. You grab a discarded rag and wipe sweat from your brow, probably only succeeding in smearing black grease all over your forehead. War paint, you think, not with a touch of irony.

You’ve had a few tumbles in the sand in your time. Nothing permanent, few even memorable. You even considered doing it for credits, when things started to get really bad, before Peli came along. But you’ve never been confident enough in yourself to just go for what you want, and you waited until the boys or the men or the women came to you with hooded eyes and soft, promising touches and you went along to see where it led you. It’s been a while, and sometimes the urge strikes you to head down to the Cantina and find someone for a night, but you always end up alone in your bunk with your hand in your pants and your lips clamped shut so you don’t wake Peli as you work out your own frustrations.

You could be wrong. You hope you’re wrong, in this case. Fucking a regular customer, much less one who is a Mandalorian, sounds like trouble. But it also sounds like a lot of kriffing fun.

The Mando in question is nowhere to be seen outside. You ascend the ramp slowly, cautiously. How a big, shiny, broad, tall, menacing Mandalorian can hide in a tiny little krill can like this is beyond you, but he manages it. He’s not in the cockpit when you ascend the ladder, but that’s fine - you’ve been working on the busted nav computer for the last couple of hours and it’s been impossible to concentrate with him breathing down your neck.

It’s been disassembled into a pile of wires and cables and circuitboards that make sense only to you. You sit in the pilot’s chair and pull it into your lap, humming to yourself as you tweak and twist things into place. You’re not sure how long you’re there for - long enough to rewire it into something that starts to make visual sense, long enough for your fingers and neck to cramp. Long enough to calm down after a very weird day or two.

“You’re good with your hands,” says a smooth, filtered voice by your ear.

You jump and the circuitboard almost slips from your fingers - you catch it pinned between your knees at the last moment, half-twisting in the chair to glare up at the Mandalorian who stands eclipsing the hatchway, leaning a forearm against the bulkhead, helm tilted as he watches you.

“How long have you been there for?” you ask, trying to keep your aggression levels down, but damn it he startled the fuck out of you and almost made you undo all the work you’ve been doing for the last - you check the nearest chrono - two hours? Have you really been up here that long?

Outside the viewport, the suns are starting to set, and the fading orange-purple light paints the brushed durasteel interior in hues of silvery midnight, lit only by the standby lights. It would be peaceful, if not for the metal hulk boxing you in and making your heart beat twice as fast at his proximity.

“Not long.” Mando nods to the boards between your knees. “You fix it yet?”

You draw a small, calming breath, hoping he doesn’t notice. “The computer? Sure. The ship? You’re asking a bit much for a day. Got at least a week’s worth of work left to get this thing into shape.”

“Will it fly?”

You snort. “Yeah, it’ll fly. Might explode or crash at any moment, but it’ll fly.”

He makes a sound like a displeased grunt, but it’s hard to tell through the vocabulator. Then he stills, just looking at you, and you turn your back, discomfited as always. You resolve just to keep working as best you can, even as his gaze bores into you.

The board is ready to go back in - you slide off the chair and onto your knees, carefully setting aside the mass of circuitry. Then, grabbing the front of the panel, you swing yourself underneath it on your back.

“Hey, uh - Mando? If you’re still there, can you hand me that board?” You hold your hand out from underneath the panel. Then you clear your throat and add, “Please.”

The wiring board is pressed into your palm, and you relax a little. You fit it into place - a lot easier now with the cables organized - and examine your handiwork for a moment. Then you run into a problem.

Easing yourself out of the cramped space proves to be more difficult than getting in had been. You realize you’re stuck about halfway through trying to ease yourself out on your back, and you end up jammed between the bottom of the seat and the top of the panel.

“Fuck!”

“Need a hand?” Mando’s filtered, scratchy baritone sounds amused, or maybe that’s just your imagination. You can see the edge of his gloved fingers hovering within reach. The muscles in your neck and back are burning and your hip is aching - if you stay there any longer, twisted up like a pretzel, you’re going to pull something. So you take his hand.

He doesn’t just pull you up, though, no. He reaches down with his other hand and a strong, metal-encased arm circles you, and you’re maneuvered out from under the panel, onto your feet and straight into his arms in one smooth movement.

You splay your hands on an impossibly shiny, smooth expanse of Beskar, your breath held up in its journey on its way from your lungs. He seems to eclipse your entire horizon, an expanse of silver and black.

This close, you can smell him, a mix of gun oil and cordite and oxygen that makes your mouth water. Everything about him speaks to the part of you that craves danger, but there’s no little warning voice in your head telling you that this is wrong.

He is the one to let you go - to pull back, almost apologetically, placing his hands on your shoulders and stepping back to extend the distance between you. “You okay?” he asks, for all the world sounding unconcerned, but there is something knowing in the tilt of his helm when you look up into his visor.

Kriff, he is so much bigger than you. You should find that terrifying. You should find this whole situation dangerous, alone with a strange, masked man in his ship where Peli wouldn’t be able to hear you scream if something went wrong.

But Peli trusts him, you tell yourself. And, evidently, he trusts Peli.

So where does that leave you?

“Nav computer should be fixed,” you say, and your voice is smaller than you would like. “Anything else you want, Mando?”

There is a moment that is far more heavily charged than it should be. Mando’s helmet inclines a little. His hands are heavy on your shoulders, and they slide slowly down, over your bare biceps, heedless of the buildup of sweat and grime as the leather drags roughly over your skin. It makes the hair on the back of your neck lift, a flush beginning somewhere in your chest and spreading outwards in both directions.

“Passive sensor’s acting up,” he says then, and the tension in the pit of your stomach fades, replaced by frustration. “Could you take a look at it?”

You sigh heavily, trying to contain any obvious display of emotion. “Sure,” you say, managing a smile. Then you realize his hands are still on your arms, and you don’t know what to make of that. “Where is it?”

The helm nods towards below the pilot’s chair.

You groan. “I gotta go under there again? Damn it. Let me go get my tools.”

Unexpectedly, Mando volunteers. “Wait here. I’ll go get them.”

“But you don’t know which ones I’ll-” need. You call after him but he’s already down the ladder. Sighing, you plop back into the pilot’s seat.

Now you have to add sexual frustration to your lists of complaints about this job. You never thought a fully-armored bounty hunter would do it for you - maybe it’s just been too long.

Shit, you’ve got to make an effort not to be alone with him, you think. Because if he’s just being a Mandalorian and he doesn't mean anything by it, it’s going to be embarrassing if you end up slipping up in front of him.

Soon he returns, a bag of your tools in hand, and surprisingly it looks like he’s found all the right ones. You nod appreciately, sliding off the seat and into the footwell again.

“Mind giving me what I need while I’m down here?” you ask, and there’s a pause where Mando’s helmet shows absolutely nothing, and your face threatens to flush again. “The tools, I mean.”

“The tools,” he repeats, his voice flat, emotionless. “Right.”

Fuck, you think. This is a bad idea.

Nevertheless, you forge on. You’re not going to run screaming from the ship and tell Peli it’s because the sexual tension - probably imagined - is too much for you to bear. You’d be fired and back on the streets in a heartbeat. So, you’re going to try to remain professional.

You move forward on hands and knees underneath the panel, until only your ass is sticking out from underneath it. You try not to imagine the Mandalorian’s gaze on you now . You concentrate on opening the little access cover to the passive sensor array, reaching into your coveralls for a clip-on flashlight which you fix to the strap of your tank top.

Yeah, it’s a mess in there, all right - corroded to hell with carbon scoring, probably from a glancing impact in a firefight. You don’t know why you find that thought exciting. You’ve repaired ships that have been in battle before, but - to be fair - none of them had been piloted by a Mandalorian.

“Hyperspanner,” you call, holding your hand out backwards. The smooth handle of the correct tool, thankfully, is placed in your palm. “Thanks.”

You forget the weird tension as you work, the immensity of the Mandalorian’s presence, your nervousness around him. You think only of what��s in your hands, the intricacies of electronics and wires and switches, the zen-like process of focusing on finding what’s wrong and fixing it.

In this case, it’s mostly a cleaning job. You end up covered in black carbon soot, coughing as you scrape clouds of it from the affected components. None of them look damaged, though, which is a good sign.

Eventually, you emerge, wriggling backwards hip-first until you can sit on your haunches with an elbow braced against the pilot’s seat. Half to your surprise, half-not, Mando is still there, though he’s taken up residence on the passenger seat instead, and he sits comfortably with an ankle crossed over his knee and his helm cocked at an angle to watch you work.

You flush as you realize he’d probably been watching your ass that entire time, even while handing you tools. Say what you like about them, a Mandalorian is definitely still a man. It’s right there in the name.

“Anything need replacing?” he asks, all business - but can you detect a warmer buzz in the modulation of his voice? Or is that just your imagination?

“Just my clothes,” you say, dragging up the bottom of your tank top to wipe your face. A little deliberate, since doing so reveals some of your stomach, but Mando’s only reaction is a small lift of his chin and a slight shifting in the chair. “Sensors should be fine now. And I’m gonna call it a night.”

He rises at the same time you do, and before you register what he’s doing, he’s in between you and the hatch, so large he covers entirely your only method of escape. You swallow the sudden lump in your throat, your hand tensing around the handle of your toolbox.

Peli trusts him, you tell yourself. He won’t hurt me.

“I wanted to...thank you,” he says and that is definitely not what you’re expecting. You blink a couple of times and he continues. “I’ve been watching you, and you work hard. You might even be able to get the Crest flying in better shape than before.”

“Oh,” you say, unsure. “Well...What can I say? I like fixing things.”

He nods. You think then that he’s done, he’s going to move out of the way, when he speaks again. “What’s your name?”

You shrug. “Peli just calls me Girl.”

“You don’t have a name?” If you could see his face, you’re sure Mando would be rasing an eyebrow at you.

“Do you?” you fire back and that silences the helmet for a moment. Then it shakes from side to side slightly.

“Fair enough...Girl.”

“Fair enough, Mando,” you echo with something like a smile. He moves away from the hatch and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. As you move past him you stop and turn, seized by a sudden impulse.

“Hey, we’re having a barbecue tonight with some deep-fried gorg, leftover krayt jerky and pika fruit. D’you...d’you want to join us?”

He's silent for a moment, processing that. Not looking at you. Then: “I eat on the Crest. Alone,” he says pointedly.

Peli had told you he never takes off the armor, on penalty of his Creed - whatever that is, it sounds sacred, and you don’t mess with anything that’s sacred. So you don’t take too much offense at the rebuff. Instead, you opt for a compromise.

“You don’t have to eat in front of us. Just come grab something and take it back with you. Or I could bring you something before I go to bed?”

The visor stares at you blankly for several long moments before inclining in a nod. “Okay,” he says. You’re not sure what he’s agreeing to, but at least he’s agreed to something. You find yourself oddly eager for his company, and try not to read into that too much as you smile and nod at him.

“Great! I’ll see you then, Mando.”

You sling the toolbox over your shoulder and descend the ladder, eager to get out of the Razor Crest and under a shower for at least fifteen minutes before dinner.

Maybe then you can work off some of the weird tension before you have to see him again.

#the mandalorian fanfic #din djarin/reader #din djarin x female reader #mando x you #the apprentice

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pulpwriterx · 4 years

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THE ONCE AND FUTURE PRINCE (Part 1)

For Reylo Week 2020. Day 6, Past, Present and Future.

Kylo Ren is dead. But Ben Solo is in solitary confinement in a bunker built just to hold him, about to go on trial for Lord Ren’s crimes. Half the Galaxy thinks it’s an injustice to try Ben for a dead man’s crimes, but the other half wants to see Kylo Ren hang from the highest gallows. Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa have both returned with Ben from the World Between Worlds. Luke and Rey are on one side, Leia is on the other. As Ben’s trial approaches, he ponders the past, tries to endure the present and hopes there will be a future for him in spite of Kylo Ren.’

This takes place in the same AU as “The Most Dangerous Game” and is a continuation of that story.

Ben Solo finished his push-ups, and his sit-ups, and he drank some water before doing his chin ups.’

He stretched, and did isometric exercises against the walls and then he sat on his cot.

It wasn’t that bad, really.

There were no chains, just the stun collar. And his cell, made of concrete and steel stood alone in an open concrete desert bordered by a vast green forest, in a perimeter of barbed wire and electric fences.

There was a little slot in the top that he could look through, if he stood on his cot, and a locked slot in the metal door, to shove his food through.

He liked to stand on his cot, and look through the slot, at the jailer's cottage, beyond the concrete desert, at the edge of the wood.

He also was allowed an hour of exercise outside, and every other day, the jailer would march him to the refresher stall at the other end of the perimeter, so he could keep clean.

He was not permitted a razor, so he kept his beard braided, in a long, thin braid that now reached just past his collarbone.

It wasn’t that bad, really.

When he was kept in a cell during his Sith training, he was always naked, there was no cot or pillow or sleeping bag or blankets, and the lights were always on.

There was only a toilet.

Also his wrists and ankles were manacled together and there was only thin soup and bread once a day.

In this cell, he got to wear shorts.

He had a berth to sleep on, and a desk, and he got three meals a day and books to read.

The jailer put the lights on at 9, and turned them off at midnight.

When he was in Sith training, Ben lived in a malnourished, fluorescent-lit, oatmeal-colored naked Hell of fear.

This was a whole different kind of Hell.

One that might last the rest of his life.

He hoped to either be set free, or sentenced to death.

Then again?

It wasn’t that bad, really.

Ben screamed, he roared and rushed the wall.

The collar stunned him, and he fell, unconscious, on the floor.

***

In the jailer’s cottage, a red light went off.

The jailer was not afraid of his prisoner, he felt bad for the man, for the conditions he was held under.

The red light nominally meant escape, but all it meant under current conditions was that Captain Solo had made a run at the wall so the collar would stun him, and he could have a little slice of oblivion.

He unlocked the cell and found his prisoner on the floor, unconscious and twitching, and he revived him.

“Ben? Ben, can you hear me?”

His heels were still drumming on the floor, so Commander Antilles administered the hypo.

Captain Solo returned to consciousness with a groan.

The Republic Air Command, which supported him, had promoted him from Lieutenant after the Battle of Exegol.

“Ben, you shouldn’t do that to yourself.”

“Oh, shit! The collar made me piss myself, again. I’m sorry about the mess, Commander Antilles. I’ll clean it up.”

“You probably can’t even stand, yet I brought the mop. It’s just pee. It wipes up. But you have to stop activating the stun collar. It’s not good for your body. It might kill you.”

“When, Wedge? When?”

***

“What happened? Did he try to escape, again?”

“Leia, I can’t do this. I remember when me and Luke used to take him to the park to fly his model X-Wing! You should come here, and shove his meals in a slot in a Beskar steel and concrete door! Talk to him through a tiny slot in the wall of the bunker you put him in, while he stands on a chair! You should have to run in and revive him after he runs, screaming at the wall so the collar stuns him! Find Ben lying there, twitching, in a puddle of pee!”

“Wedge, do you think I want to keep Ben confined like this? He broke out of four jails and put 15 men in the hospital! One of our Generals told me, regretfully, that we should just have him put down! Put down! Like a sick old tooka cat! He did this to himself! This is the very best I can do for Ben, right now!”

“I know. But it’s not easy.”

“Sometimes, Wedge? I’d like to just land at night in the Falcon, and say goodbye to him and tell him to listen to Chewie and be good to Rey and talk to me once in awhile and let him go.”

“He just got a letter from Rey. And one from Luke. I’ll take it to him, and slip it under the door with his dinner. See if you can get him some visits with her. Or maybe just get the regulations relaxed so that I can bring him his meals in person.”

“We’ll see.”

*** Dear Ben,

I’m back on Tattoine again. I’m in Anchorhead, to give another rousing speech for the Justice For Ben Solo movement. I’d say public opinion is about 60-40 at this point. The good news is, 60 in your favor. The bad news is, the other 40 percent still want to see you hang from the highest tree. I just about have the Tribunal ready to let you wear clothes, so I’ve sent you a box of coveralls. Republic regulation overalls that say “Captain Solo” on them, just to remind people of who you really are. And you hated it when I made you finish at the Republic Academy; even if I did try and cut your head off, Crazy Old Uncle Luke was right, sometimes. I’m still behind you a hundred percent, Ben, and so is your Uncle Chewie. He sent you a tin of Wookiee cookies. Also in the package is a rug for your floor that Rey made from the rags of old Resistance uniforms that Leia wanted to throw out. Wedge told me that you’re beginning to despair. There’s no reason for despair, Ben. I’m sure I was sent back from the World Between Worlds for your sake, and you were not sent back to rot in a cell for the rest of your life. Even if you are sentenced to life, or a long term, I will never stop fighting for you, and against the injustice that you should be punished for a dead man’s crimes. I have convinced the Tribunal to let you appear at your hearing from your cell, but I’m hoping it won’t be the prison that you are in.

Stay strong, Ben. May the Force Be With You Crazy Uncle Luke.

***

Dear Ben, Chewie and I just got your new pilot’s pants with the red Corellian bloodstripe down the leg, and a certificate from Han’s home planet that they were awarded to you by the Corellian Parliament. Hopefully, you can wear them at your trial. Commander Antillies said he didn’t care if it was against regulations, he’s letting you have the rug that I made you. I used my old arm wraps to make the pattern so that you would have something of me in your cell. I’m on D’Qar, still, and I’d say it’s about 70-30 for you, here, and the 30 percent who think you should go to prison aren’t for a life sentence. The Resistance understands what you sacrificed, and what you did for us. By all your savage gods, Ben, I miss you so much. I used to be ashamed of what we almost did in Snoke’s Throne Room, and I always felt guilty that you and I would meet at the Skywalker Farm, but now I’m glad we did. Do you remember , during my training, when you told me that in a totalitarian state, sex is an act of rebellion and love is revolution? I never knew what you were talking about until they carried you out of the Infirmary on a stretcher to throw you in jail. I’m proud that we were lovers. I wish we could be, again, and not for political reasons. I’m so lonely for you, Ben. I’m still sleeping in your tunic from the Battle of Exegol; I’ve had to wash it, but it still smells faintly like you, and I snuggle it close to my body at night, wishing I could snuggle up close to you. I even miss the fights that we used to have through our bond; I keep trying to find a way to reach you through the Force-disrupting field they have around you. I suppose I should write something really dirty to you, like the things I get embarrassed about that I yell while you make love to me, but I can’t think of things like that unless I’m in the moment with you. Chewie and I have decided, if you get life, or anything more than 5 to ten years with a chance for parole? We’re breaking you out of jail and going on the run. Nobody on Tattoine or Arkanis will ever give you up; and like you always tell me? You’re a Skywalker, the stars belong to you. Don’t forget that, Ben. Or that I love you so much.

All my love, Little Rebel Girl.

On-board the Finalizer; Supreme Leader Kylo Ren’s Flagship

It was a short walk to Lord Ren’s private exercise room, but they ran into General Pryde along the way.

He and Ben had a brief exchange and then they were on their way.

Rey waited until Ben had activated all the security locks.

“Is this private?”

“Yes. Ask your question.”

“Why does General Pryde make my skin crawl.”

“Because he’s an evil man. The only reason I have let him live is because I want him to live just long enough to see me destroy his life’s work.”

“That’s cruel, Ben. And you let him think that he’s, well, like a mentor to you. And you’re not a cruel man. Why?”

“Because he’s the most evil man I have ever known. General Pryde was the Chief Officer in charge of Snoke’s Detention block on his ship. He also organized the training for Force-sensitive First Order officers. Better known as Sith Training. It was more like torture. He had the trainees locked up in worse conditions than the prisoners. He made us fight to the death. His trainers were all former Imperial officers who were entirely depraved men. These are men who were in the detention blocks of Star Destroyers scheduled for execution by my grandfather when they were rescued by the end of the war. Pryde was one of them. They enjoyed subjecting us to beatings. Torture. Humiliation. Some of my fellow trainees, men and women, were systematically raped, to break their spirits.”

Rey was shocked.

She remembered General Organa-Solo telling her that even the people who were confederatesof the Sith and the Dark Side were drawn to its evil, because they were themselves evil.

But she hadn’t thought in terms of rapists.

Or sadists.

Or killers.

“That policy ended with me. Now that I am Supreme Leader, there is no torture. No corporal punishment. Rape, by anyone, in any form, on anyone else? On this ship, or off? It’s a capital crime. Off with your head. Execution by lightsaber.” Ben stood up, and ignited his weapon.

“This lightsaber. Alright, Rey. Enough talk. Let’s pick up where we left off the last time.”

“You mean, in the woods?”

“I do. I owe you a dueling scar. But I won’t put it on your face. Maybe on your shoulder.”

Rey jumped back.

“Wait! Don’t we wear blast vests, or something?”

“No. What’s that going to teach you? No more talk. Defend yourself.”

Ben swung at her and Rey blocked him.

He saw the fear in her face change to anger and resolve.

Too much anger.

“Do you know why you beat me, in the woods, and gave me this scar, Rebel Girl?”

“Because I’m good.” Rey snarled.

Rey battled him back, as easily as she had before.

“Yes. You have balls, and some skill. And you are strong in the Force.”

They were at crossed sabers, but when Rey raised a fist to knock Kylo away, he blocked her punch, made some fast move to get away from her, swung around, kicked the lightsaber out of her hand and stopped his swing less than an inch away from her throat.

Fear returned to her eyes, but also a stubborn defiance.

“But you won because I didn’t expect you to have any skill. And because I was tired, angry, and emotionally desolate over what Snoke made me do. But I’ve won fights in worse shape, and with better opponents. You won because I didn’t want to hurt you. No one else you cross sabers with will have any such compunctions.”

Rey’s breath was short.

She could feel the heat of his lightsaber on her throat, but she refused to ask him to move away, or retract his blade.

Ben sensed mortal terror instinctively rising in Rey, and her struggle to keep it at bay.

That was too much.

He shut his lightsaber down.

She was trying not to shake with relief.

“Breathe, Rey. Breathe deeply. Listen to the sound of your teacher’s voice, and understand that I mean you no harm. Search your feelings. You know that what I am saying is true. This was a lesson. To teach you about just how much you do not know. And to show you that you’ll pay a high price for anger and arrogance, in combat. But you were never in danger. During some of our lessons, you may feel like you are in danger. But you’re not. And it’s not just because you are precious to me and I would never hurt you. I have absolute control over my lightsaber. It’s like an extension of my body. My lightsaber is my arm, my shield, my flesh made fire. I use it to create what I wish and destroy what I will. I want you to sit in this room, in the dark, with your lightsaber ignited in front of you. Do this until I return, and meditate on that concept. Remember my words.”

Rey meditated on Ben’s words, the concept he was teaching her, and on her own actions.

She eventually called to mind the image of Ben striking down General Pryde, amid fire and explosions ten times what she had seen on Snoke’s ship.

And she called to mind him at crossed sabers with her, telling her that she needed a teacher, when he could have effortlessly stuffed out her life.

She thought about him lying in the snow, wounded and bleeding.

He could have called his lightsaber to his hand and struck her down.

But he stayed his hand.

One man.

One lightsaber.

Two sets of actions.

One Light, and one Dark.

And the struggle, in the dark, with her lightsaber in front of her, to find the balance of the two within herself.

She was beginning to understand.

***

In that first week, Ben taught her the basics of swordsmanship, and after their practice, she did her lightsaber meditation for an hour.

She was surprised at the subject matter for the second week.

Fighting, and target shooting with a blaster.

Rey had thought herself pretty good with both, and she was better than at the lightsaber, but Ben, of course, beat her, effortlessly.

Then he explained to her why she had lost, how he had beaten her, and taught her a targeting meditation and an anger meditation.

You never win a fight, he explained, when you lash out in anger, and even in a fire-fight, you always have time to carefully draw, take aim, and fire.

“If I taught the troopers to shoot, instead of instructors like Mad Dog Hux? They’d be a lot better at it.”

The rest of the week he showed her how to fight and how to shoot.

Rey thought she saw a pattern in Ben’s training until he had them both dropped off in the wastes of Tattoine, with him dressed only in a pair of short exercise shorts, and her in a pair of those and an exercise breastband.

That, and desert boots.

They had no sun protection, no hats, and one canteen between them.

The midday suns blazed overhead, already roasting them.

“This is crazy! We’ll die out here.”

“No, we won’t. You’re a desert rat, and this is my Uncle’s home planet. My father’s business was based on this planet. We’ve both used to the desert. And there’s a moisture farm about ten miles from here. All we have to do is get there alive.��

“And we have no sun protection.”

“No.”

Rey took the shorts off, and squatted on the ground to make some mud.

She put her shorts back on and started slathering the mud on her exposed skin.

“This is really going to be a nasty, stinky day.”

Her teacher actually laughed as he pissed in the sand.

“Could be worse. We could be so dry that we had to look for a pool of Bantha pee. That really stinks.”

*** This test, of course, was about endurance, Rey thought.

But, when they finally made it to the moisture farm, Rey wanted to scream.

The place was clearly abandoned, and it looked like it had been for at least ten years.

Rey hardly noticed that other than windblown sand, the courtyard was clean.

Ben pressed his thumb against where there should have been a lock on the doorknob of the blighted main door, and then he turned it.

“We’re home.” He told her.

Rey walked into a beautiful place, all in browns and greens and cream.

It was cool, and smelled fresh, and as she walked from room to room, lights came on.

You couldn’t even hear the cooling unit working.

And it was very comfortable in the rooms; Ben must have started it from the ship, before they got off.

Unlike Ben’s rooms on the Star Destroyer, this place looked like somebody lived here.

“Rey?”

Ben was still in the doorway.

“This place is beautiful? Is this your home?”

“Yes. The old family homestead. You’re getting pee mud, everywhere.”

“Oh gods, Ben, I’m sorry!”

“It’s OK. I’ll have BB-9E clean it up. He must be around here, somewhere, because the cooling unit is on. There’s a hose behind the shed out back. We’ll get hosed down, and come back and take a long bath. Then you can look around.”

Ben looked around the door.

“Niner? Where are you?”

Rey heard an angry bleep.

“I’m sorry for him, in advance. I built him from junk when I was a teenager, and Artoo helped me repurpose a partly fried personality chip. Niner’s like me. He has moods.”

“Is this the same droid that ratted BB-8 out?”

“Niner didn’t know you, then. He’s my droid, Rey. Why wouldn’t he be loyal to me. Well, mostly. NINER!”

The black and silver astromech droid rolled over to Rey, bleeped, rolled away, and she heard rummaging from the kitchen.

He rolled back, and his head twirled around, and he opened one of his ports and a little hose came out.

He started squirting water all over Rey, and the floor.

“Niner! Stop! Don’t you squirt water on me, I’ll take out your cleaning circuit. I meant to clean the floor.”

Niner chirped, excitedly.

“Yes, I know we are both also a mess. Just clean the floor. Come on, Rey. He’s like a big, stupid dog. He pissed on you because he was excited to meet you.”

It sounded like Niner was bleeping an obscene retort at Ben as they went back outside.

***

It was, of course, the old Lars-Skywalker Farm, and it was Ben’s home.

The neighbors knew him as Ben Skywalker, a starpilot, and the grandson of Ani Skywalker, local lad made good, who was also a starpilot.

In the tunnels beneath the house, in the tanks where the Lars family had stored water, only one tank had Ben’s water supply.

The rest were filled with money, supplies, and a smuggler’s bounty.

He even had one tank that was a walk-in freezer, full of meat and frozen food.

One of the other locked tanks was a locked vault.

“That’s where I keep my money. I could hide out here for five years, if I needed to. Maybe more. The door is also coded for your fingerprint. This is your home now, too, Rey. I’m sorry I didn’t carry you over the threshold, but you smelled like piss.”

Rey laughed.

“Ben, you can’t. I’ve done nothing to deserve this?”

“You gave me a month to show you that I am not a monster. To begin your training. You know. Among other things.”

Rey felt herself blushing.

“You’re so cute when you pretend to be a prude. But I know better, don’t I? We’ll get to the tour of the bedroom, don’t you worry. And before you ask? All the plates and cups and utensils and so on are made of wood or stone because I’m a wild man. When I get angry, or when I brood and I feel said and that makes me angry? I love to throw things. And there’s only a mirror in the bedroom and the bathroom because I’m also a mirror puncher. They’re made of unbreakable glass. So are the windows. Because I also like to punch windows, and throw things through them. And this is the bedroom. Just like on the ship, this door leads to your bedroom. Only your fingerprint locks and unlocks it. If I’m having an episode, just lock yourself in this room and wait.”

“Is that why you have extra furniture in your stash.”

“Yes. But if you hear me in here, breaking things? Or in my office? Set your blaster to stun and shoot me. I’m not kidding. I never trash my office or my bedroom, but I can’t afford to destroy things, in here. And when I go into Wild Man mode? I just don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Ben also explained to her that if he was in Brooding Mystic Spoiled Brat mode, she should let him alone to brood in his office.

Or outside.

Unless she wanted to participate.

That was usually the mood accompanied by a whole jug of Huttese whiskey.

“Do you have other moods?”

“Yeah. My usual normal. Weird Cocky Goofy Idiot. And your favorite. Sexual Death Star.”

“I wouldn’t say you were normally a weird cocky goofy idiot. You’re so mean to yourself.”

“No. Just honest. It’s been a long day. I think I’d like to lie down and take a long nap? You can retire to your room, or you can try out my bed.”

“I’m tired, Ben. I’ve been walking in the desert all day. And if you think that all you have to do to get me interested, after the day you’ve put me through is lie there, naked, on your bed and look at me like that? You’re absolutely right. I am going to make you pay, you Sith bastard, for that desert march!”

“Talk is cheap, Rebel Girl.”

*** They stayed at the Skywalker Farm for the next two weeks, and then Ben returned Rey to Ahch-To.

Master Luke was waiting for them.

Ben was lugging a large crate with him.

“What’s that, Benjamin?”

Ben pointed his finger in his Uncle’s face.

“Don’t call me Benjamin! You’re a crazy old man, and I feel sorry for you, that’s what! So there’s a Wilderness Survival Pod in here for you along with the Wilderness Survival Tent for Rey. And also?”

He made another trip back to Darth Vader’s TIE Fighter, and returned with a small black canvas bag, with mesh panels on the end.

“My tooka had kittens. You shouldn’t be alone out here.”

Ben carefully handed his shocked Uncle the canvas bag.

“Bye Bye, little Ani. I want you to look after Crazy Old Skywalker. He needs a friend.”

“If he can’t take care of that kitten, Rey, you take Ani back to the base with you.”

“I will, Ben. Try not to get killed before I see you, again.”

“Hey, I killed Snoke, right? How hard can killing all his minions and toadies be? It’s not like I don’t know how the Sith operate.”

Supreme Leader Kylo Ren got into his TIE Fighter and flew away.

Rey turned to Master Luke, who had taken the little kitten out of the little carrier.

“He has a tiny little collar with his name on it. And his claws have been clipped.”

“Ben’s cat just had ten kittens. His and Hux’s quarters are full of tookas. I don’t think he has time to take care of them all, or room for them, so he has to give some of them away. It’s very sad.”

That was not what Luke meant.

He cradled the little cat, and Rey finally saw him smile.

“You know what this little fuzzball is, Rey? Hope. Let’s open these crates and put these tents together, and get this little guy back in his carrier, until we figure this out.”

#reylo week 2020 #reylodaily #reylo past #reylo present #reylo future #Ben solo lives #trial of kylo ren #justice for ben solo #reylo smut #reylo fluff #reylo au

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oneofyatosfollowers · 5 years

Text

Noragami/Wall-E AU

Prologue

The air was a visible mustard brown with dirt particles and other debris mixed in. It gave the natural sunlight a dull glow, just enough to illuminate the hunks of useless metal that orbited the planet. On the planet, similar junk made up mountains, piled high against windmills and phone poles. Lose paper and plastic bags caught against the skeletons of old sky scrapers that have long-since collapsed into more rubble. Everything old, rusted, and abandoned; covered in the same brown dust that seemed to make up the planet itself.

On the outskirts of the city, the trash dunes were much smaller. Pressed into compact squares and piled into neater cubes. Pathways between these heaps curved and stretched on for miles, the darker shade of brown the dirt made showing which were the most traveled on. Traveling at a relaxed pace, an object made it's way through the cubes with practiced ease, not even glancing at it's surroundings. Old 80s music echoed from the object, traveling without any clash.

The speaker was a small, bright pink electronic, plugged into another machine. This machine was imbedded into a creature that was once human, but now a cyborg of ancient technology, made only to clean up the leftovers of man-kind's time on Earth. As he traveled, a short breeze or two ruffled his black hair, greasily pulled back into a short pony tail. The pink iPod was shoved into the pocket of a light brown fullbody coverall. One of many small nicknacks in one of many pockets. The jean fabric more than wore down, but with every rip stitched back together almost seamlessly. On his right breast pocket, the name 'Yato' was stitched in black, below the title 'Wall-E'.

The trash cleaner made his way to the nearest non-compacted trash pile and took a deep breath through his oxygen mask. Sitting down the small cooler he carried, Yato reached above his shoulder to grab hold of a lean metal handle, his brain send the signal for object to unlock. The metal clasps embedded in his back fell open and the flatted compactor came lose. He brought it to the front of him and set it on the ground. Opposite to the handle was a folded steel box that would click into shape. In the middle was a heaver iron square that molded into the handle. Once set up, all the cyborg had to do was gather as much trash as can fit in the hollow box bring the handle- with the lid- on top and press down. After the trash was in a neat square, the Wall-E would yank the handle up and let the cube roll out before placing it next to the billions of others.

This jostling woke up a small cockroach, who peaked outside a soup can to see what the ruckus was. At the sight of the cyborg, the insect squeaked and made her way over to the pile that only grew as the years went by. She made her way up the piles without much effort and sat herself on the new block. At the sound of her squeak the trash-collector turned with a wide smile.

"Stray!" he exclaimed cheerfully, "You're awake! Goodmorning!"

At his words, the cockroach let out an annoyed shriek. Yato recoiled but never ceased smiling.

"Sorry. Nora. There is that better?" Yato reached a hand out to her waiting for her to climb on. Nora flicked her antenna and crawled on slowly, with her nose in the air.

"I don't know why you like the japansese way better," he said as she settled on his shoulder, "though I guess Nora is more of a name." he mumbled the last part. Grinning at her when she chirped in agreement.

To his left, something shiny caught his eye. Making his way over to it, Yato moved aside some old newspapers and found a trash can lid. He held it up and watched as the sunlight shone even brighter against the silver disk. Yato's blue eyes didn't look away as he moved the light to different parts of the lid.

"Pretty cool, huh? Rare to find something not rusted." He said, walking back to where he left the cooler and placing it with the other treasures found earlier that day. On his shoulder, Nora's head made the movement of rolling her eyes. Yato contiuned back down the path that winded around a skyscraper made of the trash-cubes. Nora faithfully on his shoulder. He made his way past the abandoned super store, its food long since degraded and any other item caked in dust. Some of the hallow gram advertisements flickered on and off, their color long since dulled and the music coming out slow and deep. One sign stood out to him, just for a moment, the sign posted across the globe long long ago. "Become a Wall-E and save the world! Be taken care of and live for ETERNITY!"

Yato remembers his father, a biotechnical engineer who lost all faith in mankind. Who chose to stay far away from the rest of humanity- here on Earth- but remained human. He remembers being the first sucessful Wall-E test subject of his father's design. Outliving his creator and all the other Wall-E volunteers who later realized money is irrelevant as a cyborg without a government.

Nora made a soft noise and Yato gave her a small smile- covered by the oxygen mask- and continued on his way, his footsteps echoing in the empty city.

When they made it to the train tracks, Yato looked both ways out of habit, then made his way north. Walking down the tracks, Yato stood above 'The Graveyard'. A place where Wall-Es that forever stopped working were laid. Most of their organic bodies have eroded away, leaving behind their inorganic parts. The young woman he helped lay down decades ago, was a special friend to Yato. the last of the Wall-Es. Except for himself. Yato took a deep breath in, his filter has become more and more worn down by the particles.

The stairs creaked as Yato padded down them, dirt falling in an avalanche to the ground below. He silently and carefully weaved among the older remains, looking to take only what he needed. One mask looked hardly touched, so he pocketed his old one and quickly exchanged the new. It wasn't as if he lungs needed clean oxygen, but the filtration is what kept him going so long in the first place. The owner of this one, either ignored it in favor of their new 'immortality', or no longer wanted to live forever.

By now Yato had reached the old transit staion. Large bridges connected to tall stair cases that hovered over empty terminals, deep enough to fit a blue whale and long enough to fit the Empire State building. Twelve of these ports were lined up for this station, all empty without waiting for return. More advertisements flickered into action as the Wall-E went by. Nora hissed at the reassurance the audio gave as it showed family deals for the Outer Space Luxury Cruise Liner. Pictures of Yato's former colleges compressing the trash in the local dump flashed by in a promise for the humans to return to a better home.

As he walked through more advertisements popped up, one for the main cruise: "Heaven's Sun"- mostly just called Heaven-which would hold the majority of the upper class and the worker-bots like Yato, as well as the very first space branch military. It held promise of the best food, comfort, and entertainment out of all the other cruises. Heaven's Sun is lead in this flocks departure, with a captain and cyborg copilot.

Yato stared again at the picture as the advertisement kept glitching. The promise was for five years. It was well past that. Of course the planet wasn't cleaned up yet, so of course they weren't back. But Yato hasn't heard word from Heaven asking for an update, or if they were even coming back. Or even if they were still out there.

On his shoulder, Nora buzzed. Yato didn't look at her.

"Did I ever tell you my dad designed the copilot after he worked on me?"

Nora didn't answer. He had, many, many times. The two had long since run out of new things to talk about, other than Yato's dreams or things Nora found. The copilot stared back with glowing red eyes and a small smile, his hair a light brown color, it matched the dust that littered the atmosphere.

By the time Yato made it home, it was dusk. He lived in an old massive semi-trailer, modified to open only at the pull of a lever. The inside was also modified to have rotating shelves, in order to neatly hold all of Yato's findings and necessities. Odd shiny nicknacks tied together with string hung from the ceiling, along side Christmas lights and posters. The lamps and lights all connected flickered on once Yato flicked up a hanging switch.

Once the door was closed and the air filter was on, Yato tugged off the mask letting out a large sigh, hanging it up on a hook. He then took off his ascot and hung that up too, before letting his hair fall out of its tie. He then set down his cooler of goodies and opened it. First came the trash lid, which he placed with the other shinnies. Next came some Capybara land keychains- each wearing different color overalls and a crown- which went with the other small Capybara toys. He continued emptying the box, a lighter with other lighters, a glass bottle, a pink scarf.

He had a movie playing in the background, often playing it when he got ready for work in the morning but it was finished by the usual clock-out time. But today he had called it quits early, so the movie was on the final scene. The lady capybara and the man capybara having successfully made it to an island together, after a harrowing journey. Yato crept closer with shiny eyes. They sang a beautiful song of love, having made it through together because of it and now never having to be alone.

Yato numbly took out his iPod and hit record, placing it next to the TV's speaker. His eyes never leaving the screen. He watched them sing while gazing into each other's eyes, their hands held between them, twining together seamlessly. When they leaned in for a kiss, Yato's eyes got even bigger and his heart did a bittersweet dance.

The movie then faded to black and showed the names of humans that created it. He sighed again and clicked the television off, taking his iPod as he did so. Walking back towards the the door he opened it again, placing the mask back on as he did so. He then plopped down on the ramp and began shaking out his cooler, feeling the wind shift as he did.

Yato looked up as he dusted the box, and himself, off. The smog clearing so that the stars could be visible. It filled Yato with the same wispy feeling the movie did, so he pressed play on his new recording. It echoed off of the small round speaker just under his chin, filling his bones with the melody. That was until is mainframe sent an alert through it. The song cut out as the alarm blared though the night. His blue eyes quickly flickered back and forth, numbers and words flashing through his parifial.

His vision went red when he focused to the front of him, the words 'Weather Alert' and 'Danger' flashing. A massive dust cloud was barrelling towards his home at an alarming rate. This wasn't common, but it wasn't unheard of. Regardless, Yato quickly got back inside, calling Nora as he did so, and shut the door before any dirt could get in.

He wouldn't be able to go out for a while so, it was time to hit the sack. Yato gave Nora some food, eating some dry ramen as well, then made his way to the bare mattress in the far corner next to the TV. He flopped down and threw the blanket haphazardly over himself, ordering his system to set an alarm for the morning, then go into sleep mode. Yato was asleep instantly.

#In celebration of Yato Day #noragami #yato #yato day #yatogami #yukine #yaboku #hiyori #noragami family #noragami aragoto #yatori #wall-e #wall e #fanfic #fanfiction #AU

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latetotherant · 5 years

Text

“Are you rich?” Is Shrill too Economically Idealistic for Its Own Good? ••• By Meredith Salisbury

“Oh My God. What’s happening? I’m afraid that I am feeling myself.” These are the words we here Annie (Aidy Bryant) say to her best friend and roommate Fran (Lolly Adefope) while she’s dancing in a new dress and enjoying some new found self-love towards the end of the first episode of Hulu’s comedy Shrill. The show, which is based off of Lindy West’s memoir Shrill: Notes from a Loud Women, follows Annie as she navigates life as a fat millennial woman living in Portland, Oregon. Shrill has been rightfully praised for its blunt and realistic depictions of everyday life as a fat woman and for its nonchalant handling of abortion. For all the care Shrill puts into authentic depictions of Annie’s everyday life, Shrill does so at the expense of showing the larger and more systemic issues fat women face. The omission of these larger cultural forces makes Annie’s transformation seem idealistic, unrealistic, and impossible for the women watching replicate.

Shrill is set in Portland, Oregon. It makes sense that one of the most accepting and liberal cities in the popular imagination is the setting for televisions first radically positive representation of fat women. Like Portlandia, another socially conscious television show set in Portland, Shrill uses comedy to point out where its liberal audience fails in their liberalness. In Shrill, radical self love, queerness, and anti-capitalist ideals are all casually accepted from the get go. Annie’s parents praise Fran’s, who is a lesbian’s, love life with her rotating door of queer partners and Annie’s ex-punk gen-x boss Gabe (John Cameron Mitchell) vilifies “the establishment” regularly. In a way Shrill feels like it teeters on the line between comedy and parody. It is unclear that the Portland represented in Shrill is different than the one created by the sketch comedy show Portlandia. Carrie Brownstein, the creator and star of Portlandia, even directed the Shrill episode “Date.” The similarities between the shows’ representation of Portland is not necessarily a bad thing—Portlandia did a great job at pointing out to liberal people where their liberal ideologies fell short—and Shrill picks up where Portlandia left off and continues this crusade. The issue is that Portlandia was satirical whereas Shrill is meant to be realistic. Shrill, like Portlandia, does not take into account Oregon’s white supremacist past or the fact that Portland is the whitest large city in America nor does it acknowledge how Oregon is one of the most expensive states to live in and that Portland is experiencing an affordable housing crisis.

The fact that Annie and Fran are never plagued with systemic issues leaves room for the show to explore interpersonal ones like Annie’s relationship with her boss Gabe. Gabe is Shrill’s villain. He is the editor-in-chief of The Weekly Throne, the alt-weekly newspaper Annie works for. At first he frustrates her by passively blowing off her pitches and asking her to keep working her way up, but by the fourth episode, the one titled “Pool” he begins a crusade against fatness. After learning The Weekly Thorn can save “a buttload of money” if the staff can “pry [their] cheese-thighs off the couch more than once a week” he gets rid of the vending machines and requires the staff to do “one heart healthy grouptivity once a month.” At the first “grouptivity” Gabe mutters “lazy bodies lazy minds” under is breath. He goes on to question whether Annie takes work seriously and tell her that “success is about an effort” and that “[she] didn’t [try] today.”

Through Gabe, the show pushes people who believe they are fighting against dominant culture to see that they still have biases they need to work on. Gabe is portrayed as a gen-x, ex-punk, and “feminist” through jokes about being the “original bassist in Bikini Kill,” by wearing band t-shirts for bands like Quasi (Janet Weiss of Sleater-Kinney fame’s band), and the fact that Gabe is played by John Cameron Mitchell who is an queer gen-x icon in his own right. We are led to believe that Gabe’s work was once gritty and boundary pushing. He claims when he was Annie’s age he was already “burnin’ shit down and fuckin shit up.” But, what we see now is someone who was on the right side of history, but lost his way as he became older and more financially stable. He is a former radical who is hindering Annie’s growth professionally and personally.

The way Gabe treats Annie at The Weekly Thorne is terrible. Shrill uses Annie and Gabe’s work relationship to drive Annie to find self confidence. The thing is for women work is not just another place for interpersonal relationships. It is a place that provides people with an income and (hopefully) benefits. Individuals need these to survive. In Shrill Annie never once thinks about the financial ramifications of her actions. At work she is not very professional. She is seen sitting on tables, hugging her boss when he gives her an assignment, pestering him about pitches, and posts an article to the paper’s site without permission. While some workplaces are significantly more informal than others, Annie’s behavior at work does not make it appear as though she values her job. Gabe is by no accounts a good boss and she has every right to be upset with the way he is treating her, but it is still fascinating to me that Annie never once seems concerned about the possibility of losing her job. She even quits in a fit of rage in the last episode. It is known that fat women face discrimination when they are applying for jobs and full time jobs in any media industry are nearly impossible to find these days. There is never a moment where Annie stops and worries about what the implications of leaving her job would be. Sure she stood up for herself, but at what cost? She walked away from an income and health insurance without batting an eyelash. What other millennial women who works in media could do that?

Annie and Fran’s financial situation remains a mystery throughout the six episodes. How is it that two marginalized women in creative careers can have very little financial anxiety? The only inkling of concern comes from Fran when she asks Annie “Are you rich? That’s like $50 every time you have sex with Ryan” when she finds out Annie has been taking the morning after pill every time she has sex with Ryan. Annie never addresses this, she is rightfully preoccupied with the abortion she needs to have, but it still leaves the viewer wondering how she is finacially staying afloat.

Annie’s spending on the morning after pill is not the only unexplained expense in the show. A quick google search revealed that Annie and Fran live in a home that last sold in 2016 for $500,158 and rents for similar houses in the same neighborhood are around $2400 a month. It is unclear how they can afford to live there with Annie working for a small alt-weekly newspaper and Fran cutting people’s hair out of her house. It’s even more baffling when you add in the fact that Fran does not even require payment for her work. The only time we see her compinstated for her work she is paid in stolen clothes. How do these two afford a multi-bedroom house in Portland, Oregon, a place that is notorious for unaffordable housing, while working in independent publishing and freelance hair styling?

The walls of Annie and Fran’s home are adorned with art prints like this one that used to be sold at Otherwild and Fran is often spotted in Wildfang overalls and coveralls. Both brands have become trendy in recent years and are recognizable in queer urban circles as marker for a type of queer financial stability. Wildfang coveralls are the velour Juicy Couture track suit of lesbian culture. Rachel Syme explains that the “Juicy’s suit was just pricey enough to radiate status, but attainable enough to become a part of the everyday wardrobes of thousands of high-school girls.” Wildfang’s clothes do the same thing for queer women. Fran’s $188 coveralls signal to queer women watching that she is financially stable, yet still relatable, but it is never addressed how she got this way.

Annie quits her job in a fit of rage after Gabe writes a rebuttal to her article claiming her fatness. In this moment we see Annie stand up for herself. She calls Gabe a “bully” and tells him he is “stomp[ing] over an entire group of people.” We are supposed to cheer Annie on in this moment—she has finally began to believe in herself—but she just walks out of her job without any real concern about her future. This moment is the climax of the season. But what is she going to do now? Study after study has found that fat women face major discrimination when applying for jobs; especially in the media industry. I am proud of her for standing up for herself, but I do not see how any real person could do that without some type of financial safety net.

For fat women and queer women Annie and Fran appear to be wonderful role models. Annie is smart, and stylish, and finding her voice in a way many of us hope to and Fran is strong, and unwavering in her sexuality and standards. Shrill does a wonderful job creating inspiring role models, but Annie and Fran’s lives are impossible to replicate in everyday life. Throughout the season we see Annie strutting around Portland in a collection of adorable and perfectly tailored dresses. It turns out that almost all of Annie’s clothes were custom made for the show by costume designer Amanda Needham. Fran’s strength is a linchpin of the show and she is portrayed as the foil to Annie. In her review of Shrill Emily Nussbaum explains that Fran “specialize in brassy self-assertion, a bravado that doubles as a shield and as a weapon.” and later explains that it’s Annie’s “niceness ... that fuels the show.” Fran’s self-assertion comes from her ability to opt-out of interacting with straight men, other than her brother or the occasional boy Annie brings home. Shrill leads us to believe that Fran’s lesbianism is what makes her that brash woman who refuses take shit and this is why she is able to empower Annie. Although all women are taught throughout their lives to seek the validation of men; coming out as a lesbian frees you from some of those expectations. Although male bosses, relatives, and friends still exist; there is no longer the expectation that one of the men in your life could be your future partner and this alleviates some of the compulsory need to please them. Annie on the other hand still believes she needs to placate a boy and win over a boss and those needs hinder her ability to stand up for herself. The thing is that queerness does not suddenly alleviate all of those pressures. As much as I would love to exist in a world without problematic straight men and the patriarchal nonsense they bring with them it is not possible. Fran has created a life where she only cuts cute girls’ hair and somehow still has a roof over her head a wardrobe full of $200 Wildfang overalls. Her queerness and lack of traditional employment may allow her to accept herself without pause, but the lack of hardship or pushback she receives is implausible and unlike the experiences of any queer women I have ever known or heard about.

Shrill represents a radical hope for fat women’s futures. It presents a nuanced depiction of the everyday struggles of fat women, but refuses to complicate its narrative with the broader and more systemic sexist and homophobic struggles fat women face. By diving deep into specificities it allows Annie to overcome her personal problems but misses the mark on addressing larger structural ones. In Shrill’s universe, Annie can quit her job without ever acknowledging how hard it is for fat women to get hired in the first place and Fran can live a blissful queer life in Portland without ever facing a racist or homophobic person. And both of them never have a financial care in the world while living in one of the most expensive cities and working in underpaying careers. I wish the lessons taught in Shrill were applicable to everyday life. I wish I could call out a fat-phobic boss on the internet without the fear of losing my employment and possibly my health insurance. I wish I could only cut cute girls’ hair and still have a roof over my head and some of the most stylish clothes in queer culture today. But alas I do not live in the world Shrill has created and I do not think I ever will.

#meredith salisbury #television #shrill #tv #pop culture #queer

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morganeuk · 5 years

Text

The Doctor & the Librarian. (Sherlock AU)

Part 4: Want to meet?

(Read Part 3: The British Government interferes on Tumblr)

(Read Part 2: Brainy is the new sexy on Tumblr)

(Read Part 1: Kissing is not required on Tumblr)

Summary: After talking online with a flirty doctor from London, Sherlock - librarian at Oxford University - can't stop thinking about him! It won't do! Fortunately, Lestrade asked his help on a case. But poor Sherlock can't work with Anderson... don't worry, he knows the perfect substitute!

In his brother's private sedan, Sherlock remained silent for the hour-long drive back to London. His brother, content that he was back to a somewhat 'normal' version of himself whatever the reason, respected the privacy of his thoughts. He was overall satisfied with his younger brother's relationship with DI Lestrade. The NSY officer was now asking for Sherlock's assistance on a more regular basis, forcing the librarian to skip work on occasion. Of course, as Mycroft was a schoolmate with the dean of the university, Sherlock's job would never be in jeopardy as long as he wanted it. The older Holmes' end goal was of course that Sherlock ceases playing at being a librarian! The thing with Doctor Watson may also become a positive influence in his life, possibly even bring him back to a more active role against our enemies...

Once in front of Lauriston Garden, the crime scene where Lestrade is expecting him, Sherlock leaps out of Mycroft's car as soon as he can. Even though he wasn't expecting any thanks from his younger brother, the government man was irritated by his sibling's attitude. But, as usual, he brushed it off and instructs his chauffeur to continue to his club and let the DI deal with him.

A vast police perimeter was surrounding a disaffected building. Once beautiful flats, the edifice was now abandoned and surrounded by junk. Passing under the yellow tape, Lestrade's assistant Donovan spots him at once. "What are you doing here, Freak? Shouldn't you been sorting books in a basement somewhere?" Sally Donovan despised Sherlock to a fault. His condescending attitude towards NSY and the fact that he was nearly always bloody right, was a personal affront to her.

The hostility was cut short by the arrival of Lestrade who motioned the young man to follow him inside. "Hi Sherlock, thanks for getting here so quick... How's village life?" The DI, still wanting to convince Sherlock to return to the city, was always teasing the detective about Oxford.

"It's as charming as always, Geof, how's your adoring wife?" the amateur detective replied with an innocent smile. He knew perfectly well that Lestrade's wife was having affair after affair, despite Lestrade's wish to save their marriage. Sherlock knew he was treading on dangerous territory, but the teasing about Oxford and his 'desk job' was getting old so... Fair game. Lestrade, not mentioning that he effectively found his wife with one of her co-workers a few days before and that his bloody name is Greg, turns on his heel and strides toward the entrance of the building. "Who's on forensic?" Sherlock asks before moving a step further.

"... Anderson." The DI sighs heavily "Could you please just this once try to ignore his shortcomings and work together!" He knows that Anderson and Holmes are far from being friends, but he had hoped... But it was too late, Sherlock was already on the defensive, not wanting to deal with the man.

"He won't work with me, and you know it!"

"Stop nagging him about everything and he will!" An exasperated Lestrade retorted, finally losing his temper.

"He's useless, I can't use any of the photographs he takes, not a single one of his ridiculous analyses... His 'work' is utter garbage!" Of course, Anderson chose that moment to walk out of the building and overheard everything. The loathing between them was mutual and obvious to everyone around them.

It won't do... Sherlock sighs internally.

"Do as you want, but you'll have to deal with Anderson, I have no one else." and the DI went inside, leaving Holmes outside.

Argggg! GOD! This is a good one, a serial killer I'm certain of it... But Anderson... I can't do it... But I have no other option, I need a medical opinion... A flash of a blond doctor, not remotely annoying, and cleverer than most passes in front of his eyes. Taking out his phone, he texts without even thinking.

I'm in London. Want to meet? - SH

The reply comes quickly.

Sherlock? - JW

Know anyone else with this phone number? - SH

Sorry, stupid question. ;-) - JW

When? - JW

Now. 3 Lauriston Garden. Ask for Lestrade. - SH

Lauriston Garden? Is this a restaurant? Who's Lestrade? - JW

Sherlock? - JW

But it was too late, Sherlock was already inside, following the DI up a circular staircase. A bickering Anderson tried to block the way and slow them down, not wanting Sherlock anywhere his corpse. After a few long minutes, they were finally able to access the third floor where an apartment was highly illuminated by huge spotlights. Before entering the room, Lestrade slowly and carefully puts on a coverall and gloves before asking Sherlock to do the same. With an exasperated look, the young man advanced towards the corpse, being careful to not touch anything.

"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade explains, knowing that bringing an amateur consultant on a crime scene can cause him problems.

Ignoring the DI, the young man murmurs dismissively "May need longer..."

"Her name’s Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her."

In the middle of the room, Sherlock's focus turns to the woman in pink. Everything in pink. What an awful gaudy shade of pink, Sherlock mused, followed by I wonder if John, Dr. Watson, is coming... Distracted by the idea of John being there with him, he can't restrain his instinct to snap at the policemen around him."Shut up!"

An offended Lestrade protested, "I didn’t say anything!"

"You were thinking. It’s annoying." Sherlock, closing himself to anything outside the body in front of him, stays silent for many minutes while Lestrade checked his watch anxiously.

From the bottom of the stairs, they heard Donovan below. "Boss! Someone here, he said he's looking for you! It's about the Freak!"

Sherlock's heart somersaults... John!

Less than half an hour before, John was relaxing in his flat. Drinking tea and eating biscuits Mrs. Hudson made earlier. He was trying to focus on his book but it was at no avail. Last night conversation with William, no Sherlock!, was still fresh in his mind. Oh My God... I can't believe it... He was actually there, at the end of whatever connects computer together! He texted with me and let me flirt with him without evaporating in the night. Sherlock... More precisely Sherlock Holmes. An unusual name, for an unusual man... He discovers little on the Internet, but enough to convince him that the name was real. He was listed as a librarian in the university directory. There he is, in black and white, 'Sherlock Holmes, BChem MLIS' . He found two blogs under the name, one about data mining - the concept of being able to program a computer to actually read and analyze a text if he understands it correctly! - and one about the science of deduction. That was different... but he reminds himself how quickly the librarian deduced he was an ICU doctor. John was wondering what else the man would be able to find if they meet. Curiously, he was unable to find an image of him, there was nothing that could tell him what the man looked like.

As he puts down his mug, his phone chimes with an elegant group of violin notes. Taken by surprise, his mug misses the table and crashes to the floor. It was Sherlock's ringtone! Putting away the thought of how pathetic to have a special ringtone for a man you never meet... He opens his phone.

I'm in London. Want to meet? - SH

His positive reply was instantaneous as a brilliant YES crossed his mind! He took five minutes to brush his teeth and refresh is after-shave, changed his t-shirt for a nicer shirt and flew down the stairs to find a cab. The less than 5 miles trip to Lauriston Garden (Where the hell am I going?) was done in record time as John offered a generous bonus to the cabbie. Less than 25 minutes after Sherlock's mysterious text, he was in front of... an old decrepit building with half a dozen police cars and yellow tape everywhere. He walks up to a woman who was managing the scene, phone in hand. "Excuse me, officer, I'm looking for..." John reads the text again, "Lestrade?"

"Who are you? Why do you want to talk to the DI? Are you a bloody journalist? We have nothing to declare for now!" She turns her back to John and starts to talk on her phone.

"I am Doctor John Watson. This was the instruction that I received, to ask for Lestrade. Maybe it would help you if I told you that I am here to see Sherlock Holmes?" John was unsure of what was happening, but he was certain that he would fight for the chance to meet the man he has dreamed of for the last three days!

"Holmes? What do you want with the 'Freak'?" Donovan was now surveying John with a curious gaze. "Do you know him? Are you a... friend?" The mere idea of Holmes having a friend brings a laughing tone to Donovan's voice.

Without knowing the woman, the doctor instantly hates her with a passion. What's her problem? He decided to omit the fact that he has never seen the man and simply reply "Yes, I am a friend and he texted me to join him here. If you are unable to help me, I can talk with your superior, DI Lestrade?." He used what he called his captain voice to snap the woman out of her sarcastic attitude.

Donovan, out of arguments and under the influence of John's commanding voice, lifted the yellow tape and leads Watson to the base of the stairs, then yells for Lestrade. She shows Watson the stairs and simply muttered "third floor," before leaving him alone.

Looking at the flights of stairs, John screams inside. Of course, it's on the third floor. His leg was doing better and he had left his walking stick at home, but fifty-ish steps... that was a challenge. Putting his hand on the rail, he starts the ascension that will bring him to, he hopes, Sherlock Holmes.

At Donovan's announcement, Sherlock, to Lestrade's astonishment, was having difficulty containing himself. He jumped up from the floor where he was nearly sprawled on, removed any lint on his already spotless coat, passed a nervous hand in his curly hair, and withdrew further in the room. Not knowing what to do... What's happening? Is this the man Mycroft mentioned? If so, this is going to be funny!

John, now on the landing of the third floor, inhaled and exhaled profoundly, trying to relax and compose himself. He walks in the room and, seeing Lestrade first, he was impressed by the stature of the man, his silver fox look, his smart and cocky smile but... he was also disappointed. The man, disregarding the protective kit he was wearing, didn't have the elegant and posh demeanour he imagined. He was a nice looking man and seemed friendly but John's gut didn't react at all. He was a regular bloke with whom he can go to the pub for a beer or two, but nothing more... no 'sparkles'. Kind of sad, his expectations were maybe too high, he extends his hand to the man. "Hi, I'm John Watson, nice to meet you...".

Lestrade politely takes John's hand before putting the poor man out of his misery. "Hi, John, nice to meet you, too. I'm DI Greg Lestrade... You're here to meet Sherlock if I'm right?" and he turns towards Sherlock who had frozen in a corner of the room where the doctor can't see him. John, following Lestrade's gaze, understands his mistake and finds Sherlock's eyes that were gazing at him reverently. Hypnotized by the grey and blue eyes that were watching him, he registered unconsciously the tall elegant frame, the soft curly hair...

Oh God, I'm in deep trouble.

Read the rest of the story here! http://archiveofourown.org/series/770607

#johnlock #playing with old stuff instead of writing my WIP

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savedbythenotepad · 6 years

Text

His car needed to be serviced and this had been confirmed by Yakov who merely blinked when Viktor told him the car engine had been making a weird noise.

“What does it sound like?” Yakov asked as he handed Viktor a bowl of warm soup with a spoon that was almost disappearing into it. It was one of those days where Viktor had decided to swing by Yakov’s house for the mere pleasure of annoying him. But what that really meant was he just wanted to see the man who was like a grandfather to him.

They were seated at the small kitchen island and Viktor scooped up a bit of soup before gently blowing on it. He then slowly slurped it and ignored the exasperated look of Yakov’s face for the sake of humming happily at the taste. It definitely tasted like home and Viktor immediately wondered if Yakov would have enough for him to take back with him.

“It sounds like an old man coughing,” Viktor described, pausing in the eating of his soup to act it out. He did it best impression of what the car sounded as he placed his hand over his mouth and exaggeratedly coughed. “It sounds like you when you got that chest infection.”

Yakov could do nothing except sigh as he spooned some soup into his mouth. “Sounds like you need to get it checked before it gets too bad,” he replied before pointing the now empty spoon at Viktor. “When was the last time you got that car serviced?”

Viktor stopped in the scooping of his soup into his mouth and blinked. “I’m supposed to get it serviced?”

Yakov groaned and rested his forehead in his free hand while remembering to give Viktor the number to the garage of a good friend of his.

----

It was on an early Saturday morning that Viktor drove his car towards the garage that Yakov had pointed him in the direction of. The roads were still fairly quiet for seven in the morning but it was wonderfully peaceful as he rolled down the windows to enjoy the morning’s cool air.

His car seemed fine but it did make that same coughing noise a few times while he was driving there. It was like his baby was sick and the truth of that was quite upsetting.

Viktor knew he wasn’t the best person when it came to car maintenance but he had been so busy over the last couple of months. He had business deals to agree or decline to and events that helped build his networking contacts. There had been no time to think about taking care of his car which was horrifying considering all the pressure he had placed on her this month.

“Don’t worry,” Viktor started as he patted the stirring wheel with a hand of care. “I’ll get you fixed and healed in no time.”

His car made the cough-like sound again and he sighed as he continued to make his way towards the car doctors.

----

He was greeted by a tall man with tanned skin and dark thick hair that was tied in a ponytail. The man was dressed in a pair of khaki overalls which were worn fully with the sleeves of them rolled up. His smile was wide and warming and Viktor found himself smiling in return as they shook his hands.

The man introduced himself as Celestino and he had a friendly aura as he listened intently as Viktor tried his best to describe what was wrong with his car.

“Seems like engine trouble,” Celestino told him with a firm nod. “But since it only started happening about a month ago, it shouldn’t be too bad.” He looked towards Viktor’s car which was parked outside. Not even the sun could outshine the hot pink coat of paint that the Cadillac was sporting. “I’ll get one of my best men on the job and it should be done within the day.”

Viktor gave a breath of relief and smiled gratefully. “Thank you so much,” he said as he rested a hand upon his chest. “I was afraid that something was really wrong with it.”

Celestino shook his head. “Nah. It’s a simple fix!” he replied, smiling widely and boy, Viktor wondered how he and Yakov were even friends. Celestino was cheerful light compared to Yakov’s brooding darkness. But it was nice to see that Yakov did have good people in his life and comforting to know that the old man didn’t spend most of his time at home alone.

...He wondered if Celestino had any embarrassing stories about Yakov.

It would definitely be worth asking.

The garage was just beginning to open as more staff began to arrive. Some of them were already dressed in their coveralls and ready to go while others disappeared into a room at the far corner of the shop. It was probably a dressing room, Viktor guessed as he sat in Celestino’s office and watched those who came through.

Celestino was busy greeting his employees and ensuring that they knew what they were doing today as he walked across the floor. He then stopped someone in particular on their way in and Viktor couldn’t exactly see them due to their back facing the window that saw into the workshop. But he could see they were wearing a red cap and saw a tuft of black hair which stuck out at the back.

They talked among themselves for a few moments before Celestino pointed towards the office and the person moved to look in that direction.

A pair of big brown eyes stared at him and they were set on a face that carried wonderfully slightly chubby cheeks and pale pink lips. He was dressed in an oversized jean jacket with a yellow sweater underneath and it was those clothes that made him look so small in comparison to anyone else. The height difference between him and Celestino wasn’t much but Viktor knew that if he stood next to him that the gap would be bigger.

Then Viktor’s heart jumped when the man waved him at him with the most gorgeous smile he had ever seen. The corners of his eyes crinkled and the apples of his cheeks made more pronounced which made Viktor want to gently squeeze and smush them.

All Viktor could do lamely wave back with his cheeks tinted with a soft flush.

“This is Yuuri! He’ll be working on your car!” Celestino shouted so Viktor could hear him through the glass. “One of my best guys!” He grinned widely and Viktor noted the flush of embarrassment that coated Yuuri’s cheeks as he lightly hit Celestino for saying that.

Viktor blinked before a smile quirked his lips.

What a good day to come to the mechanics.

#viktuuri #victuuri #victuri #yuri on ice #yoi #viktor nikiforov #yuuri katsuki #mechanic au #mywriting #fic

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trendsdresscom · 4 years

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The history of the jumpsuit

Let us first define the terms: what is the difference between a jumpsuit, a boiler suit (or overall/coverall) and a bib-and-brace overall (or dungarees)?

A jumpsuit is a slim-fitting, one-piece garment that covers the arms and legs. It was originally created in 1919 as a functional garment for parachuters to, yes, jump from planes in. The boiler suit/overall/coverall is looser fitting and more utilitarian. Worn by men who maintained coal-fire burners, the male boiler suit was first adopted by female munitions workers during the Second World War, when a more form-fitting suit with bloomer-like legs was designed to better fit women’s bodies. Dungarees were invented by Levi Strauss and Jacob Davis in the 1890s.

Most likely because of its slimmer cut, the jumpsuit was the first of the three workwear garments to gain a fashionable following.

American pilot Charles August Lindbergh with his wife, 1932

In the 1930s, fashion designer Elsa Schiaparelli began creating jumpsuits for elegant women. Her one-pieces were much talked about, but were probably only worn by a select few. The sporty styles by the American designer Vera Maxwell in the mid-1940s may have found their way onto the street, but were still considered a novelty item. While the jumpsuits worn by women during the Second World War were mainly utilitarian – Rosie the Riveter set the example – by the 1950s, some American designers such as Bonnie Cashin were experimenting with evening jumpsuits. But it took another decade for the fashion to truly become popular for day and eveningwear.

“We Can Do It!” Rosie the Riveter Poster

The jumpsuit made its first appearance in Vogue in September 1964. Photographed by Irving Penn, the brown wool-jersey one-piece by Guy Laroche was paired with a sealskin jacket. It made a bold fashion statement and a few months later it had become a trend, with two “moon shot”-style jumpsuits in white jersey featuring as Vogue patterns in January 1965.

The jumpsuit made its first appearance in Vogue in September 1964.

A fashion model wearing black flare trousers crepe jumpsuit by Yves Saint Laurent, Paris, France, 19th August 1968.

Singer and actress Cher poses for a Fashion Session in a Bob Mackie Creation on April 9, 1978 in Los Angeles, California

The late 1960s and 1970s were prime years for the jumpsuit. There were sportswear styles for day, and leather one-pieces or embellished designs for evening. Almost every designer had his or her own version of the jumpsuit, from Oscar de la Renta and Christian Dior to André Courrèges and Yves Saint Laurent. The 1970s jumpsuit was unisex, beloved by slim-hipped men and women. Cher and Elvis adopted the style as part of their stage personas and Studio 54 regulars danced to disco in Halston’s chic designs.

Princess Diana and Prince William in Spain, August 9, 1987

American designer Geoffrey Beene declared it “the ballgown of the next century”

By 1980, the jumpsuit had become so popular that the American designer Geoffrey Beene declared it “the ballgown of the next century”. But the style may have reached saturation as it fell out of favour until the early 2000s. Then in 2002, Nicolas Ghesquière, who was at Balenciaga at the time, began experimenting with fabrics and patterns, sending an updated jumpsuit down the runway. And thus the style was relaunched. Easy to wear, versatile and a little bit feisty, the jumpsuit has become a modern wardrobe staple.

Also on Vogue.fr:

Vogue’s fashion encyclopedia: The white wedding dress

Vogue’s fashion encyclopedia: The history of sneakers

Source link

The post The history of the jumpsuit appeared first on Trends Dress.

from Trends Dress https://trendsdress.com/the-history-of-the-jumpsuit/

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mechagalaxy · 5 years

Text

Sten Hugo Hiller - 627184: Mountain Climbing Mecha Combat #1092

(By Sten Hugo Hiller - 627184)

Mountain Climbing Mecha Combat #1092

Brought to you by ANN

Highlighting the November 3351 Nifty Chrono

Just after the end of the Selfsame event, the Gaming authorities announced the upcoming competition:

-A Nifty Chrono.

As usual when we have a Mech specific event, the lower tops had different rules than the rest of us.

On the two lowest tops there were no restrictions whatsoever, if you could get a Mech into the formation it was accepted.

On the nine highest tops however, only the 40 ton Nifthel would be legal, not even a sidekick or two was allowed.

For me that was no problem at all. My first really succesfull formation, the 40 ton Snoozers had once upon a time consisted of only Nifthels, and I still have four dozens of them.

So I signed up immediately, and returned to the compound to give my Nifthel pilots the good news that their services would once again be needed.

That was when events started to go horribly wrong.

When one of the Star Leaguers return after winning one of the KotM events, there is usually a crowd waiting.

Champagne is popped and the winner sprayed, and a big party (paid for by the winner) is held.

As my forces had been unable to secure the win, no such ceremony was expected, but upon arrival at my quarters a crowd had gathered.

In place of the champagne shower, I was hit by bucketfulls of salt, icy water. Shockingly enough by itself, but the live wire nearby made it a hair-raising experience.

As I stood stunned in place, the group of officers who had recently been convinced to help battle the paperworkmonster appeared.

As to avoid unpleasant discharges and damage to equipment, they quickly relieved me of my sidearm, locator, tools and comunicator. Then they frogmarched me to ammobunker 32.

It had been emptied of all ordenance a week ago in preparation for installment of some advanced firefighting equipment, and was supposed to be empty.

But there was a desk and a chair there, as well as hundreds of crates of paperwork. I was unceremonelly dropped in the chair, and was told they would let me out, maybe, when this batch was done.

After they had left, there was not much to do except dig in at the work. Those bunkers are almost unbreachable even by Advanced mecha weaponry, and the comunication devices had been removed as well.

All that was left was a camera, no doubt recently installed by the cabal who had brought me here to keep track of my progress.

Those Bunkers are as mentioned pretty secure. they are also made for maintaining ammunition in peak condition. In other Words, regular temperature (12 degrees Celsius) and 40% humidity.

I quickly stripped, and wrung most of the water out of my clothing, then put it back on. Sitting naked at the desk would surely lead to hypothermia, but if my body heat was trapped inside the coveralls I might stay warm enough to be functional.

After four hours or so, as the still wet clothing had stolen enough body heat, my fingers grew to numb to hold the stylus any longer. I got up and did some PT, but my strenght were flagging. I managed to work up a decent sweat before exhaustion forced me back to the chair, but that sweat soon cooled and helped drain my bodyheat away

Unable to keep awake, I drifted off into unconsciousness.

And woke up shivering and sweating as rough hands swayed me back and forth, slapped my cheeks and pinched me everywhere.

Rescue had arrived in the persons of my Nifthel pilots.

As they had heard of the event being held, and not been called up, they had launched a base wide search for me. If I was trying to refuse them their shot at glory, they would find me and force me to the mountain.

Semiconcious, I was dragged to the hangar, and one of the pilots entered the Cockpit along with me to make sure we went to the arena.

As we arrived, the force that had been left to hold a spot had been pushed to the foothills, but a couple quick strikes saw us on the top.

Art which point the A.I. measuring my Health (among other things) sent a distress signal.

Normally such a distress signal is sent to the units C.O. but as this was the C.O. it got routed to the nearest friendly Commander, in this case our chief medico; Jorge.

He rushed to my side, and over the protests of my crew had me shipped back to the infirmary immediately to battle the developing pnumonia.

Our top boss, Tony, came to see how I fared, and wondered how I had come to such a state.

I truthfully told him (not the whole truth) it was working on the paperwork, and getting all sweaty doing it.

As to his concern about how it was to be done now, I told him of those officers who recently had pitched in, and how well they had done. (Some merit badges were even suggested)

He brightened up, and said such officers surely belonged to staff, and went to tell them of their promotion and new duties.

The treatment worked, and soon the need to do somthing got me out of bed. A trip to the Circuits soon had me calling up my top formation to kick butts and secure Crystals. Unfortunately, the sickness had made me to woozy to remeber to switch back to my Nifthels, which caused my crew on the mountain to be thrown off the top and down into the foothills.

It took hours before a delegation of them managed to find me and get force me to get their Nifthels back to the top.

To make matters worse, that happened yet another time, and when the Nifthels were back on the top that time, the score situation was looking bleak.

Both Colin Toenjes of the Heroes and the Brotherhood of Arcane Dragon`s Darryl Proctor had kept active on the top, and as a result their totals was now thousands higher than mine. There were still over two dozen scorerounds left, but unless someone else sent them to the foothills and kept them there, both would outscore my forces.

Well, that did not happen, and my crew were not happy about the final placement.

Nothing to it. Write it up as SOP; In a Chrono, ALWAYS get back in formation immediately after doing whatever task had you out of it.

At least my monitoring equipment had kept working, and as the event closed I knew the highest scorers had been:

Div 1 342+ (22 Commanders): Bernard Johnson, Warlock (+8570)

2: Jeff Haas

3: Shawn Wretham

4: Ben Rail

5: Sal Vezzosi Jr

6: Claude Poirier

7: Sherriff Leary Wretham

8: Robert C Goetz Sr

9: Daniel Scott

10: Gary Muenzel

Div 2 -341 (18 Commanders): Were Wolf, M&L Blood Wolves (+15010)

Div 3 -218 (15 Commanders): Colin Toenjes, Heroes (+2520

Div 4 -175 (14 Commanders): Larry Tsang, HF Dragoons (+19520)

Div 5 -143 (20 Commanders): Eman Eliforp, Mad Scientist.7 (+14290)

Div 6 -102 (21 Commanders): Spartia Mechapoulos, Ronins (+21670)

Div 7 -76 (22 Commanders): Ann Kristin Hiller, Sacrificial Lambs (+14350)

Div 8 -56 (14 Commanders): Alan Lau, MurderMechs (+22860)

Div 9 -38 (13 Commanders): NameOfProfile, Mad Scientist 1 (+13260)

Div 10 -23 (31 Commanders): Iain Bryce, **R.V.** (+8370)

Div 11 -13 (18 Commanders): Karen_H, Cold Dead Hands (+21980)

On the nine tops where only Nifthels were to compete

4(3S)+1S+5(G,3S)+3(2S)+3(G)+2(G,1S)+4(G,2S)+1S+1(G)= Five Golds, thirteen Silvers and six Bronzes were awarded to Commanders who, as the event ended, had formations looking to be legal.

The remaining winners obviously had one or more non-Nifthels in their formations.

Total Contestants: 208

Total medals claimed: 161 (of 165 possible)

Compared to the Selfsame we just had, participation rose by fifty-eight Commanders. It seem the combination of long sign-up times and Chrono is what Commanders like.

But, even though the total number rose, on some of the tops there were to few Commanders to claim all the prizes.

A total of four Bronzes from a trio of tops had to be returned for resmelting after the award ceremony.

The highest score achieved in this event was on K7 where Sacrificial Lambs` Ann Kristin Hiller stayed on the top for sventy-nine scorerounds and collected 97 850 points.

Highest gap to the runner-up was on K8 where Alan Lau of the MurderMechs had an advantage of 22 860.

Lowest score needed for a medal was on K8 where 1320 was enough to get a Bronze.

Eight Golds were secured by margins in excess of 12 000, while only one was decided by less than 3000.

This indicates pretty strong winners, but how claose was the struggle for the lesser prizes? To find out, we take a look at the differences between the medal tiers in this event:

..Silver to Bronze....Bronze to nothing

Div 1 ......6460......………..3740

Div 2 ......4050...…............2900

Div 3 ......2420...….........…..N/A

Div 4 ......6380...….........…..N/A

Div 5 ......4830...….........…..240

Div 6 ......5460...…............4420

Div 7 ......6620...….........…..420

Div 8 ....22200...….........…..N/A

Div 9 ......1930...….........…..N/A

Div 10 ….5440...…............1500

Div 11 ….8880...…............2640

Overall, solid walls. But two of the seven contested Bronzes were decided by less than 500. A difference easily achieved by signing up early.

This was one of the non-events.

None of the clans got more than one win. None of the unaligned Commanders got a win. None of the last events winners got a follow-up win.

Upcoming event: Quadruple Rainbow

This is the most inclusive of the Rainbow events.

A Commander is allowed to use up to four Mechs of each model.

Event ends October 4 between 0000 and 0030 New York Time

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askkayleefrye · 7 years

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After missing its 2016 iteration, I was so happy to be back at Wizard World Chicago this year!. Like all Chicago Comic Cons, this event took place at the Donald E. Stephens Convention Center in Rosemont, IL August 24th-27th.

I attended with my sister, Little Dove Cosplay, who was showcasing a new Sansa dress on Friday & Saturday… but I am getting ahead of myself.

Since we were presenting two panels, we picked up our badges in the ‘Exhibitor/Vendor’ section in Hall B. In past years, we were able to pick these up from the VIP or other sections, but this year we waited longer in line.

On Thursday evening, we walked the con floor and established what we wanted to see before heading to the “Make a Nerdy Living” panel. This panel featured The Pumpkin Geek, Amanda Meyer, Emily Evans, Scott Larson, Onrie Kompon, and later Mogchelle showed up (who was overbooked and hustled from panel to panel with nary a moment’s rest!). I was really impressed by what The Pumpkin Geek had to say; he was incredibly personable and gave good advice, like how reaching out over social media allowed him to save money traveling to different cons by staying on folks’ couches. Despite the panel being titled “Make a Nerdy Living” (emphasis mine), the majority of the panelists have a “day job” that pays the bills separately from their nerdy passion projects. This disappointed me because I still don’t know how to turn my passion into something that pays the bills. With six panelists, the conversation felt crowded and no one really got enough time to talk. Friday, Tess wore her X-Men: Days of Future Past Jean Grey cosplay, super comfy for a short day at the con, and I wore my coveralls.

On Friday, with an increased attendance, security had folks go through several metal detectors set up outside. Though some lines were dedicated to folks without bags, everyone filed through whichever line they could. Tess was dressed as Sansa in her black, season 6 dress (the one with all the feathers) and had her trusty direwolf purse with her (it’s name is Lady), and I wore my blue silk jacket and flip flops along with my coveralls for more of a pilot episode look. Once we got through security, I hosted my panel on ‘The Expanding Firefly ‘Verse,’ which is always shiny. This year, I incorporated new info on upcoming board games and some rumors about the fabled Firefly Online. I met with a bunch of other Firefly cosplayers for pictures with them before going to Artist’s Alley. This year (unlike my last Wizard World Chicago in 2015), the Artists Alley had its own huge area between vendors. I think this was a nice set-up, though I didn’t care for the second floor of the convention center being only cars and a haunted house. Oh well, it meant me and my sister didn’t have to crowd on the escalator!

We closed our Friday night watching “Dungeons and Dragons Improv,” featuring a Bloodrager Dwarf named Buttsteak, a punny bard halfling named Matthew McConaughey whose signature tune was “Take On Me” by Aha, and a shapeshifting gnome by the name of Cuddles who could only turn into marbles. These three were on a quest to rid Detroit of the Unicorn plague, fight a Spiderman-o-taur (half bull, half spider-man), and get a lapdance from Striptease the Unicorn, but in the end it turned out they might have been part of the problem. We left the con with tears of laughter streaming down our faces.

On Saturday, we returned bright and early so I could catch a panel called “Intro to Podcasting.” Despite several experts (David Vox Mullen, John ‘Bear’ Kolb, Patrick Newson, Paul Hinic, Nick Mataragas) clearly knowing what they were talking about, the panel was not very planned out. The panelists didn’t follow an outline and it was more of a Q&A than an introduction… and they kept pimping their new website which is a podcasting platform. Vox Mullen advocated paying for all of your own things (a website to host, etc.), and spoke most of the time, leaving very little time for Hinic and Mataragas to speak. I don’t think this panel was wasted time, but it definitely wasn’t what I was hoping for or expecting.

Saturday, I wore my screen accurate floral top with my coveralls, and we naturally went to see “One Season and a Movie: A Conversation with Summer Glau & Jewel Staite.” The panel started late, but it was refreshing to hear Lindi of PureFandom instruct everyone in the Q&A line for “No Personal Requests!” When asked where they would want their characters’ stories to go, Jewel answered that she wanted Kaylee and Simon to have lots of babies, and Summer offered River as babysitter. Jewel politely declined.

Jewel’s favorite episode was “Out of Gas,” while Summer’s was “Objects in Space.” “I don’t know if you can recapture something in the same way,” Summer said, when asked about a Serenity 2 focused on River. “I really respect what the show was.” Finally, if Summer could change one thing about Firefly, she’d wear shoes and brush her hair more. Ha!

After that panel ended, we headed down to Game Of Thrones Trivia, though sadly we didn’t participate (or win). It was a nice way to get excited about the season finale and hear speculations on how it would end. Tess was again wearing her black Sansa dress, and a lot of folks really loved it. After that, we went to the Creative Stage which was at the back of Artists’ Alley near a food station. I really like how this Creative Stage was set up and I think C2E2 could learn a thing or two from Wizard World. Not only was there more than one microphone, there was also an A/V set up to show a powerpoint! This was the first time I presented my panel “Getting Started With Etsy” and I was really glad to have Laura of Rebel Among the Stars Studios alongside to help me. We both have very different ways we use Etsy; she does it full time for a living, whereas I do it to fund going to conventions. We got some excellent questions and I can’t wait to see new Etsy stores that I hope were inspired by our info!

Sunday was a much more relaxed day since we were quite tired! We love that 5 Hour Energy has a booth at cons, because drinking those made us able to get through our last day! On Sunday, I wore my Elizabeth Swann cosplay and met up with friends (Sparrow Style Entertainment & Gormassmuss) who were both cosplaying Jack Sparrow! Since I was walking around with my sister as Sansa Stark, a lot of people thought I was a Game of Thrones character too. Whoops! I may have to start cosplaying Margaery again! Tess had opted for her pink King’s Landing Sansa dress, which she loves to wear because it makes her feel like a princess.

Overall, I had a really great time at Wizard World Chicago. I was excited to present both old and new panels, while spending time at a convention with my sister

My next convention is New York Comic Con, October 5-8th. Stay tuned for a panel announcement soon!

Like this article? Wanna support the work I do? Support me on Patreon or send me something from my wishlist!

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deansdirtylittlesecretsblog · 8 years

Text

The Arrangement: Part 2

Title: The Arrangement: Part 2

Summary: He’s a mechanic. She’s a lonely woman with more money than she knows what to do with. Fate brings them together and sparks fly. But only for six weeks. That’s the arrangement.

Author: Dean’s Dirty Little Secret

Characters: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Word Count: 2421

Warnings: Language, drinking, angst

Author’s Notes: This is part two of a multi-part series. Read Part 1 here. Shifts between multiple points of view.

Week One, Day One

“She broke your heart,” Sam grumbled. “Why would you put yourself through that again?”

“First of all, she didn’t break my heart, Sam,” Dean sighed, balling up the paper that had been wrapped around his burger and tossing it toward the trash can. “Second, she didn’t hire me to date her, she hired me to restore her father’s car. And third, we need the money. I’m taking the job. I’ll be fine.”

Sam gave him a knowing look. Dean wasn’t fooling him - he couldn’t, he knew him too well. If anyone knew how much he’d cared for Y/N, it was Sam.

But, Sam let it go; he didn’t want to push or browbeat his big brother. Besides, what was he going to say? He knew they needed the money, it would go a long way toward helping them with the mounting piles of bills. Law school wasn’t cheap and Dean insisted he go, follow his dreams, make something of himself, get himself an apple pie life. But it was tough, had been since Dean was eighteen and he was fourteen, when they’d lost both of their parents. Money like this didn’t come around everyday, and Sam knew they didn’t really have a choice. His brother would get up, go to work in the morning and every other morning for the next forty-one days, he’d fix up that damn car until it was perfect, then hopefully he’d walk away and not look back.

Just like Y/N had done to him.

Week One, Day Four

Six-thirty a.m. Another early start. He’d spent most of the last two days crawling all over the Camaro, trying to determine how exactly he wanted to approach the repairs. The car had obviously been in an accident, not as bad as the two that Baby had suffered through, but bad enough. Today was the day he was going to start taking her apart, piece by piece. He pulled to a stop in the center of the garage, put the Impala in park, and rubbed a hand over his face. He wished he’d stopped to grab some coffee; he’d been here until after ten last night, and he hadn’t gotten much sleep even after he was home, his brain in overdrive. But he’d still managed to crawl out of bed at five forty-five this morning, eat a bowl of cereal standing at the sink, and get on the road just a few minutes after six.

Dean pushed open Baby’s car door, and crawled out, the slam of the Impala’s door echoing in the cavernous garage. He shook his head as he walked the length of the garage to the desk in the corner. It drove him crazy that this place sat here overlooking the town, nearly empty, nothing but a black SUV and a busted ass Camaro inside. It easily could have held twenty or thirty cars, and may have at one time. But now it was nothing but a waste of space, a colossal waste, one that set his teeth on edge. He’d give his left arm for a place like this for his shop. He sighed heavily and tried to push the irritation away as he dropped his keys on the desk, along with his jacket, and pulled a clean pair of coveralls off of the shelf. Y/N hadn’t been lying when she’d said he would have everything he needed at his disposal.

He heard a door open and close in the back of the garage, the clock on the wall indicating the time as seven a.m. He’d heard the door at the same time the last two days. A few minutes later, Y/N appeared, two cups of coffee in her hands. She stopped in front of him and held one out.

“One sugar, no cream, right?” she said quietly.

He nodded, eyeing her warily, though he took the coffee from her and sipped it carefully. It was perfect, just the way he liked it. It surprised him that she’d remembered something so insignificant. He watched her over the rim of the cup, watched the way she walked across the room, coming to a stop in front of the Camaro. She reached out to touch it, but pulled her hand back at the last second, as if she’d been scalded, tucking it into the back pocket on her jeans. She turned back to Dean.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

Same question she’d asked him yesterday. Dean yanked a yellow legal pad from beneath his jacket on the desk and held it out to her. “I need the stuff on this list,” he said.

She took it from him and flipped through the pages. “There’s a lot of stuff on here,” she mumbled.

“You want the car fixed, right?” he said. “I believe the words you used yesterday on one of your many visits were pristine condition.”

“Of course I want it fixed,” she sighed. “I just didn’t expect -”

“And that’s only the beginning,” Dean cut her off. “I’m sure I’ll be adding more as I go along. I know what I’m doing, Y/N.” He grabbed a pair of work gloves from the shelf next to the overalls, and a socket wrench from the toolbox. He could feel Y/N’s eyes on him as he stalked past her toward the Camaro. He didn’t understand why she kept coming in here everyday. It was obvious she was uncomfortable around the car and around him. It never took her more than a few minutes to piss him off and vice versa. Same shit, different day.

A few seconds later, Dean heard the door at the back of the garage open and slam closed.

You maintained a steady pace until you hit the stairs at the end of the hallway, then you broke into a run, sprinting up the stairs and across the skywalk connecting the garage to the house. You burst through the door into the gym, raced past the empty machines, down another long hallway, and into the bedroom you’d had since you were ten years old.

“God damn it!” you yelled, picking up one of the overstuffed pillows sitting on the chair and throwing it as hard as you could. It landed a mere three feet from where you stood, making you feel even more like the idiot you most certainly were.

Jesus, that man made you feel...Christ, so many things. Every emotion imaginable seemed to bubble to the surface when he was involved. It had always been like that, from the first moment you’d laid eyes on him so many summers ago. Nobody made you as angry as Dean Winchester; nobody irritated you more than Dean Winchester; nobody made your body ache with need like Dean Winchester. Nobody had ever loved you like Dean Winchester.

The bastard.

Week One, Day Five

You hadn’t intended to end up down in the garage, not after yesterday. Every time you went down there, you ended up arguing and fighting with Dean. You didn’t want to fight with him, but the two of you mixed like oil and water, and it seemed to always end in a fight and a look on Dean’s face that cut through you like a knife.

But somehow, you’d wandered down the hall, through the gym, down the stairs, and into the garage, slipping inside close to midnight. You’d had several drinks - four or five, maybe more, you’d lost count - and you’d been drawn to it. You cracked the door, trying to be as quiet as possible, even though you were sure Dean had left, before stumbling inside and weaving none too gracefully across the huge space. You came to a halt in front of a what was basically a pile of rubbish.

“What the fuck?” you mumbled, horrified at the sight before you.

The car was destroyed - the frame was there, slightly bent and misshapen, but the doors, fenders, bumpers, the hood, the trunk, all of it, were scattered around the garage. The seats had been removed and were lying beneath plastic tarps in the corner. It didn’t even look like a car anymore.

You slid to the floor, your legs literally giving out beneath you, your ass hitting the ground hard enough to make your teeth rattle. You felt the tears pricking at the back of your eyes. You stared at the ruins of your father’s car.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you whispered, your hands fisted in your lap, rocking back and forth, desperately trying to comfort yourself. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You lost yourself in your tears, the memories of the night of the accident overshadowing everything. You put your head in your hands and let the sobs come. You deserved the pain those memories brought.

You had no idea how long you’d been sitting on the floor, bawling your eyes out, when Dean’s gruff voice broke through your self-pitying cries. Startled, you reared back, the top of your head connecting with his chin. He cursed, his hand closing around your upper arm as he fell backwards.

“Fuck,” you squeaked as the two of you fell to the floor.

Dean scrambled to his feet, hauling you up with him. His familiar scent filled your nostrils - leather, grease and oil, and something that was all Dean. He released you and took a step back, but the combination of whiskey and tears had messed with your head, and apparently your equilibrium, because you stumbled, falling against him.

“Whoa, Y/N,” he muttered, pulling you closer, keeping you on your feet, barely. “Why don’t we get you in the house?”

“I don’t wanna…” you sighed. You could hear the slur to your words as you spoke and you couldn’t hold back the giggle at the way your tongue wouldn’t quite do what you wanted. You pressed yourself against Dean, your arms sliding around his waist, your head coming to rest on his chest. His hand was warm on your hip as you leaned into him, the heat seeping through your thin pajama pants. His body was rock hard beneath the coveralls he was still wearing and there was a smudge of grease on his lower jaw.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the feelings you still harbored for the small town mechanic, or maybe it was the need for a respite from the grief that seemed to constantly fill your heart, but you found yourself pushing up and into Dean, rising up on your toes, your tongue dancing across his lower lip. Dean exhaled, a soft sigh, his hand squeezing your hip. His lips parted and then you were kissing him. It was better than you remembered, warm and perfect and a little bit insane.

Dean’s hands came up and cupped your face, hauling you closer. You moaned, the sound swallowed by the man feverishly kissing you. You fisted your hands in the front of his coveralls, holding yourself close to him. He groaned, his arousal growing hard against your stomach, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss.

“Dean,” you gasped, twisting one leg around his, tugging at the zipper of his coveralls. You pulled it halfway down, your fingers drifting over his thin gray t-shirt, the muscles of his chest jumping under your hand. Your heart raced as you touched him.

How could you have forgotten how amazing he was, how perfect, how beautiful? How could you have forgotten how alive Dean made you feel?

Then he was gone, pushing himself away from you, stumbling backwards several steps. He pressed the back of his hand to his lips, a grimace marring his perfect features.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N,” he growled. “What the fuck was that?”

Shock reverberated through you as his words registered in your head. What the hell were you doing?

“I-I, I’m sorry,” you stammered. “I was drinking -”

“So, you’re drunk,” Dean spat. “Figures.” He ripped the coveralls from his body, violently kicking at them when they tangled in his feet. “Some things never change.” He scooped up his keys and jacket from the desk and stalked out the door, leaving you standing in the middle of the garage amidst the disassembled Camaro.

Dean had to pull off the road a mile from the mansion, two of Baby’s tires resting in the dirt of the shoulder. He took a deep breath, but he couldn’t calm his racing heart, couldn’t stop his ragged breathing, his frustration eating at him until he let loose with a primal scream and slammed his fist into the Impala’s dashboard, two, three, four times, not stopping until his knuckles were bloody and aching.

He fell back against the seat, his hands falling to his lap. He stared at his bloodied knuckles, anger still rolling through him. He couldn’t believe he’d let her get under his skin. Again. Obviously, he wasn't over her, not by a long shot. When she'd kissed him, it had been like they’d never been apart. He’d wanted to devour her, wanted to peel her clothes from her body, wanted to feel her soft curves writhing beneath him. God, he’d wanted it bad. Then the memory of her last words to him had echoed through his head, jarring him like a hard slap to the face. He’d broken off the kiss, furious with not only her, but himself as well for letting her get the best of him.

Maybe Sam was right, maybe he couldn’t do this. Maybe he wasn’t going to be fine. He’d thought he was in love with Y/N all those years ago, she’d been the first woman he’d ever given a shit about, and she’d destroyed him. How did he think he’d be okay working for her? The words she’d thrown at him when she’d dumped him were becoming a reality. And it fucking hurt.

He scrubbed his hand over his face and took a deep breath. It might hurt, but he had no choice but to push through it. They needed the money too much, even more than he’d led Sam to believe. Things were bad, really bad, and if he didn’t keep this job, things were going to get a whole hell of a lot worse.

“I can do this,” he muttered to himself. “I have to do this. I have to.”

Dean put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road, recklessly gaining speed as he raced down the mountain toward town, music loud, engine revving.

Thirty-seven more days.

Forever: @aprofoundbondwithdean @jensennjared @mrswhozeewhatsis @the-mrs-deanwinchester @official-shipper @brooklyn-writes-flangst @climbthatmooselikeatree @mamapeterson @katnharper @raeganr99 @skybinx-blog @winchesterr67 @grellsutcliff105 @arikas5744 @faegal04 @the-girl-of-your-nightmares @mrsjohnsmith @kreborn17 @mogaruke @courageoussam @nerdwholikesword @growningupgeek @virgosapphire79 @sleep-silent-angel @bkwrm523 @iwriteshortstuff @for-the-love-of-dean @nichelle-my-belle @deandoesthingstome @treasurecastiel (not smut) @andiamsoinlovewithyou @pizzarollpatrol @misswhizzy @supernatural-jackles @balthazars-muse @waywardjoy @awkwardnerdqueen @valee-ppiew @superbluhoo2 @deansbaekaz2y5 @roseangel013bf @deanwinchestermybae @jencharlan @kickasscas67 @chelsea072498 @neanealuv @deanscherrypie @kittenofdoomage @tjforston @purgatoan @just-a-touch-of-sass-and-fandoms @sckslife @sis-tafics @youwerelikeadream @i-dream-of-dean @impala-with-wings @bringmesomepie56 @basmaraafat @oriona75 @dearmisterhiddles @writingbeautifulmen @ultimatecin73 @gemini75eeyore @vote-for-pedro @tom-is-in-my-tardis @percywinchester27 @mysteriouslyme81 @faith-in-dean @that1seniorchick @milkymilky-cocopuff @atc74 @s4m-w1nch3st3r5287 @winsmut @squirrelchester @demonangelimpala @justacaliforniandreamer @xxsugarturtle @findingfitnessforme @wvnchxstxr @winchestergirl-love @petrovadixon @colorfuluniversewhispers @love-kittykat21 @velcr0kitty @spookypeyton

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AU Tags: @hidingfrommychildren @loveissupernatural @vougebandit @morganpierce @avengersgirllorianna @emilypkuzu @vvinch3st3r @kitchenwitchsuperwhovian @winchesterforever12

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