#and every summer gets a stripe of sunburn across his cheeks and nose

[fredheads]

9. you've discovered something you don't even have a name for. 👉🏻👈🏻

Their VW bus is still more of a clubhouse than a vehicle on this hot June day in 1992, still sitting wheel-less in its rusted glory on four blocks below a summer-blue sky. The rear of the van is bathed in hot, golden sunlight, while a slightly cool breeze carries the smell of fresh-mown grass and flowers through the rear doors. The fresh air cools their skin from overheating even as the heat brings droplets of sweat up on the back of FP’s neck and at the base of his hairline. It’s June heat, but it’s the kind of weather you could sit comfortably in for hours. 

He’s on his back on the floor of the van, beach towels bunched under him as a mattress, arms folded behind his head as he feigns a nap. Fred’s sitting across from him, his back against the wall as he reads from a baseball paperback he’s holding in one hand with the cover bent backwards. His brown eyes, soft and thoughtful, move back and forth across the page. Silence is warm and comfortable between them, stretched out and somnolent with their easy breathing and the peaceful sounds of a summer’s day, the far-off lawnmowers and rustling trees and a faint melody that could be an ice cream truck. Fred’s legs are stretched out, one arm up behind his head so that the down of his armpit hair is exposed, his tan so deep, smooth, and unbroken even on this early day in June that his armpits are the same caramel brown as the rest of him. 

He has no idea how beautiful he is. Has no idea that FP’s relaxed posture is hiding the yearning, insatiable glimpses he’s been stealing from between his eyelashes, these glimpses getting longer and longer and yet nowhere near satisfying, because Fred in this casual moment is something he could look at forever and never wish for reprieve. The summer air is heavy and sweet, thick with warmth and fresh with morning. There’s still something of an early-morning lightness in the air at 10 am, even with the sun already as strong as mid-day. It feels like a persistent momentum, an eternal moment poised at the beginning of a perpetual afternoon. It feels like a beautiful day just beginning, one that promises to last forever and ever and never quite starts. It feels like a tiny slice of heaven. 

And Fred sits and reads in unknowingly erotic imperfection, shoelaces undone, dirty athletic socks uneven, scattered sunburn on his cheeks and a hole gaping in the armpit of his cut-sleeved, cropped white t-shirt. Never a big reader except for these baseball paperbacks, dime-store sports novels inherited from his older brother that he reads by the dozen, treating them with this bent-cover carelessness that’s charming and tender rather than destructive. His dirty-soled Nikes are inches from FP’s elbow, and FP can follow the lines of him up his legs from there, defined calf muscles bunched under the skin from the running routine he starts in spring, the skin darkly suntanned and scattered with brown hair and an imperfect constellation of scrapes and cuts. 

Feeling brave, or maybe just desperate, FP raises his eyes from Fred’s perfect legs to his thighs, sun-warmed and gold, the skin sprinkled with dark curls of hair just before it disappears below the dangling hem of his cut-off jean shorts. Torturing himself with slowness, he allows his eyes to move higher up the wide stripe of tanned stomach visible below his best friend’s cropped shirt, the same faint flush of newly dark hair travelling in a runway from Fred’s waistband to his navel. His arms are thin and long, his long fingers wrapped tightly around the cover of the paperback, the hollow of his neck damp with ignored perspiration. His single gold hoop earring twinkles brightly in the sunlight. 

He’s apparently so engrossed in his book that he doesn’t notice at first when FP’s gaze fixes hungrily on his face, greedily absorbing how his delicate eyelashes go gold in the sun, the freckles that pop up across the bridge of his nose every June, the scar in his eyebrow that shines pale in the sunlight. Fred’s hair is growing down past his ears - his summer project is to get it down to his collarbone, to his father’s chagrin. FP’s is getting long too, as if in unspoken tandem. He’s spent a lot of this June with fleeting images of Fred’s hands in his dark hair. 

Fred’s eyes dance up from the page at last, meeting FP mid-stare. There’s a momentary twinge of regret, but no crippling embarrassment at being caught: they’re so calm and settled as best friends in each other's company that shame can’t find purchase. Fred’s brown eyes just hold his gaze for a second, and then he smiles, easy and playful, a handsome, careless crook of his mouth that is as blinding to look into as staring right into the sun. For a moment he’s as perfect as FP’s ever seen him: eyes calm and loving and bright, teasing grin slanted affectionately so that his face fills even more with warmth. And FP thinks for some reason of the old movies he used to watch with his mama at the drive-in: James Dean who was so carelessly, audaciously handsome even to a seven-year-old. 

He doesn’t know what makes him get up. Before he can stop himself he rolls into a sitting position and then kneels, leaning forward almost into Fred’s lap, and Fred’s perfectly suntanned legs open like french doors for FP’s knee to come down in between them. FP’s hand finds the van floor just behind Fred’s hip to brace himself, and now he’s sitting in between his legs almost in his lap, their faces closer than maybe they’ve ever been before. 

Fred’s brown eyes are questioning, but kind, so kind, calm and light and familiar and safe. His warm breath touches FP’s cheek; his eyebrow scar and his summer freckles are suddenly huge in his vision, the heat from his body warming FP’s already sweaty-damp skin. And for a moment FP panics, for a moment he realizes just what line he’s maybe already crossed, caught as if in someone else’s body, halfway through something he can’t take back. The thing they’ve only still ever joked about, the way any guys joke about it maybe, but Fred laughs along but he doesn’t say these things, lets his brother call them boyfriends and their school friends needle each other with queer as though secure in the knowledge this words will never apply to him - but he does not laugh, cruelly or otherwise. And yet it’s unspoken but self-evident, surely, that to say the words is one thing but never, never, never, could they ever even imagine that thing that pounds inside FP’s secret, guilty heart like a scared rabbit. 

And yet he doesn’t feel fear right now, only heat and exhilaration with Fred’s body so close. The blood rushes hot in his veins at their proximity, his sun-kissed skin goes to cold sweat, and every beautiful feature of Fred’s body is apparent to him at once, as though mocking him cruelly: muscled calves and dark eyes and perfect lips. Their lips are close enough to touch, their bodies overlapping as one animal, the pulse roaring in FP’s ears might be Fred’s or his own. And there’s no anger on Fred’s face, not even hesitation. So FP closes the gap between their faces, the sun falling over his cheeks from the skylight, and he kisses him. 

It’s chaste, and it’s scared, almost not there at all, but Fred’s nose presses so strongly back against his that he knows Fred doesn’t hate him for it, and the second he does it it becomes something he can never take back. His lips are soft and sun-warmed and perfect, and Fred’s eyelashes brush over his face when they close and then flutter open again. He opens his eyes to see Fred’s brown ones, the bronze eyelashes as soft as a girl’s, but that first flush of manhood in his muscular chest and the lean contour of his jawline, and there are no words for the feeling that roars through every inch of his body. All he knows is that his already hot blood turns to fire in his veins. And he finds himself thinking, strangely, that none of those cruel words are true, none of them describe what he’s just done, what unfurls now in his chest like a late-blooming rose, on this late day in June when he will never be the same person again. 

on ao3

[sugarpopss]

Showering/Caretaking Gareth Emerson x Reader blurb

Everyone stayed out super late after a show, you don’t even get back to Gareths house until the sky is beginning to lighten. He’s dead on his feet and wants nothing more than to collapse into bed, fully dressed and everything. You, however, with your super special girlfriend powers (observation and comprehension) know that’s fucking gross and he’ll feel disgusting in the morning. “Come on, puppy, just a quick shower, you’ll feel so much better.” “I’ll feel better when I sleep.” He groans, but let’s you pull him into the bathroom anyway. God, you love him with your whole heart, but right he smells like sweat and cheap beer and the inside of Eddies van. Poor boy is SO exhausted (and maybe everyone had a couple drinks to celebrate a good crowd-more than ten people-and alcohol makes him sleepy anyway) fumbling with his jeans and converse laces. It’s cute. You have to take over if you want this done quickly. Gareth fully lets you, gentle hands petting down his hips and thighs when you let his jeans fall to the floor. He’s even more compliant in the shower, leaning his head on your shoulder while you wash his hair, letting you move him however you need, mumbling little assurances the whole time. “You were great tonight, those people loved you.” And “Such a good boy, Gareth, all the time.” If you get a little distracted working out a knot smack in the middle of his spine, well, you’re not on trial. He lets you sit him on the closed toilet afterwards and work leave in conditioner through his hair, dap a little of your moisturizer on his cheeks and nose where the skin is still healing from his summer ‘sun streak’. You have to give him a little shake when you’re finished. “Hey, baby. Let’s go, come on. Bed time.” You pull the softest pajama pants you can find from his drawer and an old Iron Maiden shirt that’s been washed so much the hem and sleeves are fraying. He’s sluggish getting dressed, and is out like a light the moment he lies back on the unmade bed. You take a little bit, do your skincare and fold your clothes (even though they also don’t smell great). When you do come to bed, not that much later, the first rays of sunlight are peeking through the blinds. Gareth immediately, even in his sleep, moves closer to you, face in your neck and arm over your waist. That’s your boy.

[absentsdream]

* nico hiraga, cis man + he/him | you know owen murase, right? they’re twenty-five, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, their whole life? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to swim and sleep (like a shark) by unknown mortal orchestra like, a million times this year, which makes sense, ‘cause they’ve got that whole laughing to the point that the joke’s never been told properly, talking pensively on the roof of your family home until your mother calls you back inside, novelty caps with witty remarks embroidered on them thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is april 13th, so they’re a taurus, which is unsurprising, all things considered.

hi it’s cee … again… bet ya getting sick of me now huh….

AESTHETICS.

too-sweet orange sherbet, the only light source in the middle of the night being a measly desk lamp, a beanie well-loved enough it threatens to fall apart, childhoods spent talking to your friends next door across the backyard fence, nineties nintendo games, skate decks fractured clean down the middle, eyes glued to a television, lips chapped with ocean water, vintage stripe shirts, perfectly clear midsummer skies

CHARACTER INSPO.

zach taylor ( super dark times ), alexis rose ( schitt’s creek ), robbie ( angus, thongs and perfect snogging ), casey ( atypical ), francis abernathy ( the secret history ), gordo ( lizzie mcguire ), troy barnes ( community )

BACKGROUND.

it’s an idyllic spring day when you’re born. there’s a gentle chill that soars off the quivering ocean, a warmth from the sun that brings a flush to the cheeks. the youngest of two boys, you are adored, loved. the apple of one’s eye.

your mother makes sure you never forget who you are. without fail she packs your lunch each day ( you love it despite the odd looks of your classmates ), japanese school saturday mornings, family visits to morioka in the summer where cicadas seem to buzz within your head. it’s not easy for her despite the understanding of your father, durham born and raised. you don’t realise it until much later. it only seems to sink in once she’s flown back to japan to care for ailing grandparents when you are twelve. you hate the way a peanut butter and jelly sandwich glues to the roof of your mouth. you miss how she would force a hat on your head seconds before you left for school every morning.

the loneliness is more pronounced when your brother leaves for college three years later. he’s not far, but there’s a hollowness in the room that makes living with your father hard sometimes. he takes you to little league. you take to little league a duck to water. there’s less shouting matches, less ‘ i hate yous ’ and acting out. learning to forgive the world is less a big stride and more short steps, sometimes one backward.

you graduate the golden boy. everything is at your fingertips, it seems. varsity baseball, prom king, an ivy league sports scholarship on the horizon. your mother comes back home for it. your brother does, too. your breath is quick and sharp when you hold back hot tears on stage. your breath stops when the boy you’ve admired for the last year and a half walks past to you to shake the principal’s hand. your girlfriend never knew. you’re grateful for the calm in you when you return to japan that year, a little sunburn across the bridge of your nose, sweat beading on your forehead and nights spent listlessly gazing upward to stars.

INJURY & NEEDLES MENT. CW college is a blow out. so’s your arm. halfway into your freshman year and a sports med degree, your elbow won’t get better, no matter how many needles are poked in it, no matter how many times you ice it religiously. surgery isn’t enough, either. the scholarship and your place as pitcher are no longer yours and for the next few months, you’re home again in irving with your tail between your legs. your father isn’t angry so much as he’s disappointed for you. your brother’s made it to law school now, and here you are watching daytime reruns of judge judy and admiring the grass stains on your white sneakers, eating froot loops with far too much milk. CW END

it’s hard to get past the searing embarrassment on your cheeks when you return to college the next year. you liked writing, although it comes as a surprise to your family. at the very least, your father wonders, weren’t you going to go into a science degree and not literature?

you pay no heed and write until your eyes turn square at four in the morning. you are the best student in the course, the professor says. that hard work will pay off, the professor says. and it does. after your degree, the culmination of your work falls into three-hundred-and-something pages of a novel that a small publisher in charlotte seems to adore. your father pulled some strings to get it there. within a year, it’s a new york times bestseller. it’s a shock, but not really. the way you grit your teeth, the way you steeled your resolve, made you something, just like you promised your mother when you were seven years old and eyes shining.

PERSONALITY & QUIRKS.

goofy ass

bilingual :P

the family home in delphinus heights is too big for one person after his father went back to durham, so he chose to find his own place instead. he has a cute little studio flat on dorado road on a block behind a retired couple that sometimes invites him over for early dinner.

has no pets but there’s a bird that squawks outside his back door each morning until it gets a bit of toast from him

never wakes up early enough to see the sunrise over the sea, though

currently works a few days a week at a surf shop near the pier to make ends meet. writes and coaches little league in his spare time

owen’s first publication was a sci-fi novel. after excelling in most subjects, he puts math and science to good use for his work

tends to hang around you more if you’re a good source of inspiration for his writing

surfer babey …. his hair is disgusting. coarse n horrible n sun bleached like a mangy dog. it’s almost long enough to tie up the whole thing. occasionally lets someone put them into pigtails at a party

voted most likely to bust his wrist fucking up a skate trick

ur typical boy next door. very approachable, not a mean bone in his body, although in recent years he’s shown more anxiety than he’s ever been used to. sucks having to cook for urself everyday n pay bills like an adult :/

pansexual. leans a lot more towards masc presenting folks

has a collection of old, sun-faded shinkansen ticket stubs. sentimental like that

also very protective of his music vhs tape collection

not too fond of social media. his last post on insta was from like 2018. has no profile picture on fb. instead, he updates his ig story ten times a day and quadruple texts you on imessage like a heathen

chronic people pleaser. rarely says no and is shithouse at setting boundaries with others

loves all kinds of creepy shit, aliens especially

bit of a pisstake really 

WANTED PLOTS.

all da friends. family n childhood friends, someone he would goof around with during shifts in his high school job at the local mini mart, skate / surf buddies, anything and everything

a fan of his book

someone who witnessed owen stack it on his skateboard once n had to help get him to the hospital for a near miss broken bone SKGNSLDGDKSL

a writing muse he’s too scared to tell them IS his muse

a failed relationship from his few months in irving between college degrees. it was definitely him, not you

will accept any n all plots :-)

[doctors-star]

16 for cowboys??

“Look, I care about you, alright? Quite a bit, I’m afraid.”

Johnny flops on his back, head slightly downhill of his feet in a way which makes the blood in his skull rush and whirl bewilderingly and his eyes pressed closed against the burning-bright sun, as yet undimmed by the afternoon. Someone drops a hat on his stomach and he flinches as though it had been a cannonball, sticking his tongue out and playing at being injured like the hognose snake Will had found in the shade under the general store’s porch - he’d rescued it from being killed as a copperhead, scooped it up in his hat, and brought it round to Ainsel’s back window to show the kids, thoroughly derailing all schooling for the day, as they all crowded around the hat to watch the creature resolutely turn on its back and stick its tongue out in repeatedly feigned death.

He stretches massively on the grass, smiling at the gentle laughter and the feeling of someone sitting near him and reaching across to give him two firm pats on the flank like a well-behaved horse. It’s been a long day, and it started early, but Johnny does like the big drives and hay harvests - all Danser collected together for one purpose, to help their neighbours and be rewarded in turn. Before dawn, he’d been drummed awake by fists on his door and had dressed quickly in the dark to stumble out into the street and go about mustering up others in turn. Of their little gang, he’d been first out of doors, followed by Will - looking bleary but drawn out by the other men staying in the saloon - then Ainsel, who seems to think they might be more use in bed than on horseback every time they see their own horse, then Tommy and Finn looking respectively disgustingly bright and alert, and still mostly asleep. Will, with his extremely biddable broad-chested nearly-a-draught horse, is quickly co-opted into driving one of the carts out of town and along the dusty prairie roads, uphill to the Wilder ranch to deliver tin pails of food and heavy stoneware bottles of drink and the very young and the very old, so that all of Danser may equally participate in the drive. Johnny, Finn, Ainsel and Tommy saddle up and cut north through the prairie, up the steeper side of the hill where the road can’t run; there, Diaz, Wilder, and Wilder’s eldest lad are calling instructions over the heads of the crowd and pointing in disparate directions to where the cows oughtta be, and where the cows oughtta go. A further crowd of skirts and fine hats - for today the town congregates, and it had better be in full finery and Sunday best - has collected around Mrs Wilder and Mrs Diaz to make tea and grits and beans cooked with salt pork in molasses, the scent sticky and inviting on the air even now, with hours of cooking left. Johnny tilts his nose into the air and breathes deeply, shooting a wink at Jody Masham when she passes near and earning a delightfully saucy grin for it. Her ma notices, of course, and gives him the evil eye, but Jody lets her fingers trail down his thigh from hip to knee on the pretense of admiring his horse and looks up at him through her lashes and he could perish on the spot for love of her, so what does he care anyhow.

She passes up chunks of soda bread, steaming in the dawning light and golden with butter, and he tosses them to his fellow riders - dinner will be late today, what with the distance the herd might have gone. And then they’re away, riding nearly the full complement of the town’s horses across the plains to where the herd stands, sedate and well-fed on the last of their summer grazing and ready to be collected up, split once more between Wilder and Diaz, and stowed in smaller paddocks with good solid barns over winter.

There ain’t no point in racing, really. There’s no advantage to getting there ahead of any other person. Johnny grins up at the sky, remembering the wind in his hair, hat brim in his teeth, crouching low over his horse to eke out those crucial inches that keep his horse’s nose ahead of Finn’s as they hoot and holler with the freedom of the run.

“Aww,” Finn says in a tone of very mocking gentleness as he nudges Johnny’s knee with the toe of his boot. Johnny cracks an eye open in preparation to glare at him for the inevitable teasing; against the bright and sunny sky, Finn’s hat is like a halo though his face is dark in the shade. “Didya go too fast today? You ain’t got no endurance, Johnny.”

Johnny allows the glare to settle, but before he can retort, someone on his blind side snorts. “No endurance - how many girlfriends has he got, again?”

Johnny chokes on startled laughter. Finn is wide-eyed in delight as he stares across Johnny’s prone form. “William,” he says, sounding scandalised.

Johnny props himself up on his elbows and sticks his hat back on his head so’s he can watch Will spread his hands defensively. “What,” he says, “I can’t be crude sometimes?”

Finn gestures at his own cheeks. “Naw, sure ya can, only it makes your face go so red that I get worried about ya.”

“That’s just the sunburn,” Tommy says cheerfully, clapping Will on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway and dropping to the grass next to Johnny. As promised, Will’s fair skin is flushed with embarrassment and striped with an angry red across his angular nose and cheekbones, the skin already starting to peel from a day under the sun. He huffs and folds to the floor, knees up to his chest and sleeves shoved up to his elbows to display a bar of red down his forearms too.

“I hope you weren’t teachin’ my kids that kind of joke,” Ainsel says, an enormous black umbrella hooked under forearm and over shoulder to shield them from the sun as they carry a wicker basket in two hands packed with tin pails, bread, biscuits, and bottles over to their little circle. The rest of the town is ranged likewise on the hill overlooking the town and, beyond that, the desert; the horses are tacked out near the farmhouse; the kids themselves are enjoying the freedom and sunshine having been released from hay harvest duties and are tearing up and down the hill, weaving in between groups and only occasionally stopping by their families to grab more food before haring off again.

“I have done no such thing,” Will objects crossly, but Ainsel gives him first choice from the basket and tucks him under the umbrella and out of the sun when they sit beside him so it’s quickly forgiven.

“He was exceeding useful,” Noel pronounces, kneeling by the big enamel dish which represents their share of the molasses and beans and salt pork, and wielding a large spoon like a sword. Johnny gathers that she had appeared some time after dawn, to the disparaging muttering of many of the elder town ladies, but had done so with such a quantity of fine bread and pickles and preserves that her critics had been forced to quiet down to faces of pinched displeasure while Noel held court, knowing that it was not a competition and that she had, regardless, won. She had then gone about supervising the hay harvest, keeping the younger kids in line and occupied while those trusted with scythes cut the hay and Will, on horseback, ran the new hay tedder up and down the field, and then releasing them to stack the hay under her exacting eye. Jody and Peggy had been amongst the scythers and had told Johnny with mouths full of giggles how Will had been left “in charge,” and then done every single thing Noel told him to without complaint or thought of defiance - but the harvest had been done, and Danser is too fond of Will to mock him for being hen-pecked by a woman he hasn’t even married.

Johnny reaches across to ruffle Will’s hair, but he ducks away like a feral cat. “Aww,” he laughs, “you’re useful.”

“Wish the rest of you were,” Will grouses, folding sulkily around his plate.

Tommy catches Johnny’s eye and grins wickedly. He beams in reply; Noel sighs in advance. “It’s true,” Johnny says, assuming a woebegone expression and trying not to snigger when Tommy looks similarly sorry for himself. “We ain’t good for anything whatever. Wholly useless, and you don’t love us.”

Will sniffs, mouth turned down comically in disdain. “You’d be mad to do otherwise,” he tells them sternly, in his finest clipped tones - brought out for special occasions, and their amusement.

“Why, Mister Williams, that don’t reflect very well on me at all,” comes a voice behind Johnny’s left shoulder, light and familiar fingers coming to rest there in accompaniment. Distantly, Johnny is aware of Finn choking on laughter and cornbread, and of Will straightening awkwardly with an air of panic, and of Tommy smirking and kicking at the sole of Johnny’s boot in a teasing, vaguely encouraging fashion - but mostly Johnny is aware of those five delicate points of gentle contact over the ball of his shoulder, and the swishing press of skirts against his side, and how if he tilts his head right back and left he can see all up the willowy line of Jody Masham, hip to hair, her blue eyes and golden curls like a field of cornflowers. There’s a little compressed mischief at Will’s expense tucked into her smile, and Johnny wants to kiss at it until she shares it with him; and there’s a loose, frizzy loop of hair that has escaped from the large bonnet that keeps her pale skin free of the sun, and become darkened with sweat and flyaway in the heat, and Johnny wants to press his nose to it, smooth it between his fingers, tuck it carefully away with pins so that she needn’t mind it - he could do that, he thinks, could give up on all other professions but following Jody around to tidy her hair and carry her basket on one arm, shielding her with a parasol with the other hand.

“Um,” Will says guiltily. “I - well-”

“Don’t you dare say you didn’t mean it,” Ainsel says sternly. Jody is smiling fully now; she is so beautiful Johnny could burst.

“I’m not going to lie to the lady,” Will replies, relaxing out of his tense, guilty stance to be indignant at the idea that he might. She is rubbing little circles into his upper arm with her thumb now: Johnny could not tell you for love nor money what Will just said.

“Well,” Jody says, a laugh bubbling in her voice, “how ‘bout you lend me this young man in recompense an’ we’ll call it quits? I’d like a word.”

Johnny is already scrambling to his feet, pressed up on his toes in eagerness to follow her away. Her hand slides down his arm, shoulder to elbow, and the press of it leaves hot lines in its wake that make him shiver. “Ma’am,” Finn says politely, not without amusement, “you keep him.”

Jody curls her fingers around his elbow joint and guides him gently a ways away from everyone else. Once done, he scoops her hands up in his own and holds them carefully like something immeasurably precious. She smiles indulgently and nods at the basket on her other arm, which he’d barely noticed. “Present for you,” she says.

Johnny juggles her fingers into just one hand, freeing up the other to push aside the flannel cover and fetch out a thin, steaming disk of fried batter. “Johnny-cakes,” he says, delighted.

“Couldn’t resist.” He takes a bite, savouring the salty cornmeal cut through with sticky maple syrup, and grins broadly at Jody. She laughs at his enthusiasm and allows him to feed her the other half without letting her hands go, chasing the syrup from his sticky fingers with her tongue until he can barely breathe.

“So, what’s the word?” he manages, biting the tip of his thumb to keep from kissing her, here where her ma is almost certainly watching.

“The word.” Jody bites her lip, huffs a big breath, and looks away - and a solid feeling of dread settles in his stomach. He’s had it good for so long - with Jody, and Cathy, and even Peggy and Anne-Marie, in a way - and he’s always known it wouldn’t last, and that it would ruin him, and-

“The word is baby,” Jody says eventually, tilting her head to one side and pinning him with her gaze, eyes narrowed in consideration. All thoughts leave Johnny’s head in a moment, to be replaced with vague, foggy panic. “Not-” she squeezes his hand until it relaxes a little and ceases crushing hers, “not right now, Johnny, jesus. Come back.”

The fog recedes and he musters up a gentle pat of her fingers in apology for squashing them in his paw. His hands are so much bigger and stronger than hers, tanned and weatherbeaten where hers are pale and delicate with flour worked into the nailbeds, and he oughtta be more careful with them. With her, and with - with the word, if there is to be one.

He can’t tell how he feels about that, in the moment.

“Sorry,” he says ruefully, offering her a clumsy, lopsided smile. “I weren’t - anyway. You go on.”

Jody takes a deep breath and nods firmly, gaze fixed at some point on his left shoulder. “Alright, I will. Johnny, I’ve spent the day cutting hay with a whole herd of the town’s kids, an’ it’s occurred to me, I want one.”

“I’ll get you one,” Johnny says on instinct, like he does with everything Jody says she wants however unrealistic, from hair ribbons to haywains to the entire Union Pacific Railroad. And then she raises an eyebrow at him, and he remembers how that’s what they’re talking about, actually, and to deflect from this he nods his head at one of the kids pelting past on little chubby legs. “That one’ll do - will he suit ya?”

Jody’s face relaxes into amusement and she huffs, leaning forward to press her forehead into his sternum. He must stink of sweat, and wants to tell her to shift in case he does, but he doesn’t want her to move like he doesn’t want to lose his right arm and she doesn’t seem to care. “Sweetheart,” she says into his shirt, “you ain’t never gonna be friends with my ma if you go about giving her grandchildren by stealin’ em.”

“Not even a little one?” Johnny says, tilting his head to catch her eye and watch her giggle. “‘Sides,” he says, considering it with a slight frown, “not sure she’s over fond on my givin’ her grandkids the other way, neither.”

Jody leans back, smiling. “Only ‘cause we ain’t married,” she corrects brightly, and then falters back into seriousness, biting her lip. Johnny squeezes her hands in careful encouragement, for he feels (fears) they have reached the crux of the matter. “Johnny, I - I wanna have kids. Not today, or tomorrow, or maybe even a year or two yet, but I want ‘em. An’ - I know we’ve not ever been traditional, but my ma - my ma really is gonna disown me if I ain’t married when I have ‘em, so.” She shrugs, fingers tapping in agitation against his palm and her gaze fixed back over his shoulder. “I’m not saying now, but I am sayin’ someday, and if that don’t fit with you someday then - I gotta find someone else. An’ I don’t know how that someday fits with you and Cathy, or Peggy and Anne-Marie, or - or I guess just with you, but I’m sayin’... I don’t mind, I guess, so long as you do right by the kids, and we’re…” She trails off.

“Miss Jody Masham,” Johnny says solemnly, raising her hands between his own, “are you askin’ me to marry you someday?”

She meets his gaze at last, frowning shrewdly at him. “Depends,” she says shortly. “Are you gonna say yes?”

Jody hasn’t never said she loves him. Johnny doesn’t need her to: he knows she does, on account of how she smiles at him and teases him and trounces him at cards to win kisses five nights in seven on lamplit nights where her ma can’t see them. And he bandies about words of love to everyone and everything, enough for the both of them, and they’re well-settled into the kind of long-standing devotion that doesn’t need professing very much. She’s told him before that she’s no good at romancing others (though personally Johnny reckons she’s not bad) ‘cause of how she can’t be sentimental with them; she loves them, and they gotta figure that out, or they ain’t trying hard enough.

Johnny told her he loved her on their second meeting, but then, he’s like that. Always has been. And it doesn’t mean he loves her any less, or any more, than she does him; he’s just got an awful lot of love to share, and she doesn’t mind him sharing it.

He could be married, he thinks. He and Jody could do it, and do it well, and marriage was always waiting for him somewhere - now that he’s not looking at it down the barrel of some angry pa’s shotgun, and without the threat of that too, it looks mighty appealing. They’ll have to get a house, of course; somehow stop renting, and own outright, but how hard can that be? He’ll get her fine printed calico, and build a table for her sewing machine, and Ainsel will school the kids. Finn and Tommy can teach them to ride and make great pets of them, and this time years from now Noel will have them harvesting hay neatly under her stern eye, and Will can bring them hognoses cradled gently in a hat.

He could live in that future, and live long and well.

Johnny pretends to think about it, but lets his grin slip through so’s she knows he’s teasing. “Well, you ain’t hardly romancin’ me.”

She purses her lips against a real smile and uses their hand grip to punch him gently in the chest. “I brought you johnny-cakes, special,” she objects, and he laughs. “Look,” she says firmly, “I - care about you, alright? Quite a bit, actually, and so you’re just - gonna have to deal with that.”

Johnny ducks in close and presses his forehead to hers, beaming. “An’ I love you too,” he croons to make her blush, and then ducks under her bonnet and kisses her softly. He can do that, now - here before the town, on the day of the hay harvest and cattle drive, for they are, someday, to be married.

Jody pulls back, smiling secretly in the corners of her eyes, and strokes a hand through his hair. “I always forget,” she says absently, eyes on her fingers as they comb and tangle in his curls, “how nice your hair is without your hat on.”

Johnny frowns, puts a hand up to his own head. “Where is my hat?”

“It fell off when you leaned back to see me,” Jody supplies. “You didn’t seem to notice.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t remember that.

Jody smiles with resigned amusement. “Lord help me,” she sighs, “for I’m marryin’ a moron.”

Johnny puffs up in indignation. “You don’t have to.” Of course she doesn’t - Jody Masham is the prettiest girl in the county - the west - the world - and could have any man she pleases.

“Naw,” she says, rubbing her thumb along his chin. “I’m gonna.”

[peachywise]

to be here, with you

stanley uris x reader 

– one-shot

– synopsis: You and Stanley had been secretly seeing one another for a couple of months now, keeping it a secret from the rest of the Loser’s Club. Turns out, Stan’s patience has begun to run thin and it’s only a matter of time before everything comes out in the open. (aged up; 18) 

– notes: this was requested by anonymous!! “could you do a stan x reader where they’ve been secretly seeing each other & they go swimming and the reader has hickeys or calls him daddy in front of the losers" sorry it took me so long to do, took a lil break from fic writing!! let a gal know if you wanted to be added to the general tag list and i hope you enjoy!! 

– ao3 link 

“You look cute in your bathing suit,” a soft voice whispered in your ear.

Moving your sunglasses down a tad to glower at Stan as he hovered over you, a small blush coloured his cheeks. You pushed his face away with a small, playful smile. “You’re blocking my sun, Uris,” you quipped. He gave a low chuckle, sitting down beside your sprawled out figure on the cheery yellow striped beach towel.

Today was a perfect day.

Technically, perfect would be lounging on a yacht in the middle of the Atlantic, surrounded by all of life’s luxuries, fanning yourself with hundred dollar bills. But c’est la vie. A day at the sunny quarry with your friends was your idea of perfect, and you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Taking a long breath of air, you couldn’t help the smile that stayed splayed on your face, lazy and all too inviting to Stan’s gentle teasing. “You sure you’re not just nervous about me being this close to you?” he offered lowly. You turned your head to look at him, eyebrow raised. Usually, he wasn’t this outwardly flirty with you, especially not when you two weren’t exactly alone. 

“I’m absolutely fine, but how about you? I know you haven’t been out here long enough for that to be a sunburn on your face,” you baited, reaching over to pinch his faint rosy cheeks like a grandmother with a vengeance. He groaned before trapping your hand in his, holding it to his face with a light grip. Leaning in closer as if on instinct, you noted how his gaze was fixed on your lips, just as yours were his.

“Watcha guys doing?”

Mike’s voice startled you of whatever hazy summer love spell you had momentarily been under and acting in total impulsiveness by your panicked mind, you did the one thing you could think of to cover it up.

You lifted your hand marginally away and slapped Stan’s cheek.

“Got it!” you yelled, shuffling slightly away from him as both boys stared at you in unreserved disbelief. “What the hell!” the golden hair boy hollered, reaching up to cup his cheek. “The bug on your face, I uh—I got it,” you fibbed, giving your most innocuous expression. Stanley would know it was a lie, but all you needed was for good old Hanlon to buy it. Judging by the partial skepticism crossing his features, but overall accepting nod, it had done the job.

You couldn’t risk the others finding out about you and Stan.

It had gone on for a couple of months now, this hiding and sneaking about. For years you'd harboured a crush on Stan. As a kid, you had no idea that the feelings you had felt towards him were of the romantic nature. There was a lot of animosity, a lot of confusion and a lot of tension, but as you’d aged, you became exactly aware what type of tension it was. And though you liked him, you couldn’t risk telling him and losing all those things you’d admired from afar; the way his nose scrunched up when he began to think too hard, the grace in which wrapped around his tone and demeanor, and his brilliant but frustratingly challenging mind always pushing you further, to better yourself.

You’d both finally had enough of this stupid, mutual pining at Richie’s last party. The alcohol in both of your systems probably had a hand in it also, but that version was a little less romantic. Not that Stan impulsively throwing you up against the wall to make out with you was necessarily romantic. Just hot.

Both of you had tried to ignore it, pretend it had never happened in a stupid ignorance that made things even more awkward than they had been before. But it just kept happening. And happening. And happening. It was like when you were around each other, it was only a matter of time before you would lock eyes and an invisible force would shove you two together with the heat of two starved bears.

Yeah, at that point there was really no fighting or denying it.

Still, even though you two had officially been dating for two months, you hadn’t told the Losers’ Club yet. It was kind of nice just to have it between you two, having no one else but into your business. Then again, you were mostly just afraid that the relationship wouldn’t last. Not that you didn’t want it to. You really, really did. But it would be easier to try to act like nothing had ever happened if the others had no idea. Richie, for one, would never let it go, and Ben? Ben would be so nervous about having a broken up couple around each other he’d constantly be waiting for a bomb to drop and trying to dilute any awkward tension, in turn, making it more awkward.

At first, Stan had agreed. It was the practical thing to do until you both had truly settled into everything and figured it out. Neither one of you wanted to jump the gun, per say.

Unfortunately, Stan was no longer as apprehensive as you were.

You thought he would be one hundred percent on board with keeping it from your friends, always having been the more anxious one, annoyed with the other’s pestering about him and his personal life. But the past two weeks he’d been on your ass asking ‘when are we going to tell them?’ and complaining that he ‘can’t keep it in any longer, it’s going to slip out, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.’

His puppy dog look killed you when he did that.

“See you later Stan,” you grinned, popping up from your tanning position on the grass, racing up to Mike and jumping on his back, clinging on as you wrapped your legs around his waist in a piggyback fashion. Mike chuckled lowly, carrying you down to where the others were down by the water as Stan hollered from behind you, “you can’t keep killing bugs forever!”

Odd choice of words, but you got the gist of what he was trying say.

“I didn’t see a bug,” Mike hummed, as you rested your chin on top of his head. “It was tiny,” you stated, “a tiny, tiny bug.” Mike nodded his head, but you didn’t need to see his face to know that his gaze reflected disbelief. “If you say you saw a bug, I believe you,” he mused, “because that’s what friends do. They believe and support one another,” he quickly continued as the smile on your face dropped.

Well, shit.

As you got to the shoreline of the water, you slid off his back and patted his shoulder, avoiding the eye contact he was trying to make. You always cracked under eye contact.

“It’s just a bug, Mike,” you replied with a small shrug and hesitant smile, “it’s not that deep.”

Mike stared at you for a long beat and you knew he was debating on further confronting you on the matter or not. Jesus, your heart was beating so much faster than it had when you and Richie were kids and you ripped a worm apart and both ends started moving. At least then your heart was beating in excitement thinking you two had life healing superpowers. Now it was beating in pure, unadulterated dread and anxiety.

“Okay,” Mike said.

“Okay,” you sustained.

Staring at each other in some type of friendly, ‘what do we do now’ face off, you were broken from the awkward spell as Stan came stumbling from the spot he was before, eyes locked with yours. Yikes. He looked determined. Determined to talk.

You were determined to not.

“Well, see ya in the water!” you yelped, quickly turning around and racing right into the cool, sunlit reflected water. Wafting your way through the waves to the rest of the Losers’ Club tossing around a football in the water, you hollered, “pass it my way!”

At the corner of your eye, you saw Mike cast Stan a look, but the golden boy was way too preoccupied giving you a stare of his own to even notice. Damn, he looked fed up. Deep down you knew he wouldn’t reveal the truth of your relationship to the others so long as you weren’t okay with it. He was a good guy and pushing you that far would break the trust you two had developed. But you also knew that you couldn’t force him to keep it a secret and expect him to be fine with it and stay with you. You would do it eventually, but now? Now you just wanted to spend a nice day at the quarry with your friends.

You mouthed a small ‘sorry’ to Stan as you turned towards Bev, stretching your arms up to catch the ball she threw towards you.

Before you knew it, two hours had passed. You had floated on, bathed in the sun, and even built a sandcastle with Eddie that Ben accidentally tripped over. You’d also successfully managed to evade Stans every chance to get you alone, but from the unhappy antsy look on his face, that really wasn’t something you should have been proud of.

The sun had now begun to set, painting the sky with yellow-orange hues, casting hazing warm shadows on everyone’s faces. The warm breeze that wrapped around you was distracting enough, but the anxiety of the impending conversation was eating away at your nerves.

You would do it. You had to do it. Just not here. Not now.

And then a fucking Frisbee hit your face.

“How’s La La land, Baby Cakes?” Richie hollered over to you, a wide grin spread across his features as he laughed. Shooting him a nasty glare, you snapped back, “it was fine before you showed up, asshole,” chucking the Frisbee back at him with as much force as you could. He raised his arms up to block it, still laughing away.

“Holy shit, you’re bleeding,” Stan’s voice suddenly called out from where he sat around the recently built fire. Instinctively reaching up, you put a tender hand above your brow, removing it as you felt a warm stickiness to look at the red slightly coating your fingertips.

Damn.

“Y-You okay?” Bill’s troubled eyes looked at you, standing up from his spot to glance at the wound. Stan was very quick to join him, reaching up to inspect the most likely minuscule cut. “It’s fine,” you grumbled, trying to bat his hands away before he trapped your wrists with his gentle grip, giving you the stern ‘no-nonsense’ look you knew all too well. It shut you right up as your eyes fell to look at your suddenly fascinating shoes. Was that a freaking stain? What the hell was on your shoe? Who the hell dropped—

“We’re going back to the truck to clean it up.”

“What?” you squeaked as if someone had squeezed your sides and pushed all the air right out your lungs. “Stanley, I’m fine,” you argued with a breathy scoff, stepping away, stumbling only a bit with lightheadedness. His arms quickly shot out to grip your shoulders, pulling you back closer to him. His warm eyes shone a weird mix of concern, frustration, and inexplicable smugness. The bastard. “You sure about that?” he quipped, as you mumbled under your breath, “that could have been from too much sun exposure.” He didn’t even humour you with a reply as he just began hauling you off.

You almost flipped Mike off as you caught him giving the tiniest of chipper smiles your way.

Silent on your small trek to the truck on the off road parking area, Stan only let you go to swing open the door, patting the driver’s seat saying an expecting, “up you go.” You crossed your arms over your chest, shooting him a scowl. “I’m not a dog,” you disputed.

Stanley sighed, taking small strides towards you. Cupping your cheek with his gentle palm, he bent his head down lower to a more eye-level position and the sudden change in his demeanor made your mouth slightly gape open in shock, unsure. His voice softened due to his whispered tone as he breathed out your name, and you wanted to argue that the wind caused the sudden chill that shot through your body but that was a big damn lie.

“I just want to check out the cut, okay?” Gently brushing his thumb tenderly over your cheekbone, you unconsciously leaned into his touch, craving more. A small, fond smile tugged at the corner of his lips, pleading tenderly, “you’re hurt, and I don’t want to see you hurt, so let me fix it.”

There were only a few inches separating your face from his, sharing almost the same breath as you just gazed into his comforting eyes. You barely nodded your head, mumbling, “okay,” in defeat. The genuine, loving smile that found its way on his face constricted your heart, and as you closed your eyes and leaned in for a soft kiss to finish what both of you had started earlier in the day, his hand suddenly dropped from your face as he stated in a loud tone, breaking the tension, “I’ll go grab the first aid kit!”

His previous smile had turned teasing; he knew exactly what he was doing. You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop your own amused smile as you groaned, “I deserved that.”

Sitting on the raised seat of the truck, facing out of the open door so your feet dangled outside, Stan quickly rushed back with the small kit in hand, already having an antiseptic wipe in hand. Scooching over a bit so he could plant himself right next to you, you tried your best to face him in a way that made your legs comfortable, but you couldn’t find a spot. Stan just raised an eyebrow at you as he set the things down, grabbing your hips and sliding his hands down a little more slowly then he needed to, positioning your legs so they wrapped around his torso, pulling you closer.

“Better?” He offered.

“Much,” you affirmed with a small blush.

Picking back up the wipe, he ripped open the small travel sized package and leaned in closer, raising his hand over the cut. “This will sting,” he warned, his eyes entirely focused on your upper brow. You scoffed, replying back with, “I think I can handle a little—“ but as soon as the coolness of the cloth touched the cut and a dull stinging pain shot through that small section, you hissed and winced back in pain for dramatic effect.

Stan immediately ripped his hand away looking utterly horrified. Grinning, you released the fake tension in your shoulders and sing-songed, “just kidding,” as he stared at you with the cutest frown of all time, pressing the antiseptic wipe back on your face with a vengeance. “Please laugh at my joke, it sucks when the only person who validates my humour is Richie,” you complained as he continued to work. Stan gave you the driest, most sarcastic “Ha Ha,” in return, but you appreciated the effort.

Sitting in silence as he finished his work, you took the time to unabashedly study his face. As a kid, he had always been a lot more mature than the rest of your friends, and his perfect posture and ever-neatly pressed clothes reflected that. As he aged, it was no different. His angular face grew more fitting, becoming an elegant kind of handsome. The only part of him that ever seemed slightly out of place was his unruly, curly hair. It was adorable, and you’d taken the advantage many times of running your hands through with it or playing with it when you were alone.

He was patient but tough. As much as you were always frustrated with how much he pushed you, you knew it was his way of showing he cared. It was never hurtful or done in malice. You respected him so much. He was a brilliant light, and suddenly a pain constricted your soul at the knowledge that keeping your relationship a secret had hurt him. Was hurting him. You wanted him to be happy, and you had avoided him. How could you do that to someone you loved?

Because you did love him.

Looking at him now, there was no doubt in your mind that every single part of you loved every single part of him.

“What are you smiling at?”  Stan asked with an inquisitive look after he was done, rubbing his hand up and down your arm in a soothing motion you weren’t sure he even noticed. Utterly caught up in the moment and your thoughts, you couldn’t even process that your mouth had started moving, words tumbling right on out in a matching soft caress.

“I’m in love with you.”

Stan froze up like he’d just gotten shot of all things, and you swore you’d never seen someone so motionless in your life. “Pardon?” He sputtered out, his honey brown eyes opening wider.

Then your brain finally caught up to what you had said.

Gripping his face between your hands in a wretched panic, your own terrible, cold shock took over your body as you tumbled out in an unstoppable stream, “wait, oh God, that was too sudden, wasn’t it? Please, please don’t get freaked out, I was just staring at you and I was so distracted, and it just kind hit me, and Stan, I’m so sorry about today, I’m so sorry if I’ve hurt you by keeping this a secret, we can go tell everyone now, I just can’t lose you, you know? I was just scared--“

Suddenly your breath was cut off when his lips crashed into yours, unexpectedly, greedy, and utterly intense. Melting into it, your hands slipped to the back if his neck, his weight leaning into you comfortably. You groaned as he just as suddenly pulled away, but slowly and painfully. He pressed his forehead against yours, whispering a quiet, “breathe.”

You did as he said and sucked in a much-needed breath.

“I love you too,” he smiled with a breathless laugh, squeezing your sides which he gripped so desperately, “I love you so much.”

“Good. I mean, I’m—I’m glad,” you laughed out, utter relief washing through you with a tension you hadn’t even known you’d been holding. Stan’s own beautiful laughed joined in with yours, as you leaned into to give him a tender kiss.

Reluctantly pulling away, you slid your hands away from his neck, moving down to grip his hands, still needing to feel him anchored to you in some way. “Are you sure you want to tell everyone?” Stan questioned, lowly still, and you nodded your head. “Yes. I’m sure,” you stated, surprising yourself at how resolute you sounded. “I’m sure about us, and I don’t want you to feel like I want to hide this or that I’m ashamed. I never was, I just didn’t want it to change anything.”

The pure joyous smile that suddenly spread across Stan’s face was almost worth all the stress of today.

“They’re never going to let this go,” he added in a teasing warning, giving your hand a small squeeze. You let out a small laugh, biting your bottom lip. “I’m ready to deal with it if you are.”

Stan didn’t even need to voice a response, instead of letting his lips meet yours again in an unrelenting kiss, hands wandering up and down your body as you fought to get a proper grapple on him. You two had had intense make-out sessions before, there was no doubt about that, but this… this was something on an entirely different playing field. It was like the boy had held back on you all these months, and he was just letting out all of that pent up energy, nervousness, and everything he was ever unsure about. It was a raw need.

Moving forward a bit, you pressed your hands to his chest and successfully maneuvered your legs already wrapped around him to straddle his sides, trapping him in his place against the seat. Giving a cheeky little grin against his lips, Stan’s hands moved down to squeeze your upper thighs before moving them to rest on your lower back just under your shirt. His lips never once left yours, the utter tenderness making your heart feel like it was going to give out any second.

A mild moan left your lips as Stan moved down, leaving a trail of kisses from your cheek, to the corner of your jaw, under it, to where he settled in the crook of your neck. You couldn’t stop the breathy sigh of his name as it escaped you, and as you began to tangle your hands into his hair that you loved so much, you could have kicked him as he breathed against your neck, “I love hearing you say my name.” Cupping his jaw, you moved his face back up, muttering, “shut up, you idiot,” before pressing your lips against his in a once more greedy kiss. He obliged.

Leaning his head away, he gave a gentle nip at your bottom lip before opening his eyes to gaze at you under his heavy lashes. His lips were slightly swollen, breath heavy, face a little redder than usual. You probably mirrored the same image.

“Let’s wait to tell them tomorrow,” he stated. Bewildered, you pulled back and let your hands slide down to rest on his arms. “You’re okay with that?” you questioned hesitantly. Dang, you hoped this wasn’t some weird elaborate trap. Stan nodded his head, his shy smile returning to his face. God, he was so cute. “Yeah. I want it to be just us for a little while longer if that’s okay?”

Returning his smile with your own beaming one, you gave him a final gentle, but lingering kiss. “Of course it’s okay,” you offered, maneuvering yourself off your position on his lap and jumping out of the truck to the gravelly ground.  Stan followed suit.

Grabbing his hand for one last bit of contact, both of you made your way back to your group.

As soon as you found your way squished in around the little campfire surrounded by your friends, immediately you knew something was up the moment everyone stopped talking abruptly. Turning to give a questioning side glance at Stan, he shrugged his shoulders, looking equally as perplexed as you felt. 

After about thirty seconds of silence, you threw your hands up and exasperatedly bit out, “what!” 

“Is that a, uh, burn mark on your neck?” 

The question was directed from Ben who was sat beside you, but by the sudden look of pure horror that crossed Stan’s face, you knew without even looking that the thing he was talking about certainly wasn’t a burn mark. It was a god damn hickey. 

Mother fucking shit! 

“Oh, Ben sweetie, no,” Bev tsked as she gave an all too amused smirk at him, trying to cover up her chuckle beneath a hand. You felt a certain blush of heat rise to your cheeks as you shot up in embarrassment.

“Doctor Stan, I’m pretty sure there are rules against fucking your patients,” Richie laughed out. Both you and Stan returned it with an aggravated, “beep beep Richie!”  

“I’m allowed to give the person I’m dating hickeys!” Stan shot out in defense, as the group replied with a hearty chorus of “what’s” and “dating?” Soon, so many questions began to be directed your way, your friends overlapping themselves in a loud, desperate attempt. 

Mike Hanlon, the saving grace he is, finally hollered out, “hey!” and successfully shut them all up, all eyes turning to him. 

“Anyone want to roast marshmallows?” he smiled. 

And just like that, everyone nodded their head in agreement, moving past it just as quickly as the news had come. Rolling your eyes, you sat back down on the log made bench and gripped Stanley’s hand in yours.

It was still a perfect day.

-- general tag list: @@multi-parker @stan-the-losers-club-man @this-cute-shit-xo @breederofguilt@babylovereddie @ubertrashmouth @derrysdenbrough @socially-awkward-nerd @emmaamalie @catching-fire-in-the-wind  @noodleboyuris @sspideyboyy

[i-am-snowils-admiral]

Train Tracks and Ice Cream

This is another original story! I wrote it for a fiction writing class. It’s fun I like it. Feedback is always great (I know it’s a little long to ask you guys to read seeing as it’s not fanfiction, but I’d appreciate it).

(For those who know my ocs, just know that although the story started out with it being about Eli and Milo, they didn’t fit the roles so I shifted it around. I couldn’t bring myself to change Milo’s name though, so the Milo in this story is not necessarily connected with my oc Milo)

Words: 3812

Samuel Cain had hoped, initially, that he would find a nice quiet field somewhere to set up his picnic blanket. He had been most excited when he first found the picnic blanket in the corner of the garage, because it was white with red perpendicular stripes, and fit perfectly into his fantasies of hot summer days and laughing children playing in the grass while happy parents sat and gossiped about kindergarten teachers. He was almost certain that his family had been on one of those outings, but had neither pictures nor stories to confirm it. Sometimes he wondered if seventeen was old enough that his chances of being one of the playing children were gone.

He had found himself not with a quiet field but with a smallish park - Burlington Park, according to a nearby sign - right next to the railroad tracks in the historic downtown of Hinsdale, Illinois. There was grass in the park, but it came in narrow strips in-between concrete walkways, and Samuel knew that he would feel rather silly setting up a picnic blanket there. As it was, he wasn’t sure he had the energy to set up a picnic blanket. Northern Illinois was going through the first real heat wave of the summer, and the power of it was leeching the strength from his limbs. The air was humid, the cicadas screaming the heat from their hiding places in the trees, and his slacks were sticking to the backs of his legs where he had been sitting on the train for the better part of the day. There was a rather nice looking fountain with some benches surrounding it, and so Samuel figured that that would have to do.

Hinsdale was not Samuel’s final destination. In fact, he was going to Chicago, and was going to have to make a number of train transfers, though Hinsdale was not one of them. He had chosen to stop here partially because he knew that when his parents got the bill for a new train ticket at a town he wasn’t supposed to stop at, they would call him, which they wouldn’t have done otherwise, and partially because he knew that he needed to take some time to think about the summer in front of him.

Samuel Cain was a well-behaved, mellow sort of boy, who gave off the vibe of being significantly older than he actually was. He did well in school, had a number of other well-behaved friends, and had not complained when his parents suggested that he spend the summer before his senior year of high school as what was effectively a garbage boy at the bank where his uncle worked. Samuel was clever enough to know that this was a scheme to get him out of the house so his parents could argue with his older brother in relative peace, but had stuck to the plan without complaint because he was determined to not turn down opportunities, as that was what his parents always accused his older brother of doing. There was also the issue that the previous summer’s scheme had consisted mostly of dumping Samuel at his friends’ houses for days at a time, which was fun at times but resulted in a number of raised eyebrows and difficult questions.

Many young men of Samuel’s age might have been thankful for the relative failure of an older sibling. Older siblings set the bar, after all, and if the bar was set low, pleasing parents enough to keep them off your back was fairly easy. Samuel, however, considered his brother’s incompetence not as a lowering of the bar but as a heightening of it. Every moment of weakness or failure he showed to his parents was to them a threat of falling into the same habits as the older son. 

Following this conclusion, Samuel had built up his own character with the nervous apathy of a child stacking blocks at the doctor’s office in lieu of thinking about an imminent shot. He would get along better with his teachers than his fellow students (which he knew was a sign of maturity to most adults), would do all of his homework in neat handwriting at a desk facing the wall rather than the window, and would excel in both Math and English. If he were to be honest with himself, Samuel would admit that he preferred History to Math and English, really enjoyed the view from his bedroom window, and found several of his teachers to be exceedingly dull. However, Samuel was rarely honest with himself, and remained completely oblivious to his own opinions. He was happy, he supposed, not necessarily because he actually felt happy but because he wasn’t aware of any particular feelings of unhappiness. He wasn’t completely denying himself as a person, and his actions lessened the stress on his weary parents, whom he loved very much and wanted to cause as little trouble as possible. In another year, he would be going to college, and then perhaps he could branch out a bit more.

As it was, he was stuck here in this tiny midwestern town, sweat dripping from his dark hair, eating a ham and cheese sandwich he couldn’t really taste, suffocating on the smell of hot, damp grass, and waiting for the next train to arrive so he could continue on to Chicago.

Distracted as he was thinking about his destination, it was really a miracle that he noticed the boy on the train tracks at all. The tracks were close by, but not that close, and it took him a while to notice that the boy was on the tracks themselves instead of the sidewalk.

Peeling himself off the bench, Samuel walked closer to the tracks and watched the boy for a while, feeling quite sure that the boy’s mother would eventually notice and pull him off the tracks herself, most likely crying and screaming and kicking up such a fuss that the boy himself would probably start crying as well, and there’d be a big scene. However, as time went on and no one seemed to notice the boy, Samuel began to wonder if it was up to him to intervene.

The boy, who appeared on closer inspection to be wearing a stiff plastic backpack, a faded yellow shirt and bright red rain boots that matched the sunburn smattered across his nose, was watching his own feet with intense concentration, placing each foot with purpose. Although there wasn’t a train in sight, Samuel couldn’t help but feel a sense of urgency as he rushed out of the park and onto the tracks, grabbed the kid under the arms, and practically dragged him back towards the relative safety of the sidewalk.

The most alarming thing about dragging a random kid with no mother in sight off of the train tracks was definitely the fact that he did not struggle or yell. Hadn’t this kid ever been taught about basic stranger danger? Samuel had just dragged him away by the arms, for goodness sake! The least the kid could have done was look frightened.

Instead, the boy wavered on his feet for a brief moment, scrunched up his sunburned nose in concentration, and focused on Samuel as if he had just noticed him.

“Hi!” the boy exclaimed with a kind of hazy enthusiasm. “I’m Milo. I’m running away.”

Samuel fought the urge to scream in frustration. He actually took several moments to just stare at Milo in complete disbelief, trying to figure out if his age would account for the complete stupidity of informing a stranger of his name and current lack of supervision. The kid was what, seven, maybe? Samuel wasn’t sure. He wasn’t very good with ages, and was even worse trying to figure out maturity levels. He was terrible with kids.

Samuel was just considering the question of whether it would be hypocritical to tell the kid that he shouldn’t be talking to strangers when he realized that Milo was swaying on his feet, and that the sunburn on his cheeks wasn’t the only thing causing his face to flush. The blue eyes peeking out from under straw-colored hair had a slightly glazed look to them, and the boy’s lips were chapped and peeling. The kid was clearly dehydrated, and was well on his way to heatstroke.

Sighing in frustration, and wondering vaguely how a kid his age had managed to keep walking for so long in such a condition, Samuel grabbed the kid’s arm again and dragged him towards a nearby line of shops. He didn’t want to deal with an ambulance, and the fact that the kid hadn’t passed out yet and wasn’t slurring his speech told him that although he was close to heatstroke, he hadn’t actually gotten it yet. Samuel was pretty sure that there was an ice cream store nearby, which would have water and would be well air-conditioned.

Milo came along pretty willingly, and sipped at his water obediently when seated at a small table in the ice cream store. He was beginning to look more alert already, and Samuel was slightly nervous about what would happen when the kid really noticed where he was and who was with him.

“So,” Samuel started, a little awkwardly, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “How long have you been running away?”

Milo stared at him blankly for a moment, kicking his legs against the chair. “Since this morning,” he finally admitted.

Samuel let out a sigh of relief. Milo couldn’t be that far from home. “Have you run away before?”

“Nope! This is the first time. Sadie said it would be fun.” Milo stopped and narrowed his eyes at his companion. “Who are you, again?”

Samuel rested his head on his hand and raised an eyebrow at the kid. “I’m the guy who got you off the train tracks. My name’s Samuel. You probably would have died had I not been there.” Realistically, Samuel knew that someone else probably would have gotten Milo off the tracks eventually, but he felt honor bound to impress upon the kid just how dangerous his little escapade had been. “Who’s Sadie? Did she run away, too?”

Milo’s eyes had widened slightly at the mention of his potential demise, but he seemed to dismiss his brush with death fairly easily at the mention of Sadie. “Sadie’s my sister. She didn’t run away with me, but she said that I should. She said that I should get on the train tracks and keep walking until I got caught. She’s super cool and knows all sorts of things!”

Samuel didn’t trust himself to answer that without saying something not very flattering about the types of things that Milo’s sister knew, and so he changed the subject by suggesting that they actually buy some ice cream. The store had been a good idea for fending off the heat, but the smell of the ice cream was hard to resist. He also couldn’t help but be amused at the irony of a stranger offering to buy a lost child ice cream. Ice cream seemed to show up in every kidnapping story he’d ever heard. Ice cream and puppies. Sometimes there were balloons involved. He’d have to look into finding some balloons.

Now with ice cream, the unlikely pair settled back down in their seats, chatting aimlessly about subjects unrelated to running away and the potential negative influence of older sisters. Samuel learned that Milo was from the next town over, that he liked frogs better than salamanders, and that the stiff plastic backpack had been a birthday present from his aunt. The contents of the backpack (which was lime green with race cars on it, a questionable choice by anyone’s standards) turned out to be a flashlight, a picture book about dinosaurs, and a stack of newspaper, which Milo informed him was to make his bed, since Sadie had said that all runaways slept on newspaper.

Samuel was beginning to feel severely exasperated with Milo’s sister, and was starting to be truly thankful that his brother had never managed to drag him into any of his rebellious activities the way Sadie had dragged Milo. From his limited ability to judge the situation, Samuel had come to the conclusion that Milo had been goaded into running away by an irresponsible older sister who wanted to cause trouble for her overprotective parents. After a little digging, Samuel was able to discover that Sadie had recently been very upset about her parent’s interference in her relationship with a boy whose name Milo didn’t remember. Milo did remember that the boy smelled funny, was older than his sister, and that there had been a lot of yelling the day after he had come to visit.

Samuel thought that he could commiserate with the story in a certain way. Perhaps he could help this boy in ways beyond saving him from heatstroke. After all, Samuel himself had had to discover ways of dealing with troublesome older siblings and stressed out parents by himself, and here before him was a boy who was just beginning to understand the troubles awaiting him in the future. Samuel was just about to interrupt Milo’s story about what had happened to his last backpack to begin instructing him in the ways of being a mediator and a non-problematic child when he was struck with such a strong sensation of shameful revulsion that he was momentarily shocked that he had ever even considered destroying the potential of such an enthusiastic child and turning him into the same type of miserable, submissive person that Samuel himself had become.

“I’m not miserable,” he said aloud, and then blushed furiously, thanking his lucky stars that Milo had been too distracted by his own story to notice the outburst. Shocked out of the moment by his sudden exclamation, he took his attention off of Milo completely. He wasn’t miserable, right? He led a perfectly good life. He had nothing to complain about. Nothing made him unhappy.

And yet, he had automatically been repulsed by the idea of Milo following in his footsteps. As if his own path had somehow been faulty. As if encouraging the boy to mimic him would cause more harm than leaving him to figure it out himself.

Milo was asking him something, and Samuel pulled himself from the introspection with a jolt.

“What?”

Milo rolled his eyes. “Do you want to see my dinosaur book?” he asked, clearly repeating a previously ignored question.

Samuel agreed absently, bending over the dinosaur book with fake enthusiasm, asking questions to keep the kid happy while his mind swirled with confusion.

It was a miracle, really, that Samuel noticed the time. The next train would be arriving in five minutes, and there wasn’t another one until an hour after that. He tucked the dinosaur book under his arm and grabbed his suitcase, glad that he hadn’t left it by the park bench. He took Milo’s hand in his free one, and led him out the door.

“It’s time we got you home, Milo,” he explained briefly, relieved when the boy didn’t fight him on it. After the brief bout of almost-heatstroke and the thrilling adventures of the day away from home, the boy was sure to be exhausted.

He paid for the tickets with cash, somehow no longer wanting to goad his parents into calling by using the credit card. He could always call them first, after all. Somehow managing to keep a hold on the book, the suitcase, and the runaway child, Samuel managed to get the whole party on board the train, and settled them both down in some seats on the first floor of the double-decker passenger train. He tucked the dinosaur book into a sleeve on his suitcase. No need to distract the kid with it now. He had something to say.

“Milo,” he began, not entirely sure how to broach the subject. “Do you think that running away today was the right thing to do?”

It was a bit of a gamble, he knew, and it wasn’t exactly his job to instruct the kid, but he somehow felt that anything Milo’s parents said wouldn’t stand up to the temptation of the older sister’s approval, and something told him that the advice of a relative stranger may actually make more of an impression than the inevitable alarm of the parents. He felt he ought to teach the boy something, anyway, seeing as he couldn’t bring himself to do so earlier.

“The right thing?” Milo repeated, chewing on his lower lip in concentration.

Samuel could tell that his phrasing had been confusing, and figured that Milo was probably too tired to play a part in his question-and-answer teaching technique anyway.

“I mean that you probably scared your parents a lot,” he clarified, “and I think they’re going to be very unhappy. It’s dangerous, too. If I hadn’t been the one who found you, someone bad could have taken you away. And then you’d never see your parents or Sadie again.”

Probably a little harsh, he thought to himself as Milo’s eyes turned a little misty and his lip started to tremble. But it was necessary, really. Anyone could have found him. He could have been kidnapped. For one terrible moment, Samuel considered the fact that he could just keep the kid on the train with him and disappear into Chicago, Milo in tow. They wouldn’t last long, Samuel wasn’t well connected enough for a clean kidnapping, but the option was there. They could run away properly, vanish into the streets of the city, and escape from older siblings and concerned parents. He could take Milo to the natural history museum and show him the dinosaur bones. They could sit by the lake and eat ice cream.

But that wasn’t realistic. A daydream, really, and it would benefit Samuel more than it would Milo, anyway. He shook his head slightly as if to dislodge the thought, and looked out the window to where they were already approaching Milo’s station. Despite the length of his journey, the boy really hadn’t travelled far.

Taking a hold of his now-silent companion, Samuel got them both off of the train once more, and headed off in a random direction before realizing that outside the town name, he had no idea where Milo lived. One quiet conversation and an inquiry with the railway assistant later and they were headed in the right direction, Milo strangely subdued next to him.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Samuel said suddenly. “I was just worried is all. This is a safe area, but you really shouldn’t be all by yourself.”

Milo nodded silently, and Samuel wondered if it was more the exhaustion that was causing him to be so quiet.

If Samuel had been unsure about the address, he needn’t have worried, for he had just turned the corner of a street apparently a few blocks from Milo’s when a car that had been driving past them swerved halfway into a driveway and screeched to a stop. Three people, all of whom looked a bit like Milo, clambered out of the car and ran towards them with a yell. Milo, seeming to reach his limit, burst into tears and broke away from Samuel’s hold, throwing himself, backpack and all, into the arms of a woman Samuel could only assume was his mother.

A man who was probably Milo’s father and a girl of about Samuel’s age who must have been Sadie arrived moments later and all draped themselves over Milo in a giant tearful embrace. Sadie was nearly hysterical, and looked as if she had been crying all day. With each gasping sob, she stammered out an apology, clutching to Milo as if he had returned from the dead.

Perhaps Samuel had been too quick to judge her.

Observing the small huddle for a while, Samuel wondered if he was overstaying his welcome, and turned to go, but was stopped by a strong arm on his shoulder. He turned and was met by the tear-filled but suspicious eyes of Milo’s father. The man looked as though he couldn’t decide whether to hug Samuel as well or hit him, and Samuel suddenly realized that they didn’t know whether he had taken the boy or was escorting him home.

“I found him in Hinsdale,” he explained, hoping that the man would believe him. “He was walking on the railroad tracks. He looked like he was about to pass out from heatstroke so I got him some water and then took him home.”

The man seemed to pale at the news, and closed his eyes for a moment, surely imagining his son collapsed on the tracks, oblivious to an oncoming train. He opened his eyes once more and studied Samuel closely, searching for deception, then turned to hear the tail end of Milo’s own explanation. The boy seemed to have regained some of his previous energy, and was choking out between tears something that must have matched Samuel’s story, because the father turned and enveloped Samuel in a sudden hug.

The heat, which had been unbearable before, seemed to escalate with the added contact and smell of hot, terrified man, but Samuel couldn’t help but return the embrace, feeling his own eyes smart unexpectedly at the simple act of thanks.

The man pulled away and patted Samuel on the shoulder, nodding but not saying a word, before turning back to his son.

After the initial thrill of the return, there were actual words of thanks, invitations to dinner, and, upon his refusal, a demand that Samuel call them once he arrived safely in Chicago. Sadie held back, her fingers running through Milo’s hair in a protective gesture, as if she had only recently discovered how precious he was. Judging by her wide, shame-filled eyes, Samuel figured that she had.

He bade the family farewell, giving Milo’s hair an affectionate ruffle of his own, and renewed his promise to call when he had arrived at his Uncle’s, tucking the hastily-scribbled phone number into the sleeve of his suitcase. He turned back towards the train station, a spring in his step that he couldn’t quite explain. When he had put away the phone number, his hand had brushed up against the dinosaur book, but he hadn’t said anything or attempted to return it. Depending on how important the book was to the boy, it might give him an excuse to come back and visit sometime, to return it. Maybe Milo could even come to Chicago. They could make a whole day of it, getting ice cream and going to see the dinosaur bones. The summer suddenly seemed quite exciting, though for the life of him, Samuel couldn’t remember why it had seemed so bleak before.

[sugarpopss]

MORE GARETH EMERSON HEADCANONS

I have a problem. And also have been talking to @master-of-munsons about this guy for three days, so this is inspired by a lot of that conversation

Gareth Emerson, Gareth the Great if you will, is not what some may call an ‘outdoors person’

Outside is fine. It’s pretty sometimes. He’s got nothing against the outdoors

But listen: he wears. So many layers. They get warm in the summer. It’s a lot.

He also sunburns extremely easily. Every summer, without fail, he develops a stripe of sunburn across his nose and cheeks. Is it cute? Yes? Does it peel off and get painful? Also yes

So summers out. What about fall?

A lot of spiders come out in fall, guys. Gareth maybe scary dog #2 but he doesn’t really fuck with spiders. Sorry. Lots of bugs outside in the fall

Winter? Well now it’s snowing in Indiana and everything is freezing and wet so no thanks pal

Spring? Same problem but with rain.

He’ll be in the house, thanks. Mans got his drums and his boys. He’s okay. Thanks though