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veltana · 3 months

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Shared desires

✦ Pairing: Bucky/Fem!Reader, Steve/Fem!Reader, brief Bucky/Steve

✦ Word count: ~4,4k

✦ Rating: Explicit

✦ Warnings/tags: Canon verse, Wife!Reader, Husband!Bucky, Best friend!Steve, cuckolding, degradation, praise, oral (fem receiving), spit sharing, manhandling, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, angst, hurt/comfort, feels, eventual polyamory, pet names (doll, honey).

✦ Note: NERVOUS! I've never written for an event before, but it gave me the push I needed to finally finish this! For @the-slumberparty's Sundae Bar we have Chocolate (a secret revealed) together with Neopolitan (love triangle). Topped with Chocolate Syrup (established relationship) and one could argue a dash of Sprinkles (special event)(it sure is special for them 😂) As always, reblogs, comments, and asks are very welcome ❤️ Enjoy 😋

Masterlist | AO3

Steve’s mouth is hanging slightly open, cheeks red, and eyes wide. "Excuse me?" he sputters. "You're the only one I trust with this, if you don't feel comfortable I get it, but I thought I’d ask.” "But Buck…" Steve begins, momentarily lost for words, then says, "I don't want to cause a rift between you and your wife." "You wouldn't, we've talked it over so many times and honestly you're the only one she's okay with." "Me?" Bucky reaches over to place a hand on Steve's knee, squeezing it reassuringly. "You've been at our side since the beginning, she knows you, and knows you would never hurt us."

Then he leans back with a smirk. "And don't think I didn't see you looking at her last time we went out drinking." Steve flushes even more, looking away, mumbling, "Those pants should be illegal." Bucky laughs in response.

With a sigh, Steve looks at his best friend, his long lost brother, the person he went through hell to get back. If Bucky knew the truth he wouldn't be laughing. For a second Steve contemplates telling him but as he's done for years, he keeps his deepest secret inside and instead says. "Just let me think about it, okay? It doesn't mean it's a no but just… I need to think, okay?" "Take your time," Bucky reassures him.

***

Several hours later you're ordering take-out while waiting for Bucky to get home from the compound. You could cook but your body is jittery with nervous energy and it's hard to concentrate. Bucky asked Steve today and you have yet to learn how it went. Your husband could have texted you, but Bucky often forgets that texting exists.

When the key turns in the lock you can't keep your cool any longer. Running into the hallway just as Bucky kicks off his shoes you don't even pretend to be nonchalant about it. "Well?" you ask.

With a chuckle, Bucky envelopes you in a hug. To be in his arms is the best feeling in the world. Surrounded by his scent and his warmth, knowing you're safe and cared for. "He's going to think about it, didn't say no. He was just shocked." Pulling back you squeeze Bucky's waist. "I understand that. I was too when you first brought it up," you note.

Bucky starts backing you out of the hallway until your back meets a wall. "But now you can't stop thinking about it," his deep voice taunts, making you light up with desire. "Now you want to get fucked while I watch and get humiliated.” The sound coming from your throat makes it impossible for you to deny it.

***

A few weeks later, you’re sitting beside Bucky, across from Steve in your living room. The guys have beers and you have a glass of wine. Steve's cheeks have been pink since he stepped through the door and looked at you. "I understand if you think it's a little… odd," you say to him. "And even if you say yes now, you can always change your mind later."

Steve nods and takes a swing from the bottle. He's not going to get drunk but it eases the nerves. "So, I'll fuck you while Bucky watches?" "Yeah," you nod. Steve puts the bottle down, dragging a hand over his face. "God, I'm going to be honest, I'm scared it's going to fuck up our friendship Buck. What if we do this and it's not what you imagined?" Bucky nods, but his answer is sure when he responds. "Then we'll stop. And there are no hard feelings. The same goes for you, even if we're right in the middle of it and it starts to feel wrong, just say the word and it stops right away."

Steve doesn’t look convinced. Honestly, you're just glad he wanted to come over and discuss it. A little idea forms in your head. You put down the wine. "How about a trial run?" you suggest. Both men turn to look at you but you only keep your attention on Steve. "If you're okay with it, I'll sit on your lap. If that feels alright we can share a kiss while Bucky watches and if it feels wrong it doesn't have to go any further."

Steve thinks for a moment, then agrees. A small groan comes from Bucky, just the thought of it makes him aroused. You kiss him on the cheek before standing up and slowly walking over to Steve. His eyes follow your every move but he doesn’t look scared.

When you straddle him, his hands immediately come to rest on your hips but then it's as if he realizes what he's done and stiffens. "It's okay," you encourage him. "You can touch me." He relaxes minimally and you settle down completely. "You can stop anytime," you remind him as you cup his bearded face. His tongue comes out and wets his plush lips, nodding.

You let your thumbs run along his cheeks, never breaking eye contact and the moment feels so intimate. You’re unsure what to expect, but your pulse picks up as he becomes more confident, moving his hands up and down your sides. A finger slips in under your sweater and brushes your skin. It sends a shiver down your spine and a pleased whimper comes out of your throat. That seems to encourage him and the light touches turn heavier.

Carefully you lean forward, giving Steve time to stop or to pull away. The hesitation on his face from earlier has fled and instead, you see a spark of eagerness. Pressing your lips softly against his, it takes a second for him to return it.

Turns out Steve Rogers is a great kisser. After sliding your lips together he quickly turns bolder, opening your mouth with his and finding your tongue to play with. His touches get greedier too. When both his hands shift in under your sweater to feel your naked skin you whimper again, longing for more of it. Without noticing you’ve started moving, seeking friction for the throbbing between your legs.

"Oh, fuck yes," you hear Bucky grunt behind you. That makes Steve break the kiss, you meet his wild eyes, pupils blown wide from lust.

"Your husband is getting off on you grinding in my lap, honey." You’ve never heard his voice so deep before. "He has his hand inside his pants, stroking his pathetic little dick while you do your best to hump me.” "Fuckfuckfuck," you hear from Bucky. With a whine you press down hard, feeling that Steve is just as affected as you. With difficulty, you stop yourself from going to the floor and beg to suck his dick. Instead, the both of you continue with the heated make-out session, your hands now heavy on Steve’s body, wishing you had his skin against yours.

The sounds coming from Bucky on the couch grow more urgent and it turns you on to know he's getting off to you making out with Steve. It feels wrong and so right at the same time. Steve nips your lower lip before kissing down your neck, saying, "I can't wait to fuck that sweet cunt of yours." Both you and Bucky moan. "Gonna give you a night you've never had before and make sure every time your husband fucks you all you can think about is my dick."

That makes Bucky lose it, a small shout declaring his climax. Steve and you slow down the tempo of your kissing until it's just soft, barely there caresses. Though the need is alight in your body, coherent thoughts start to tumble back in and after a few minutes, you pull back from him. His lips are swollen, and you feel a tinge of reproach for getting carried away with him. Cupping his face once more you ask, "How are you feeling?" He gives a dry laugh, "It's a mix of shame and horniness."

When you frown he grabs your hands to remove them from his face, squeezing them before letting go. "It's alright, it felt good while it was happening,” he reassures you, before asking over your shoulder. “How about you Buck?" "That's the hardest I've ever come from jerking off in my life I think." Both Steve and you laugh as you collapse against his chest. Immediately he starts caressing your back. You get a familiar feeling in your chest, one you usually only get when Bucky holds you.

"How about you, doll?" Bucky asks. "I liked knowing I was doing something to get you off at the same time as it was kind of "wrong"." A moment later you get off Steve, and sit down on the couch beside Bucky again. Somehow it feels weird to be away from him but you chalk it up to the sexual desire still prominent in your body.

“How about another meeting in a week or so? Get everyone to think it through another round and then we can decide on a date and location?” Bucky suggests. You nod and Steve does too.

***

On a Friday, after numerous more talks to plan the evening and all of you getting your STD tests back clean, it's finally time. The excitement is palpable in the hotel room you decide to stay in.

At Steve and Bucky’s request, you're wearing a very tight dress and the smallest pieces of underwear known to man.

Steve is sitting at the foot of the bed, white shirt tucked into black slacks like he's heading out to dinner, not about to fuck his best friend's wife. Bucky is in jeans and one of his henleys, placing an armchair at the side of the bed.

Even though you know what is about to happen, you feel nervous, but also excited to fulfill your husband's kink. When you take your place in front of Steve, meeting his hungry eyes, there is a buzz in your body making you bite your lip.

"Ready?" Bucky asks and you both nod. The moment Bucky sits down you climb onto Steve's lap. The smooth material of his slacks caresses your inner thighs as you settle. Immediately his hands land at your waists and starts stroking your sides, down to your ass, squeezing and pressing you just a little bit closer. Those blue eyes are a storm, filled with lust and need. Your face probably mirrors his and a second later your lips are pressed together.

Both of you moan and Steve fists the fabric of the dress, threatening to tear it to shreds. A soft groan is heard, and both of you smile into the kiss. Steve pulls away, making you pout, but he tsks at you. "Just be happy that I'm the one kissing you and not the shitty husband you have.”

Something in you wants to defend Bucky because he's not a shitty husband. He's amazing in every way! But you know that this is what he wants, it's part of the game. Bucky gets off on Steve's degradation. You can't deny him that.

Then he's kissing you again, heavier than earlier. Your hands grab his head, messing up the semi-styled hair, anchoring you to him. On their own accord, your hips roll against Steve's crotch, pulling moans from the both of you.

A second later he has you flipped onto your back, smiling down deviously as you stare at him in shock. But when he presses his clothed cock to your soaked panties the shock is forgotten. Pleasure engulfs every sense of your being.

"There you go honey, let me take care of you, let me make you feel better than your husband ever could." With a whine you jerk against him, trying to find relief for the ache in your cunt, but instead, he pulls away, taking your panties with him. Without looking he throws them Bucky's way and another groan comes from him when he feels how wet they are. Steve gets off the bed and starts unbuttoning his shirt. "Show your husband, honey. Show him how fucking wet you are for me."

With a whimper, you spread your legs. The air feels cool against your heated flesh. You don't dare to look at Bucky but understand he sees what Steve wants him to when a broken moan can be heard through the room.

"Touch yourself," Steve commands, and with shaking fingers you find your entrance, letting one sink it into yourself, wondering if you've ever been this wet before.

Slowly you move it, all while watching Steve get undressed. He's in no hurry. With a thick voice, he says, "One more, but don't you dare come."

With stuttered breath push another finger in. The sound that fills the room is obscene but leaves no doubt about how horny you are. When Steve is down to his underwear he pulls the fingers from you, sucking them into his mouth, groaning at the taste. After licking them clean he releases them with a pop and smirks at you. Then he turns to Bucky and it's the first time you get a good look at him.

His hands are gripping the arms of the chair in a death grip, you're surprised his vibranium hand hasn't done more damage. He's taken off his henley and his cock is out, hard and leaking onto his abdomen. Glassy eyes follow Steve's movements. The blond grabs Bucky's face, forcing his mouth open and tilting his head back. Immediately Bucky sticks out his tongue and from above Steve lets his spit run down into Bucky's mouth.

Bucky's dick twitches and leaks more. "That's the only fucking taste you'll have of your wife tonight. Say thank you." Steve rumbles. As soon as Bucky has swallowed down the mix of your slick and Steve's spit he says "Thank you," in a voice hoarser than you've ever heard before.

Steve comes back to you, pulling your dress off and stepping out of his underwear before settling on the bed and pressing your legs up against your stomach. "Now I'm going to get a proper taste of that sweet cunt," he grins.

"Steve!" you cry and your hands immediately find his hair as he dives in. His tongue travels from your opening to your clit, over and over again, soaking you in his spit until you feel it running down your ass. He sucks and licks, alternating pressure, and speed to make sure you're never quite getting enough to make you come but to keep you constantly on edge. The moment he sinks two fingers into you, you arch off the bed and a high-pitched wail leaves your mouth.

You're at the brink of shattering. The current of the climax is cursing through your body. Incoherent babbling fills the room as you try to urge Steve to take pity on you. Luckily for you, he does and concentrates the movements of his tongue to your clit, as his fingers press against your G-spot. A surge of heat fills your core, making it almost unbearable before it takes you and you come with a shout.

Steve works you through it until you're twitching from oversensitivity, pressing on his forehead to get him to stop. "Almost pushed my fingers right out with that," he muses, twisting them, pumping slowly. "Bet your husband has never made you come so hard."

A groan from Bucky accompanies your whimper. "Now tell me what you need honey." "I need you inside me!" "But my fingers are already inside," Steve makes a point by pressing the two fingers inside against your G-spot, making you lose your train of thought for a second.

"I- I mean…" you try. "Yes?" "More, I need more." "Just say the words." "I need your cock inside me, Steve, please!"

Seconds after his fingers have left you, he flips you onto your stomach, then puts you on your hands and knees right at the edge of the bed, at an angle where Bucky can see you. You're trembling with anticipation of what's coming.

Steve caresses your ass and legs, lightly dragging his fingers over your swollen clit and soaked center. "I can't believe this pretty fucking cunt is wasted on your husband." "Please, Steve!" "I bet you're never this wet for him" "No!" "You want me to fuck your sweet cunt, honey?" "Yes!" "Make it drip with my cum?" "Please!" "Should I knock you up, right here in front of your husband?" "Fuck me! Please!" As you feel the warm head against your cunt your arms collapse, your cheek resting against the bed.

"I love it when you beg for me," his strained voice is deep as he pushes inside. Moans, whimpers, and wails fall from your lips once he starts moving. He's big, just like Bucky, and you love to feel so full. You push back as he thrusts forward, the sound of skin against skin filling the room.

Suddenly there is a hand on your neck, making you turn your head until you see Bucky at the edge of your vision. "Tell your husband how my cock feels!" Steve demands. "Ah! Bucky! It feels so good!"

Bucky is still not touching his cock, his mouth is slightly open, his whole face red as he watches you. "Yeah, doll, you like it?" "I do! I do!" "Is he big?" "Yes! I feel so full!" That makes Steve laugh. "All she wants is a big dick and all she got was you," Steve tells Bucky.

Bucky is about to burst with those words and the armchair creeks in his grip. Then Steve turns your head again so you can't see him anymore. Instead, you're focused on how he's fucking you rough and deep. "You're gripping me so tight honey, it's like you don't want to let me go." You answer with a strangled moan. "Yeah, you're too full of cock to talk, just be a good little wife and take what I give you."

And you do, body going almost boneless as Steve fucks you. Carefully another orgasm starts to build in your lower stomach, and soon it has you wiggling and whining, needing release.

Steve's hand finds your aching clit. "That's it," he groans. "I need you to come on my cock before I fill you up with my cum. Make sure you tell your husband whose dick it is you're coming on, honey. I want it seared into his mind. Every time he fucks you from now on all he's going to remember is how loud you screamed my name." Nodding helplessly you do as he says and as the dam breaks and pleasure rushes through you, you wail Steve's name.

A moment later the telltale sign of Steve's orgasm floods you and he groans your name. For a moment his hips are plastered to you, keeping everything inside. Then he pulls out and the cum runs down your legs. When he lets go of your hips you don't have the strength to keep yourself up anymore. Falling to the side you watch Steve walk over to Bucky, pulling him up and pushing him towards you. "Go fuck my cum back into your wife."

Bucky all but scrambles over to you, ridding himself of his pants in the process before carefully turning you over onto your back and sinking into you. You wrap your arms and legs around him, your lips finding his in a familiar dance.

"I won't last, doll," he confesses. "Don't need you to," you promise with a smile. A second later Bucky’s hips stutter, his orgasm causing him to cry out against your shoulder. It lasts longer than usual and brings a wide smile to your lips, knowing Bucky's fantasy is fulfilled.

When he's done he collapses on top of you, his weight heavy but welcoming, making you feel safe and loved. A moment later you look over at the armchair, expecting to find Steve, but he’s not there. His clothes are gone too and then you hear the door to the hotel room shut.

***

The anxiety in Bucky's chest grows for every dial tone that sounds and Steve doesn't pick up. The whole weekend he’s tried to get a hold of him but he hasn't answered his phone or been seen at the compound. Bucky sent hundreds of texts, all being delivered but none replied to. There is a hole in his chest where his best friend used to live and it feels like he's getting a glimpse into how it was for Steve to find him and lose him over and over again.

Bucky wanders into the exhibition, eyes searching for Steve. This is the last place on his list of where he could be. After this, he's out of ideas. Then Steve might as well have gone to outer space and Bucky shudders at the thought of searching aimlessly through the galaxies for him. But he would do it.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he spots a familiar back. As Bucky steps up beside him, Steve’s shoulders go stiff. "You left," Bucky states. "I know," Steve responds, looking down.

"Why? We agreed to talk afterward to make sure everyone was feeling okay. It's called aftercare for a reason." "I don't know, just seeing the two of you. You love each other so much." "We do. But we love you too."

Steve huffs at that and Bucky's eyebrows draw together. "Am I going to have to beat it out of you, punk?" "Maybe this conversation is better somewhere else," Steve suggests, glancing around. "How about we go to our place? She's worried sick about you." Steve nods and together they leave the museum.

***

You’re going to wear a hole into the floor with your endless pacing. Over and over again you replay the moments after hearing the door shut. The look on Bucky’s face. The scramble to find clothes and run after Steve. Not finding him anywhere. Both of you frantically calling him over and over again.

Then you hear Bucky's truck. And a motorcycle. Your bare feet start running before you know it and you fling the door open to see Steve get off his bike. A heartbeat later you're running across the lawn. He sees you and he’s confused, but when you jump into his arms he catches you without hesitation.

You want to scream and beat him but instead, you cling to him. Bucky says something but you can't hear it and then you feel Steve start heading towards the house.

"Doll, you have to let go," Bucky's soft voice says as Steve sits on the couch. In response, you shake your head like a petulant child. "Yes, you do, come on," It's a little sterner now. "Honey, I'm not disappearing again. I promise." Only then do you slide to the side so you're sitting next to Steve, Bucky on the other side of him.

"We're very sorry we got you into this Steve," Bucky begins right away. "It was supposed to be a fun night for all of us." Finding Steve’s hand you squeeze it to let him know you agree with what Bucky's saying. "We never wanted to hurt you," you whisper.

There is a long beat of silence and you're about to speak again but Steve says, "It's my fault that I wasn't honest with the two of you." His eyes are downcast and he brings your hand into his lap, then grabs Bucky's too. "I should have said something earlier but I was scared."

"Of what Stevie?" you ask softly. "We want you to be happy, you can tell us anything." Steve snorts, weaving all your fingers together. "Scared to tell my best friend and his lovely wife that I care for them more than I should. That when I can't sleep, I wish I could feel their warm bodies beside me. That every time I see them kiss, smile, and be utterly happy together I'm both jealous and delighted. I want the two of you to have a good life. But I also want to be a part of that life, more than just as a friend."

The confession knocks the air from your lungs and you share a look with Bucky. He speaks first. "Steve, I had no idea." "That's kind of the point." "And when I suggested that you join us…" Bucky trails off. "I saw it as the only opportunity to be with the two of you, even if it was just for one night." "And when we were done…" You try to think of it from Steve's perspective. "The way you love each other is so evident. I'll never be able to fit into that. Everything just felt wrong and that I was an intruder. So I left. I know I shouldn't have but I was so disgusted with myself I couldn't stand it."

"Oh Stevie," you lean into his side. Never in a million years could you have predicted this. "I understand if you're feeling like you never want to see me again and I’m truly sorry I hurt you.”

"Hey, Steve, listen." Bucky untangles your hands to grip Steve's face and turn it towards him. "We have talked about a lot of things throughout our marriage. We both agree that even if we're not actively looking for someone else, if someone would come along one day that we both feel would complete us, then we would pursue that person and ask if that's something they're interested in. Apparently, we've both been blind because that person has been right in front of us this whole time."

As soon as Bucky says the words you know they are true. If this weekend has proved anything it is that you and Bucky love Steve just as much as you love each other.

The look on Steve's face says he doesn't believe it. "You've already kissed my wife. Can I kiss you, Steve?"

The disbelief is still evident but he nods and Bucky slowly leans in. Steve's eyelids flutter shut the moment their lips meet and you watch as your husband and his best friend find something new in each other. Steve's free hand comes up and grips Bucky's neck, at the same time and he squeezes your hand. Their kiss is slow and sensual, containing emotions that have been locked away for years. It's beautiful to watch.

As they break apart a blush rises in Steve's cheeks and a smile cracks his face. Bucky grins back at him in answer. Everything isn't solved or worked out but now the ground under you feels more stable to stand on and you know that together with these two men there is nothing the world can't throw at you that you won't be able to handle.

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foundationsofdecay · 2 years

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ok me @ me why dont you make some Grenadine syrup and calm down

#realized i have all the ingredients rn and like ooohhh there's so many recipes i want to try that use them #add a little pomegranate molasses and orange blossom water and u have the best bar syrup

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corvidcrossbow · 5 months

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Obviously today is mother's day ‘n now I'm just thinking about how Daryl would be on it because I am down bad and imagine too much of my life with this man 😔🙏 (Can you blame me?)

He'd check the calendar and the community one so many times to make sure he had the day right, since obviously that kinda got screwed up with the apocalypse and y'all had to kinda reinvent it, and still it's really easy to get off track.

But he was sure today was the day, and carefully crept out of bed earlier in the morning to surprise you. He picks flowers from the community, maybe slipping from the walls for just a moment to find one he's missing, then carefully arranges them in a vase he'd picked out on a run once.

He quietly goes to wake up your daughter, and together they prepare a luxury arrangement of pancakes/waffles/french toast (whatever be your favorite), and a bar of toppings ready to be added like fresh fruits, homemade honey and maple syrup, freshly whipped cream, and so on.

When you'd come down the steps, rubbing sleep from your eyes, he'd quickly come over to wrap you in his arms and kiss you. “G'mornin’ sunshine. Happy momma's day,”

He'd lead you over to the table where the vase and breakfast bar sit, your daughter presenting a card she'd made for you. And that was just the beginning of it. Daryl secretly worked with her to create all sorts of little crafts and gifts for you.

Later, he'd take you both out to a quiet lake, somewhere he was sure was clear where no walkers or anything would come and disturb you. He'd sit behind you in the warm and soothing sun, keeping hands on you and massaging you, peppering kisses to your shoulders and the nape of your neck, whispering endless praises in your ears as you watch your daughter collect little blossoms and such not far from you, playing with Dog.

“Look at her… you gave me that. Thank you Dar…” You say quietly in wonder and gratitude.

“Ya gave me tha’. Thank you. Ya deserve everythin’. Best damn momma in tha world.” Another kiss to the soft spot behind your ear.

And later, he'd cook you dinner – some fancy cut of venison he'd only ever make for you, then having a campfire in the backyard, the three of you stargazing till your daughter soon falls asleep in your laps. He'd carry her up to bed, and you'd split glasses of wine in the kitchen.

And with the kid asleep, his hands find purchase on your waist, smoothing over your clothed frame as you'd exchange flirty comments. He was so drunk on love for you, mouth sucking lightly at your jawline and neck, trailing down, eager to continue on the skin of your chest.

It wasn't long before you were stumbling to your bedroom, Daryl's hands caressing every single inch of your body, never able to get enough of you.

His head would stay buried between your thighs for as long as you'd want it – no matter how fatigued his tongue got, how sore his jaw became, he didn't even notice it as his focus stayed locked on listening to your every moan, watching you writhe and buck up to his touch.

He'd thank you in every single way imaginable for being a mother. The mother of his child. For everything you do for him, everything you do for your daughter, and everything you do in general, reminding you just how perfect you are. and maybe making you a mother twice over.

And the best part of it all; it didn't need to be mother's day for Daryl to do this. He'd do this any day, ever, no matter the occasion. He does most of these on a regular basis anyway. That man was never religious till he met you and you became the Goddess to which he will kiss the ground in every spot you step, bend to your every will and command and do anything for you, worship you till his dying breath.

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callsign-peach · 2 years

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the beanery

summary: jake goes from drinking the base’s stale coffee to bringing in cups from the cafe down the road from the hard deck, and the dagger squad is determined to find out why

pairing: established hangman x female!reader

a/n: the title? has almost nothing to do w the plot, but it’s the name of the coffee shop!!

--- Javy was the first to notice, but it was only because he had gone with Jake to your coffee shop a couple of weeks ago. He had been talking to his best friend about some plans for the newest aviators, and didn’t realize Jake had an end location in mind.

“What’s that?” Bradley asked, eyes honing in on the white take-out cup that Jake was sipping from.

“Hm?” The blonde asked, pocketing his phone and looking at his wingman. “Oh, just some coffee from that new place.”

Javy took a swig of his own Thermos to hide his smirk.

“Oh? The one near the Hard Deck? Penny said the owner’s been in a few times to ask about some tax shit.”

Jake nodded absentmindedly, he already knew this information. “Yeah, they’ve got some good stuff.”

He met Javy’s knowing eye and sent him a look, and Javy was thankful looks couldn’t kill.

Before anyone else could get a word in, Pete entered the room alongside a dozen newly-adorned Top Gun students, raring to go up in the air.

--- You heard the belle chime on the door, calling out to the patron that you’d be a moment.

Slicing the now-empty cardboard box, you slid it between the wall and the trashcan, hoping you’d remember to take it out to the dumpster before trash day.

Walking out into the bar, you smiled when you saw your boyfriend leaning along one of the columns in the seating area. “Hey, J. How was your day?”

“Good, you?” Jake asked, thanking you as you handed him a toasted bagel with strawberry cream cheese. You almost keeled over when you found out your boyfriend’s go-to pastry at the cafe was a plain bagel, losing it when he spread pink cream cheese over it.

“I can’t believe you go for those bagels over my croissants!” You laughed, taking a sip from the iced coffee you made yourself about half an hour ago.

“Oh, what’s that? New syrup? Sauce? Lemme try.” Jake reached over for the clear plastic cup, puckering his lips over the straw. “Oh, babe, I don’t know about that one.”

Laughing, you nodded over to the dainty chalkboard wall with the featured drink. “Raspberry vanilla iced latte. You don’t like raspberries.”

Jake hummed, face falling when his phone chirped from his pocket. “Damn, duty calls.”

Duty referred to drinks at the Hard Deck, a weekly tradition the dagger squad kept up once they were stationed at Miramar for good.

“Don’t know why you don’t just offer to have drinks here sometime. I can make espresso martinis or whatever shit Javy’s trying to make at our place.”

Jake chewed the thought over, pulling his lip between his teeth. “Soon, I just like having my little secret barista girlfriend.”

Scoffing, you playfully slapped your boyfriend’s chest. “Barista? I’m a full-fledged business owner, Seresin! Get it right!”

Jake laughed, pressing a kiss to your temple with a promise to be home before midnight. --- Stopping the timer on her watch, Natasha stepped into the cool air of the newest cafe in MIramar after her morning run, thankful for the air conditioning.

“Good morning! Welcome to The Beanery, can I get anything started for you?”

Looking at the woman behind the counter, Natasha felt like she’d seen the woman somewhere before. “Oh, um, sure. Iced coffee, no creamer.”

“Any flavors?” You asked, scooping ice into the branded cup.

“Caramel?” Natasha smiled, and you laughed and pumped some caramel syrup into her cup.

“Oh, this is so much better than the base coffee!” Natasha smiled, depositing her change into the tips jar.

“Base? You’re in the Navy?” You asked, setting some mugs out on the counter.

Sure am. Naval aviator, originally was only here for a quick mission a couple years ago, but I guess they thought we were good enough to stick around.”

You smiled, setting the drying towel on the counter as the bell chimed for another customer coming in. “My boyfriend’s in the Navy, I’ll have to ask if he knows you.”

“Who knows! Thanks again for the coffee!” Natasha smiled as she left, taking her time walking back to her apartment and changing into her khakis. --- “You, too?! Man, everyone’s getting coffee at the new place!” Mickey spoke as Natasha finished off her iced coffee.

Jake looked up from where he was texting you about the chocolate pastries you were experimenting with selling.

He saw the plastic cup he had helped unpack the weekend prior, curious if his colleague had met you or one of your employees.

“Yeah, it’s really good, and the food looked so good! I might go after work again to grab another drink.”

“Oh, I’m coming with. I need to try this coffee if you and Bagman say it’s good!” Bradley added, tossing a ball of paper at the blond man’s head.

Soon enough, the entire dagger squad was planning a short jaunt over to your coffee shop, Jake included. --- The bell chimed and took you from your thoughts, thankful for the distraction from the pastries you were trying to laminate.

“Welcome to the Bean- oh. Back so soon?” You asked, smiling as you saw Natasha walk back in, flanked by some other Navy men. “And you brought friends? Man, my confidence is sky-high right now.”

Natasha laughed, though she missed the teasing look you gave your boyfriend as he walked in. “Sorry, I just can’t enjoy anything. These rats always have to tag along.”

You snorted, starting on Jake’s drink absentmindedly. “What can I get you guys?”

The aviators all ordered, but when it was Jake’s turn to speak up, you smirked. “What can I get for you, Lieutenant Seresin?”

Jake smiled, wanting nothing more than to swipe the flour off of your cheek. “Iced macchiato, extra caramel.”

“You know what a macchiato is, right? You bitch about me pouring any milk in my coffee, they’re like 90% milk!”

You laughed as Bradley pointed to the cup, exasperated.

“Shut up, Birdbrain.”

Silently setting all the drinks at the end of the bar, you slid Javy one of the oatmeal cookies you made earlier. “Since I was out of them last week.”

“Thanks, but you know I was just going to grab some next time I was at your and Jake’s place.”

Shrugging, you watched as Bob seemed to put the dots together, silently sipping his Americano with a knowing look.

“Okay, this is going to sound really weird, but do you know anyone on base? I swear I’ve seen you before!” Natasha said, curiosity getting the best of her.

You smiled, twinkle in your eyes. “My boyfriend’s an aviator, maybe you’ve seen me around with him? I don’t know, though. I just moved out here recently.”

Javy coughed into his coffee, trying to disguise his laugh.

“Who’s your boyfriend?” Rueben asked, curious.

Smile growing wider, you simply nodded towards Jake. “Jake.”

“What the fuck?” Bradley asked, jaw falling open.

Natasha and the rest of the aviator, sans Bob and Javy, all stared at the two, heads swiveling to look at the couple. “In your locker! There’s a photo of her in there, that’s where I’ve seen you before!”

“You keep a photo of me in your locker? Cute.” You teased, coming out from behind the bar to stand with your boyfriend’s friends.

Jake blushed, offering you a sip of his coffee. “All right, all right, yes, everyone meet my girlfriend.”

You smiled, officially introducing yourself, promising to catch up more with the aviators after you heard the alarm going off for the croissants in the back oven.

“Damn, Hangman, you did good.” Rueben clapped his friend on the back.

“Yeah, I did.” --- a/n: i like this couple idea a lot but i cannot write it i have too many thoughts going through my head so def expect more !!!!!! send requests, chat to me about this trope at literally any time !!!

#jake seresin #jake hangman x reader #jake seresin angst #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin fluff #hangman x reader #hangman fluff #hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman fic #top gun maverick #top gun imagine #top gun x reader #top gun maverick imagine

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auspicioustidings · 2 months

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Devil's Trumpet

AKA the Appalachian horror brain worms would not leave me alone

Summary: You move to small town West Virginia to get your head on straight but the men in the woods start unravelling you instead.

Words: 3.5k

CWs: mild horror, vague reference to mental illness

This is best read while listening to some Southern gothic tunes 🎶 I suggest Big Dark Love by Murder by Death!

Colour leeched out of the world here. There is something almost comforting about that, something familiar. Familiar too is the way this town moves like syrup too thick to be pleasant in your mouth. It was how you moved though the world once. Not anymore though, no, now your mind is your own and not an invading force. Now you can appreciate the drab slowness as something external to yourself, just an environment around you and not a prison closing in inside your head.

There wasn’t much of a plan really. A will reading that left you with not a lot, but enough to get the hell out. Signing with a fountain pen that made your skin crawl with how it scratched. A stiff drink and a dart thrown at a map and tearing a ragged hole in the Greenbrier River as the sharp point didn’t quite sink far enough into the board and tore its way through the paper on the way down. You were never any good at darts.

You aren’t putting down roots. Those were for old growth, not for hardy weeds that broke through concrete and always found another crack through which to grow when killed. Nothing that felt too much like a home, so instead a room at the only inn.

This town is too small to warrant one, but it doubles as a watering hole come evening. It doesn’t seem to have been updated in an age, you wonder idly if the plaque upkept to a gleaming shine declaring the inn to have been opened in 1824 is somehow conveying pride at the fact. The peeling wallpaper in your room was probably pretty once, but the green now seems sick with age and the delicate floral pattern has started to wilt.

There is no routine to your days here until one slowly creeps in as it always does.

Breakfast first. You don’t know if it’s something in the air here, but you wake up with a bitter taste in your mouth and are eager to drown it in food and mint toothpaste. The inn has a small kitchenette for guest use and you make yourself toast with butter and strawberry jam. It’s a little too sweet but the tea helps, black with no sugar.

You stretch out the back of the inn and enjoy the view of the woods. You don’t call it yoga because it makes you less likely to do it, but you had learned when things were bad that quietly engaging your body in the morning was a good way to quiet your mind. There’s a little tension in the back of your neck you try to work out but it sticks there until you finish up and go back inside to shower. The hot water fixes it you think.

The first few weeks here you just sit and watch the world go by, but then you one day you decide to get up and spend some time wandering the town. It’s small, decrepit. There is the inn, a few sparse houses, one general store. The library, despite being the only venue with any chance of entertainment, is usually empty. You meet Mrs Lela Kaletaws who runs it, although she isn’t always around.

Roads here are barely holding together, but the one main road that runs out of town is at least in somewhat better condition. It runs parallel with the woods at one point, curving off just past old Mr Kleer's house. The man in question usually sits on his porch but he’s friendly enough so you don’t pay much mind to the gun.

After you’ve wandered town you make sandwiches for lunch. It isn’t much exciting, but it is routine and is filling enough that you bunker down for a nap after.

In the afternoon you go for a long walk before returning to the inn for dinner. There is a bar downstairs that opens in the evenings and serves food that while not a delicacy by any means is hot and filling. You retire to your room, read some of your book and go to sleep.

It continues that way. Breakfast, stretch, shower, wander, lunch, sleep, walk, dinner, read, sleep.

At first you only really skirt the edge of the woods, but with each passing dreary day you venture closer to the depths down the packed dirt path. The path through the woods is confusing and unmarked. Where you swore just yesterday it went to the right, today it goes to the left. Even so it must be your sense of direction, because the path always leads you past the jimsonweeds that come up to you chest before spitting you out on the road that leads to old Mr Kleer's house. The flowers are beautiful, but there is some metallic tang to their otherwise sweet scent that causes your teeth to ache.

—

More comfortable with the area now, it causes a fright when you see a man in the woods just in the corner of your eye only to snap your head around and have him vanish. You force calming breathes and keep walking. There is no such thing as ghosts in these woods.

Old man Axell calls to you from his porch as you pass, rifle butt settled on the rickety wood that you worry will collapse and left leg stretched straight out towards you like reaching for something.

“Seeing things in the woods kid?”

“I look spooked sir?”

“Like you’ve seen a Ghost I reckon.”

You give a shaky laugh at that.

“Only if ghosts come in flesh and blood and quick feet. Some man gave me a fright is all.”

“Must be out of towners” Axell says.

You do not like the way he says it. You do not like that he looks at you strangely. But you smile and nod and get on your way. He is only an old man.

—

There is someone in the woods. You feel his gaze on you, feel the dull prickle that rests on your nape from those eyes.

“We really must stop meeting like this” you say.

You have stopped trying to catch him. Now you only speak, eyes set on the dirt path in front of you. You do not think you will get a reply and when you do you shudder horribly at how much closer the voice is than you had anticipated.

“Don’t enjoy the company?”

He’s English and you frown. Out of towner. The old man must know something, but maybe you cannot begrudge him having fun at your expense. You have not made friends here.

“Enjoy company where I can see it if it’s all the same to you.”

The man laughs. It is a confusing laugh, warm and cold all at once as it bounces through the trees.

“Careful what you wish for.”

You resist the urge to turn even as his voice moves strangely, like he is swaying from one side of the path to the other.

“Must have a face like sin to keep hiding away” you say.

The next words you can feel. His breath is right at your cheek, a strand of your hair lifted by his fingers.

“Quite the opposite.”

Your heart is a prey animal running from a predator, beating wildly against your ribs as you turn to find he isn’t there. Only you certainly felt him. He leaves a sweet smell behind.

—

Sleep does not come easily that night. The rain against your window casts the moonlight strangely into your room. You spend hours watching as the creeping vines on the wallpaper seem to twist and shift beneath the moon flowers. When you finally fall asleep, it is almost as if you can smell them. Sweet and slightly metallic.

You wake up with the fading scent of damp earth and something on the edge of rot in your nose and the feel of dirt packed uncomfortably under your nails. They’re clean you find, but you spend the start of the morning cutting them down once you see the fading scratches left on your arms and legs through the night.

—

He is not the only stranger in the woods. You swore you would not go back, but routine takes you there without thought.

The Scottish man likes to walk on your right hand side, just enough steps behind you that you can only see him at the very side of your vision. You think he is handsome, but it is difficult to be sure. What you can be sure of is that he is dressed oddly. You have spoken to him for a while now, discussing yourself mostly. Perhaps it is the eerie quiet of the woods that makes you want to fill the dead space, but you tell him more about yourself than you ever would have thought yourself comfortable with.

“Are you a soldier then?” you ask.

“Sometimes, I think.”

You take a moment to chew that answer, wonder at the taste of it. There is a panic when you smell blood on the air, but it is quickly blanketed by sweetness. You have reached the jimsonweeds. It is too early, you have not walked far enough to be here already. But before you can protest the steps to your right stop and you know the man is gone.

None of them ever come farther than this.

—

You try the next day and the next to get answers from him. He seems to make a decision at one point just as the familiar smell reaches you and you think you will leave with no more information than you had before.

“I’m SAS.”

He is not there when you turn to thank him. He is not there at all when you return the next day.

—

The library run by Mrs Kaletaws is added to your routine. Breakfast, stretch, shower, library, lunch, try to sleep, walk, dinner, read, try to sleep. The small building has the peculiar addition of a cat you never quite see. You hear the skitter of claws on worn wood floor that has started to smell of sickly sweet rot, see fading scratches on the legs and arms of the chair, find hairs on your clothing, feel the prickle of eyes focused on you from the dark running up your spine to settle dully on the back of your neck. You have tried before to get a glimpse of the creature, but it only seems to exist in the very corner of your eye and retreats when your gaze tries to creep around to catch it.

Lela never talks about the cat. She told you once that it is only her and her wife that live in the basement below the library. You have never seen her wife and fear she must have some permanent sickness that stops her from being able to do much. You think they should move above ground so she can at least see the world through the windows obscured by racing raindrops, but you keep it to yourself.

The one computer here is old, the white plastic exterior now yellowed. Still, it is the only gateway to the outside world in this little town and you blow at your tea while waiting for your search results. ‘SAS military bases in West Virginia’ is a shot in the dark, but you need to start somewhere. After a sip you dump more sugar into your cup before looking at your finally loaded results.

There are none. No British military installations at all in the USA. You had hoped at least the results would bring up something about training exercises but it is just pages of useless information about bases around the world. You read about the SAS, fall down a rabbit hole of how they torture their soldiers to train them to withstand it. You go through pages and pages of search results until finally one talks about SAS soldiers in this area.

The link takes you to a dusty website that stopped being updated sometime in the late 90s. It’s some sort of conspiracy blog and you are prepared to close it, but you can’t help but get lost in the story it tells.

The details are unclear which you suppose is the hallmark of any good conspiracy. 40 years ago. There was a team of two, or maybe four or maybe seven. They set up just outside the woods with little to no explanation. There’s an interview from a local, not a name you recognise so one you think is likely long dead. She says two of the soldiers went into the woods first. She remembers something bad must have happened, because there was an argument between the five left outside. Nobody was allowed close, but she watched two more men go into the woods. After that the operation seemed to vanish entirely overnight and nobody heard anything more about it.

Whoever authored the blog has a gift with words because despite your logical mind knowing it was probably nothing but a random training exercise, the hairs on the back of your neck raise.

There is a photo of the alleged unit at the end loading slowly. You stare in fascination as line by line appears from the top. The world stops before it fully loads. At first you are confused as to why your whole body is tense, why your heart is racing. And then you figure it out. Silence. Complete and all together sudden silence. No rain hitting the windows, no scratching of the cat echoing, not even the whir of the computer.

You do not want to look away from the screen. You do not want to turn around. The prickle on your neck goes from dull to sharp.

The computer powers down.

—

He says to call him John. This man does not walk to your right like the Scottish one, or behind you like the first one you met. He walks in front of you. You can see the full expanse of his back clad in a vest. He wears a hat. He only ever turns slightly, enough to see that he has sideburns but never enough to see his face.

You are so enraptured by being able to see so much of him so clearly that it takes you a while to notice there is someone on your left. A few steps behind like the Scottish one does on your right. It takes you by surprise enough that you are about to forget the unspoken rules and turn, but John predicts your move.

“Eyes forward.”

“Sorry” you say automatically, fixing you eyes to his back and letting the other man stay as the impression of a creature just in sight of your left eye.

“They’re pretty, Captain.”

“I’m aware.”

It should not make you blush but somehow it does.

“What’s you name?” you ask.

There is no way to direct it specifically to the man on your left, so you simple direct it to the back of John and hope that the trees will send it where it needs to go.

“Captain?” the man asks, not for permission but as if genuinely unsure of the answer.

“Kyle, your name’s Kyle.”

“Right. Kyle.”

You catch the movement of him touching his chest, maybe rubbing at a name tag there but you can’t be sure.

“You can call me Gaz if you like.”

John and Gaz are your company for weeks. Whenever you ask after the other two, the air turns sweet and bloody and you are left alone among the jimsonweeds.

—

“Got intae trouble for ye.”

You’re not sure where you are but you recognise the voice. Is he in your room?

“We both did. Curiosity would’ve killed you little kitten,” comes the other voice from the first man in the woods somewhere behind you.

You hazily look down at yourself. You are not in the bed at the inn, you are in another bed laid on your back. You feel your legs brush against one another, not clad in the flannel you remembered wearing. Silk, you are wearing silk. Delicate against your skin, not much of it. Were you wearing perfume? Something smells sweet.

As you stare at the bare expanse of your leg a hand sinks into your thigh, squeezes.

“Fuck LT, so soft. Fingers just sink right in.”

You fight the urge to look to the right where the hand is coming from. You can’t look, some primal part of your brain knows you cannot look.

“Stay away from the woods” the man behind you whispers into your ear like a caress as his hands settle gently around your neck.

You do not feel the snap of bone, but you hear it. You taste the blood in your mouth.

You do not manage to fall back asleep when you wake.

—

Breakfast, library, try to sleep, don’t go into the woods, dinner, try to sleep, stare at the wallpaper, try to sleep.

—

You overhear Axell and Lela once. You think they are talking about you.

“You think we’re doing the right thing?” Axell asks.

“I don’t think there is a right thing anymore.”

“It’s been a long time now. Maybe we should let them go.”

“You think we could?”

There is a silence. Neither of them thinks so. Paranoia settles over you that you haven’t felt since back when things got bad. It’s like an old vice settling into your bones, or maybe seeping out of them as if it never truly left. You cannot go back to that place again so you take some aspirin for the rhythmic pulsing behind your eyes and the dull prickle at the back of your neck and resolve to put any thoughts of conspiracy out of your mind. Lela and Axell are simply old, there is not something they know that you do not.

—

You do not mean to walk into the woods again. The man behind you is back. He feels different somehow.

“I could eat you right up” he says against your neck.

Old Mr Kleer sees the bloodied bite at your throat and says nothing as you walk by.

—

You book a bus ticket. It feels too much like there are tendrils growing from you to burrow into the ground, to fix you here. If you don’t rip them out now, it is only a matter of time until the roots are so deep you won’t be strong enough to move. You aren’t eating properly, you’ve hardly slept and when you do you wake up with a bitter taste in your mouth and covered in scratches. There is still the shape of a bite on your throat and the B&B owners in Pennsylvania look at you with pity as you check in.

The building is charming and fairly new. You stare at the neutral pink wallpaper. One corner of it has lifted ever so slightly. You fall asleep staring at the peek of green underneath.

—

It doesn’t rain as much here, the sun is out and everything seems more colourful. Weeks pass in a haze and you slowly emerge again, eating properly, sleeping through the night. The town on the Greenbrier starts to fade to an unpleasant dream.

—

There is something comforting about the old man who comes to stay and sits by you for breakfast in the mornings. He has the remnants of a Russian accent and laughs frequently and easily. The stories he tells are fantastical, but he’s non-committal about his visit to small town Pennsylvania although he at least tells you that he likes the nature around here. He whispers that his legs aren’t up for much walking anymore, so he has to take the easy paths through small patches of nature.

It takes a week or so more to work up the courage to accompany him on a walk. It seems silly, but the woods make you feel afraid. Maybe a short walk through the small area he spoke of will help you get beyond it. You rub at your neck, feeling the marks faded but still there.

—

He notices your discomfort and tries to ease it with his stories as you walk the dirt path.

“It’s the most important thing I’ve learned you know” he says, the aching grief in his voice causing you pause, “you cannot leave friends behind.”

You turn to him, intending to ask how much longer the path leads since it is getting dark now. He is not there.

“Nik?” you ask, calm at first but increasingly more frantic.

That old familiar dull prickle settles on the back of your neck as you run back down the way you came to get out of the woods. Drooping tree limbs get in your way and you push through, ignoring the scratches. As darkness falls you slow to a walk, unable to see anything in front of you. You catch the smell the sweetness of the jimsonweeds. You can smell blood.

Foot steps that are not your own surround you. A set in front of you. One behind. To the left and to the right.

“Welcome home.”

#mhairiwrites #tf141 #tf141 x reader #sort of not really?#horror is so hard to write my god

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jazzythursday · 1 year

Text

Wylan leaves in the morning.

He doesn’t plan to, not exactly, but he definitely doesn’t plan on staying, either.

Wylan is no stranger to one night stands. He can’t say he gets around very frequently, but enough to know the general plot of how they're supposed to go.

Flirt, drink, fuck, leave. The order isn’t necessarily set in stone, but the list ends the same every time.

He has a good time, for the most part, and it’s always a welcome break from the awful chemical smell burned into the Tannery or the staleness of the empty rooms in cheap boarding houses (when he can afford them) that Wylan is used to. Wylan likes the freedom that comes with it, too. It’s liberating to go where he wants and do what he pleases; to not worry about who he’s seen with or sleeps with or what they might think of him after. And he likes feeling wanted, for a little while. He likes being reminded that he exists.

So Wylan does not make a habit of falling asleep with the people who take him to bed.

He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, really.

He doesn't remember, and yet, Wylan wakes up with his head pillowed on Jesper’s chest. With Jesper’s arm draped over him. His breath is warm where it ghosts over the top of his hair, and if Wylan glances up he can see the way Jesper’s mouth— those lips— fall open in sleep.

It’s the best morning he’s had in months, possibly. Certainly the most comfortable.

He knows it can’t last.

Wylan looks at Jesper, still sleeping peacefully next to him, and he panics.

He’d woken up in Jesper Fahey’s arms.

He’d slept with Jesper Fahey.

Jesper has a reputation, and Wylan knows it, even new to the Barrel as he is. He’d heard about Dirtyhand’s second and resident sharpshooter plenty— Can’t resist a gamble, never misses a shot, and not just with bullets. Jesper Fahey is an excellent marksman, they say, with terrible luck with the cards, and a soft spot for pretty girls and even prettier boys.

Jesper’s played the field— multiple fields— went on a seismic world tour of fields.

Wylan is very good at not being noticed. He’s also very good at listening. People tend to look past him, they never pay any mind to the too skinny boy with the wild hair and the hunched shoulders and the grime that never seems to wash off completely after his long shifts at the Tannery. Wylan knows this, knows he’s very adept at being able to disappear, when he needs to.

So by the time Wylan actually meets Jesper, he’s well aware of his place in Ketterdam’s booming rumor mill. Jesper has many, and Wylan thinks by now he may have heard them all.

And yet, none of them do a thing to prepare him for Jesper.

They’d met in a tavern.

Wylan had been nursing his drink for the better half of an hour, trying to come up with reasons not to go back to the sad cot he had waiting for him in a rented room, with the only window overlooking the brick wall of a dark alley.

So far, he’d only come up with the one.

Wylan had seen the tall Zemeni man from across the room and hadn’t stopped looking since. He was flirting with a girl at the bar, twirling one of his guns in one hand demonstratively with a drink in the other. The girl— a curly haired blond— was giggling, hand pressed to her mouth with eyes that had very clear and direct intentions.

Wylan had almost resolved himself to a night of wasting the few kruge at his disposal with little to show for it, when the man had looked up and caught him staring. The man had smiled, twirling his gun with an extra flourish and then tipped his hat. Wylan smiled back, and gave a little wave. Embarrassing, He’d thought, stop it, he’s already with someone else anyway. He’d looked down, and stared at the near empty contents of his drink until someone sat down next to him and said, in a voice like apple butter and sweet syrup, “Can I get you another of those?”

Then Wylan had looked up into the eyes of the handsomest man he’d ever seen, and thought, he has the most perfect lips.

Out loud, he’d said, “I, uh, well—” His mouth was wide open, he’d realised, and shut it quickly. Again, the man had smiled. Again, Wylan had smiled back. “Yes, please.”

And that's how he’d met Jesper.

Afterwards, they’d stumbled through the streets— I know a place, Jesper said, If you want to take this somewhere more private— until they’d passed a corner where a vendor was selling traditional Kerch sweets out of a cart.

“Stroopwafels!” Jesper had stopped. “I love stroopwafels!”

Wylan was tugging him toward the cart without really making a conscious decision to move, and Jesper had laughed, surprised and delighted.

Wylan bought them both stroopwafels and handed Jesper his with a shy smile and a shrug. “For the drink.”

Jesper looked at him consideringly, head caulked to the side, and Wylan felt himself blushing in the low light of the lamps. “You’re sweet,” he’d said eventually.

“Is that bad?” Wylan had asked, sheepish. Jesper was already shaking his head.

“It’s good. Just not that many sweet things to be had in the Barrel. It’s refreshing.” He’d bit off a piece of one of the waffles and smiled. “These are sweet too,”— he’d leaned in, smile still earnest but with something decidedly different underneath— “I like sweet.”

Jesper had not touched him like he’d been expecting to be touched. Jesper made no assumptions; he’d asked, about everything, in a way that was near gentlemanly if it wasn’t for the fact that he radiated trouble through his pores. Jesper was— not quite gentle, because Wylan had expected hot and heady and everything deep, and Jesper was all of that and more— but he wasn’t rough. He didn’t bruise, not if Wylan didn’t say yes first, and afterwards he’d laid back down and settled Wylan into his arms in a way that he had no real way of protesting— didn’t want to protest, anyway— and kissed him.

It was that that had scared Wylan the most, he thinks. Because Wylan is rarely kissed for the express purpose of it. It was always the promise of more— the rush of what was to come. But people do not generally tend to kiss Wylan for the sake of kissing Wylan. It’s different. Jesper is different, and Wylan can’t afford to be stupid enough to do something like get attached. Can’t afford much at all— really.

But Jesper had kissed him, pleased and lazy and warm, and at some indeterminate time later they had both apparently fallen asleep.

And it was nice.

It was too nice. It hurt with how nice it was.

Wylan peels himself slowly out of Jesper’s arms, careful not to wake him, and decides then that he cannot stand to be here any longer.

Jesper Fahey is not what he’d expected, he’s better.

Jesper Fahey is lovely, and beautiful, and kinder to him than anyone has been to Wylan for almost as long as he can remember.

Jesper Fahey is more than he could have ever hoped for, and he isn’t going to stick around for someone like Wylan.

So Wylan leaves, and he doesn’t look behind him as he closes the door.

#wesper #inspired by the tweet about what kit said about their first meeitng #wesper drabble #wesper ficlet #wesper fanfic #wylan hendriks #wylan van eck #jesper fehey #shadow and bone #six of crows #shadow and bone fanfiction #Jazzy writes #jazzy writes fanfic #a drabble for your troubles?

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woso-dreamzzz · 10 months

Text

Nena II

Barcelona Femení x Child!Reader

Summary: Just another day at your sister's work

You giggled as Asisat lifted from her shoulders and swung you around. Your tummy went all fluttery in a good way as she kept going before releasing you to stumble about.

She caught you when you lost your footing, putting you upright again and smothering a laugh when you fell right back onto the floor.

"Again?" She asked.

You got up immediately, nodding. "Uh-huh!"

"I think we should take a break," Sandra said as she approached," Or the little miss might throw up her breakfast."

"Ingrid's Mapi made pancakes!" You said excitedly," And Ingrid let me have syrup with it!"

"Wow!" Sandra said to you before turning to Asisat," It'll be a pain to clean if she pukes that all up and then you'll have to explain to Ingrid why we've got her kid sister throwing up her food."

"Alright." Asisat ruffled your hair. "Maybe later then."

"Later!" You agreed before allowing Sandra to take your hand and lead you to a shady area.

You had fallen into an easy routine in the past few weeks you've spent in Barcelona. Ingrid and her Mapi would get you ready for the day where one of their teammates (usually Frido or Keira) would take you out onto the field where you would sit in the shady area where the goalkeepers practiced.

Today, though, you were joined by familiar faces.

"Jana! Bruna! Look, I made pictures!"

The two girls, cleared from medical enough to lightly train but not enough to do the extremely complicated drills that were currently going on, hung out with you.

"That is very good, y/n," Jana complimented," You're the best colourer."

"I am very good." You knew that already because Ingrid and her Mapi told you often but, still, it was nice to be recognised for your talent. "You colour."

You tore a sheet out of your book and gave it to Jana along with a purple pencil.

You did the same for Bruna before deciding, after watching her for a moment, that she wasn't doing well so you sat on her lap and helped her.

"In the lines," You told her, parroting the words your Papa used to say to you," So it's not messy anymore. Don't worry. You'll get better when you practice more."

"Gracias, y/n," Bruna said," I'm sure with an expert like you, I will get it in no time."

You nodded and grabbed another sheet. "Mama says you have to practice to get better. She says that's why Ingrid's so good at the ball game so you have to practice your colouring, Bruna. So you can get better."

The warm Spanish sun beat down upon you and your friends as the other girls trained. When it get even hotter, Jana and Bruna gave you two bottles of water and sent you on your way with them.

"Gemma! Cata!" You said as you approached," Here!"

"Our hero!" Cata said as she unscrewed the lid and drained it. "Thanks, kiddo! Gemma, thank her."

Gemma sprayed water at Cata. "I was going to before you interrupted." She leaned down to hug you before allowing you to chug from her drink. "Thanks for the drink, little buddy. Why don't you head on back to Jana and Bruna and do some more colouring? It's nearly time for lunch."

Gemma was right because no sooner had you completed your third picture, did Marta and Caro come to collect you.

Your hand fit easily into Caro's hand and you took Marta's too - just because you could. Together, they swung you into the air every few steps and you giggled ecstatically every time.

Marta laughed with you while Caro settled for just a smile. You beamed at them both - especially when Caro decided to make a pitstop to get you a chocolate bar from the vending machine.

Marta ended up making your plate for lunch and no matter how much you begged and begged, she stuck to the list of approved food your sister had given her.

"Go on, nena," She said, directing you to a very full table," Can I trust you girls to look after her?" The occupants of said table all nodded and she gave them a fierce look before relenting.

Lucy stopped you from sitting down, grabbing her jacket to pile it onto the empty seat. She nudged Keira. "Pass it over." Once Keira surrendered her own jacket as well as Ona, Salma and Esmee, Lucy used them all to create a makeshift booster seat for you before plonking you onto it and pushing your food closer.

"I heard you had a fun weekend, nena," Ona said with a smile, glancing around before pushing part of her nice food onto your plate.

You nodded. "Uh-huh, Ingrid took me to the park and her Mapi let me take Bagheera on a walk."

Esmee rolled her eyes with a huff of a laugh. "She spoils that cat."

"Bagheera's my best boy," You replied to her, cramming food into your mouth," He naps in sunspots and sleeps in my bed with me."

"Really?" Keira asked before glaring daggers at Lucy," Sounds just like Narla."

You cocked your head to the side. "Tia Alexia's dog sleeps in her bed?"

"She means my dog," Lucy said as she ruffled your hair," I have a dog called Narla too."

You made a face. "That's mean, Lucy," You said," You shouldn't name your dog after Tia's Nala. She could get bullied."

Salma, on your other side, laughed. "I don't think dogs get bullied, nena."

"Cats get bullied," You said," Ingrid's Mapi said that's why Bagheera isn't allowed out without her - because the neighbourhood cats bully him. The other dogs could bully Lucy's Narla."

Salma chuckled as she ruffled your hair and shovelled food into your mouth. "Never change, nena. You're adorable."

You made a face at that but didn't argue, allowing Salma to feed you to rest of your meal.

You got restless halfway through lunch and slipped off your seat to tug on Irene's sleeve. You bounced up and down urgently. "Toilet," You said to her because she was Mateo's mama and your mama told you that every mama in the world recognised the potty dance.

Thankfully, your mama was right because Irene excused herself from her conversation and took your hand, leading you to the bathroom.

You did your business quickly but had to be lifted up to reach the sink and then again to use the hand dryer - bursting into hysterical giggles when Irene poked you in the stomach when your top rode up.

By the time you got out of the toilet, lunch had finished and Mariona joined the two of you on your walk to the gym.

"Looking cool in your shoes, nena," She said.

You grinned at her proudly. "They're my most favourite!" Yet again, you had chosen to wear your new light-up shoes. You had been wearing them a lot recently so now Ingrid didn't get worried your feet would start aching because they had finally been broken in.

"Well, they're my most favourite too!" Mariona replied.

"Good!" You said firmly, patting her side in approval with a smiling face. Mariona was pretty cool most of the time when she wasn't running around like a headless chicken and she was doubly cool when she talked to you about your new shoes.

"Are we talking about super cool light-up shoes because..." Patri stamped her feet and the bottom of her shoes lit up into a rainbow.

You gasped and jumped, showing that your shoes could do the same.

"I told you I'd find them, nena! Look at us, we're matching!"

"We are!"

Patri took your hands from Irene and jumped up and down with you, both of your shoes lighting up in sync. You giggled hysterically as the colours bounced.

Over her shoulder, you spied another recognisable face.

"Claudia! Claudia!" You exclaimed," Look! Look! We match!"

You and Patri jumped again to prove your point and Claudia gasped. She glanced around like she had a secret before beckoning you closer.

"You know what?" She asked.

"What?"

"All three of us match!"

She stamped her feet and her shoes lit up too.

You gasped.

"Wow! So cool!"

You looked around the room, holding onto Patri and Claudia and dragging them over to the corner of the gym.

"Aitana! Aitana! Aitana! We match!"

The three of you stamped your feet, causing the rainbow lights to appear again.

Aitana, as she lifted weights, smiled at you. "That's really cool, nena."

You looked down at Aitana's sad, boring shoes and sighed. You released Claudia and Patri to pat Aitana on the leg consolingly.

"It's okay," You told her," If you ask very nicely Claudia and Patri can take you to get matching shoes too."

She let out a chuckle. "Thanks, nena."

Before you could make any more suggestions though, you were pulled away from your friends by Frido, who promptly led you over to the opposite side of the gym which had been set up for your nap time.

You frowned. "Don't wanna nap," You complained.

Frido sighed. "I know. I don't want you to nap either but Ingrid says so."

You huffed. "Ingrid's not the boss of you."

Frido's eyebrows raised. "Somehow, I don't think Ingrid agrees with that. Come on, you, nap time. I'll get you some cake tomorrow if you nap now."

Your eyes narrowed. "With sprinkles?"

"With sprinkles."

"Okay. Naptime now."

Your nap went by very quickly and when you ended it, you still felt groggy.

Someone was touching you though and you squirmed around in their arms until your head was tucked into their neck. They were nice though, nice and warm even if they jostled you every time they took a step.

"You should take a picture for Olga," Your Ingrid's Mapi teased," It might get you one of these sooner rather than later."

"I'm quite content with this one." It was Tia Alexia's voice that spoke next and you realised that you were in her arms.

You blinked away your sleepiness and rubbed your eyes. "Hola, Tia," You said softly.

"Hola, nena," She replied," You slept a long while. I was getting worried you would sleep forever."

"Silly, Tia," You said," That's not possible."

"No?" She teased," Oh, silly me!" She bounced you. "It's nice to see you, nena. I was worried I wouldn't see you today."

"I always like seeing you, Tia," You replied.

"I like see you too."

You turned your head out of her neck and smiled softly at Ingrid's Mapi.

She smiled back at you, a small smile that was reserved only for you. "Hola, elskling," She said and her use of Ingrid's nickname for you made you feel all nice and fluttery inside. "We're heading home now. Ingrid's getting the car all nice and ready for us."

You nodded but didn't say anything else. You still felt kind of tired and sleepy so just soaked in Tia Alexia's warmth and the steady hum of talking between her and Ingrid's Mapi.

You didn't even notice when you moved from Tia Alexia's arms to your Ingrid's until you were placed in your car seat and strapped in.

Ingrid hovered over you as she wiped up the drool from your cheek. "Hi, elskling. Don't you look all nice and sleepy?"

"Frido made me nap," You replied, eyes drooping as she clipped in the last buckle," But I wasn't really sleepy."

"I bet you're sleepy now though, right?"

You nodded and yawned. "Little bit."

"That's alright, elskling," She said," You have a nice little nap in the car and then you can get up when we get home."

"Okay..." Your eyes drooped even lower. "Mapi?"

"Si, elskling?"

"Can we have cuddles with Bagheera on the sofa when I wake up?"

"Of course, elskling. I'm sure Bagheera would love to cuddle with you."

"And you."

"And me."

"And Ingrid."

"And Ingrid too."

#woso x reader #barcelona femeni x reader #barca femeni x reader #barcelona femeni #barca femeni #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso

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chososchalupa · 7 months

Note

Hey how about Bsd men (such as Dazai, Chuuya, Fyodor, Akutagawa, Atsushi and anyone of your choice) cooking for their s/o!reader? Love your writing btw!

thank you!! <3

cooking for you

includes - Dazai, Chuuya, Fyodor, Akutagawa, Atsushi

wc - 420, 239, 346, 339, 325

not proof read once again bc i am just too sleepy

Dazai -

You sniffled as you laid your head on Dazais lap, you had woken up with the worst cold and no matter how much medicine you took, it was not going away.

Dazai ran his fingers through your hair softly, “You feeling okay?”

You nodded, not wanting to speak due to your sore throat.

“You know, Mori used to make this special soup whenever he was ill. I could get the recipe from him and make it for you” Dazai smiled

You laughed softly, “I’m okay, ‘Samu. Thank you”

Dazai very rarely cooked and when he did, it didn’t come out the best and you did not want to upset your stomach even more.

You watched as Dazai pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Mori. “I have to go to the store to get the ingredients, will you be okay?”

You sighed, of course he would refuse to listen to your denial. “I’ll be okay. You can just get a can of soup. You don’t need to cook for me”

Dazai simply waved his hand, dismissing your words. “I’ll be right back!” he smiled, kissing your cheek.

You must have fallen asleep while Dazai was gone as you awoke to a blaring sound coming from the kitchen. The fire alarm. Of course.

You got up from the couch, wrapped in your favorite blanket and walked towards the sound. You walked in to see a pot of soup on the stove, and your boyfriend fanning the smoke alarm.

“You’re awake! Perfect timing!” Dazai smiled, turning to face you once the alarm had subsided.

You nodded and sat at the table, watching as he poured you a bowl of the soup he had made.

“This will make you feel much better,” Dazai smiled, placing the bowl in front of you.

You thanked him as you looked into the bowl, it looked and smelled great but your expectations were still low.

Dazai sat next to you and watched as you moved your spoon of soup into your mouth, “What do you think?”

You swallowed and smiled up at him, “It’s really good. Thank you”

For once, you weren't lying about his cooking. It did taste good, way better than you were expecting. You finished the bowl and mumbled something about needing a nap causing Dazai to smile, lifting you up from your chair and carrying you to your shared bed.

You’re still not sure what Dazai put in his soup, but you woke up feeling much better thanks to him.

Chuuya -

You opened your eyes to the morning sun shining bright into your bedroom, you looked over and realized your boyfriend, Chuuya, wasn’t in bed with you as he normally is.

‘Mori must have called’ you thought as you rolled out of bed.

With Chuuya gone, you were in no rush to get ready. You picked out an outfit from your closet and went to the bathroom to finish your morning routine.

As you exited the shower, you could smell pancakes in the air. Confused, you quickly got dressed and walked to the kitchen.

“About time you woke up!” Chuuya laughed as he turned away from the stove.

You glanced down at his body, he had on your apron and was covered in pancake mix. You giggled softly as you wrapped your arms around him, “I thought you had left this morning”

Chuuya returned the hug before turning back around to flip the pancakes he had on the stove. “Nope! Boss said i’m free for the weekend”

“About time” You responded, sitting at the bar in your kitchen as you watched your boyfriend continue making breakfast.

The two of you talked about Chuuyas upcoming mission until he was finally done cooking. He plated you both a full plate and came to sit down beside you.

“This is delicious, Chu” You smiled

“I’m glad you like it” He responded, kissing your cheek. Leaving the residue of maple syrup on your face.

Fyodor -

You sighed loudly as you walked into Fyodor's office.

“What is it, my love?” He asked, not taking his eyes off of his monitors.

“Are you going to be in here all day?” You asked, sitting on top of his desk.

Fyodor sighed and turned towards you, grabbing your hand and pressing his lips to it, “I’m sorry. This is very important. You understand, yes?”

You gave a fake smile and nodded, “Of course. I may ask Sigma if he’d like to go shopping”

Fyodor nodded and gave one last kiss to your hand before turning back to the screens in front of him, “Be safe”

You quickly left the office and sent a text to Sigma, letting him know that you’d be on your way soon.

“Can you believe he forgot our anniversary?!” You asked as Sigma got into the car beside you.

“I’m a bit surprised” He responded, “He is always going on how much you mean to him”

“He’s just always so caught up in work”

“Maybe he is planning something for tonight?”

“Maybe” You sighed

By the time you and Sigma had finished shopping, it had been well past dinner.

“Should we go out?” You asked

Sigma gave a sad smile, “I can’t tonight. I unfortunately have plans with Nikolai. Besides, Fyodor may have plans for the two of you”

“If he ever stops staring at his monitors” you laughed

You had finally gotten home after dropping Sigma off, you walked through your front door expecting to have to drag Fyodor out of his office yourself but the sight in front of you had made you freeze.

“Welcome home, my love!” Fyodor smiled, as he pulled a rack of lamb from the stove. “I made us dinner for tonight. I hope you are hungry”

You couldn’t help the wide smile that came onto your face

“I thought you forgot” you whispered, going to hug your boyfriend of five years.

“How could I forget such an important day?” He responded, “I am done working for today, let’s eat and celebrate our anniversary, yeah?”

Akutagawa -

“What are you doing for your birthday tonight? Are you and Ryu doing anything?” Gin asked as the two of you walked from the Port Mafia building to her and Akutagawa's shared apartment.

“Nothing that I know of. He hasn't even said ‘Happy Birthday’ to me yet” You sighed

“Really? Now that I think of it, I haven’t seen him since I left this morning. I wonder if he’s feeling ill”

As you approached their apartment, you allowed Gin to enter first. You went to follow but was abruptly stopped when she turned around with her finger pressed to her lips, “Listen” she whispered

The two of you stood in the doorway as you heard two voices coming from the kitchen,

“Is that Chuuya?” You whispered, “There’s no way he got here before we did. He hadn’t even left his office when we left!”

Gin shrugged as the two of you listened

“Akutagawa, please don’t make me go over there. Baking a cake should not be this difficult.”

“They’re on facetime” Gin giggled

“Baking a cake?” You whispered back

Gin nodded before Akutagawa spoke,

“They could get here any minute, Chuuya! What should I do?!”

“Put the cake in the fucking oven! I’m hanging up”

You heard Akutagawa sigh as the call ended, “I hope i’m not fucking this up”

“Fucking what up?” Gin asked, walking into the house with you following behind.

Akutagawa spun around, his face a beat red, “I am baking a cake”

“A cake? What flavor?” You asked

“It is vanilla with chocolate frosting”

“My favorite!” you smiled, walking over and kissing your boyfriend.

“I know,” He smiled, “I hope it’s good. I’ve never baked anything before”

“We heard,” Gin laughed, “We were outside the whole time you were on the phone with Chuuya”

You giggled as Akutagawa��s eyes widened, “Go” he replied, pointing towards Gin’s bedroom.

She laughed and waved at you before turning to her room

“It will be good, Aku. Thank you” You smiled up at him

“Of course, darling. Happy birthday”

Atsushi -

“Atsushi” you whined, laying your head on his desk.

The two of you had been stuck doing paperwork since this morning, hours had past and the only thing you’ve had to eat today was a donut that Ranpo had given you in exchange for doing his paperwork as well.

“We’re almost done,” Atsushi responded, continuing to type on his computer.

“You’d be done a lot faster if you stopped. talking.” Kunikida said, glaring at the two of you

You rolled your eyes before going back to your desk. Although, it was only another fifteen minutes before you were complaining again.

“You are almost as bad as Dazai,” Kunikida said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Atsushi stood from his desk, “I’m finished mine. I’ll be right back, okay?”

You nodded as you laid your head back on your desk, this was going to take forever.

You ended up finishing two papers before your boyfriend came back, covered in sweat.

“Where did you go? Why do you look like you just ran five miles?” You asked, looking down at the bag in his hand.

“I did run five miles” He replied, lifting the bag in his hand up “I went to the store and got us food!”

You nearly jumped from your chair as Atsushi pulled two cup ramens from the bag, “This should be enough until you’re finished with yours and Ranpos papers. We can go out once we’re done!”

“You are the absolute best, Atsushi” you smiled, kissing him on the cheek as you took the food from his hand.

You went to leave the room, going to make your noodles until you heard Kunikida yell, “Get back to work!”

You went to yell back but Atsushi grabbing the food from your hand distracted you, “Go back. I’ll make it for us”

You smiled and nodded, heading back to your desk to finish up the never-ending pile of work that was waiting for you.

#bungo stray dogs #bsd #bsd imagines #dazai x reader #chuuya x reader #fyodor x reader #akutagawa x reader #atsushi x reader #chuuya nakahara #dazai osamu #fyodor dostoevsky #akutagawa ryuunosuke #atsushi nakajima #bungo stray dogs fluff #bungo stray dogs imagine

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word-wytch · 10 months

Text

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 16

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 16/? 9k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Frustrated by inconclusive endings, Eddie takes a seat behind the wheel.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

✏︎ Chapter CW: general angst, paternal angst, drug mention

Thursday, December 12th 1985

Before the first morning bell, Eddie gave Judy at reception his best impression of Wayne over the phone. He wasn’t totally lying, he was in fact, quite sick. Sick of all the taunting looks from meathead jocks. Sick of the way Ms. O’Donnell cleared her throat every five minutes. Sick of waking up so goddamn early. Sick of wasting his time. So after hanging up the phone, he stuffed a few essentials in his backpack and made for the door.

Like clockwork, Wayne always came home at around 8:10 AM, and though it would be far from the first time he’d skipped school, Eddie would rather not have to explain himself. Besides, he could use a change of scenery. There was no denying winter anymore, the ice he scraped off his windshield made sure to remind him. On a typical hooky day he would drive down to Lover’s Lake and toss open the rear doors, catch a breeze, light a joint, sit back and take in the ripples on the water and the rustling leaves. But that had all frozen over, so unless he intended to burn through his whole tank of gas, he would need to get creative.

That was how he found himself at Benny’s at 7:58 on a Thursday morning, setting up camp in a booth at the back of the restaurant. He ordered his usual — bacon, scrambled eggs, and a stack of pancakes in addition to white toast. Tossing his fourth emptied sugar packet beside the leaning tower of creamers, he sat back in the sticky, padded seat and took his first deep breath all morning.

The diner was bustling lowly, a handful of regulars perched on silver, spinning stools at the bar. From the frosted window leeching cool air beside him, he watched the funeral procession of headlights down Washington under a mournful sky. Just another day for the upright citizens of Hawkins, Indiana. From his cozy booth, Eddie sipped the top off his very full mug and smiled to himself.

Sprawling his belongings around the piping hot plates, he popped on his headphones, cracked open his monster manual, and got to work. The first hour flew by like his pencil across the graph paper. Between the bacon bits that had leapt from hand to page, a formidable lineup of foes was taking shape. Bottom line; the boys were in for a world of hurt tomorrow. He did his best to resign the grease to the flimsy napkins, but by the time he was finished, syrup tacked the gargoyle and gorgon pages together.

“Anything else I can grab for ya besides the check?” Sheri—according to her name tag—asked with a tired lean as she reached to clear his plates.

Eddie glanced down sheepishly at his freshly topped off mug. “I uh, think I might be staying for lunch.”

Sheri forced a hot pink smile, catching the fork with her decorated finger when it threatened to slide off the plate. “Y’ want me to get a room set up for you too?” she joked with a wink of her spidery lashes. “Just teasin’ sweetie. You just flag me down when you’re ready.”

Switching out his tapes, Eddie shut the cassette player and stared out the window as the men at the bar tossed their napkins and fished out their wallets. Snow was falling in lazy clumps, clinging to his windshield. Somewhere behind the overcast clouds, the sun was rising steadily. It was dismal, a fitting backdrop for the opening track of Black Sabbath’s Heaven and Hell. Of all the seasons, winter belonged to metal. Like it was made for cruising down a quiet, snow-covered street in the middle of nowhere. Made for drowning out Bing Crosby crooning from the speaker in the corner above him. Tinsel glittered on the small tree perched on a cloud of fake snow beside the cash register. Ornaments on swags swayed to the thump of footsteps passing. Eddie sighed and stared into the changing street lights.

Glancing at his watch he figured you were probably wrapping up the film with second period, knitting your brow and drawing your pen across the papers you were grading. He wondered what you’d think when the bell rang for fourth and you found his seat empty. Would you think he was upset with you? There was a small part of him that hoped so, and another part that hoped you would understand. After all, he was giving you the space you asked for, was he not?

Like a siren, your story—tucked between his notebook and the magazines he’d exhausted twice cover to cover—called to him. Cracking open the plastic spine, he dove headfirst into the typewritten pages.

For the whole narrow path into Rower’s End, Cybelle had sat in the front of the caravan, breathing the briny air unhindered by a barrier. Lazarus admired the brilliant fullness of her smile as she watched the seagulls soar overhead, under the clouds she had only ever seen from above. The sunlight had graced them then, beaming down in golden rays, glinting on the distant waves as they approached the sleepy seaside town.

Eddie could feel the corners of his mouth tug as Lazarus regaled Cybelle with a story of a time when he’d accidentally taken a crab home with him after spending a day at the beach, followed by an explanation of what a crab was. Cybelle seemed delighted with the prospect of seeing one, even more-so when he told her how he’d discovered the little hitchhiker when it pinched his rear in bed that night. Eddie noticed the way Cybelle leaned closer whenever Lazarus told stories, the way her hand came to shield her bare face with a giggle when he mentioned his rear. The way her delicate, copper fingers lingered over the soft skin of his forearm when she checked beneath his bandage. The wound was healing nicely — no sign of infection and not a thorn in sight. She warned that it might scar, but Lazarus did not appear concerned—rather the opposite actually—as if a strange part of him was pleased with the idea of having something to remember her by.

As they dipped over the final hill toward Rower’s End, Lazarus told her another story. A dream, rather, of a little cottage in Shantiglade with a full sized bed, and a garden, and a goose egg omelette big enough for two. A dream that would likely never come to pass. Cybelle seemed equally enchanted by it. Sitting back against the boxy, wooden seat of the caravan, she breathed in the salty air and imagined how good it would feel to do so every day. To experience the feeling of sand between her toes, of the ocean at her ankles, of propping her elbow against their shared kitchen table and gracing Lazarus with a naked smile before trying whatever an omelette was. It was good like this too — bumping along under a clear blue sky as Turnip plodded down the scarcely trodded path, watching the wind caress the wild grass and Lazarus’ even wilder curls, hearing his tales and his laughter.

Around the time he would be slumping into his desk in the back of your classroom, the bell dinged over the door of the restaurant. Eddie cranked the volume on his headset to drown out the chatter of a family of four clambering into the booth in front of him. The little boy had brought a pair of plastic drumsticks with him, beating a rhythm on the steel-rimmed table much to the annoyance of his little sister, who was clutching her book the way Eddie was yours. Dipping his few remaining fries into the smear of ketchup, he wondered why they weren’t in school on a Thursday afternoon. As he focused back on the type-written letters, he figured he should be the last to judge.

Eddie felt for Lazarus, he really did. The way he looked at Cybelle as she emerged from the cave, cradling the ghostfern like a pale, translucent child. The scene was as beautiful as it was somber — waves lapping at the rocky shoreline as the setting sun cast its deep orange hues on both of them. The rocks—slick with algae—had Cybelle stumbling, but Lazarus was quick to offer his arm. She accepted without hesitance, clutching the plant like a bouquet as her deep earthen fingers braced the pale angles of his. He lead her down the cascading stone as if it were a chapel aisle, slow and steady until they reached the flat edge of the water. There—in the golden remains of the day—seagulls dipped and soared over the glittering ocean, clasped hands swayed in the lapping wind, and for a moment, they had everything they came for.

After what seemed like both a small eternity and an aching second, it was Cybelle who broke away, tracing the ridges of his fingers as hers fell, stating out loud what both of them knew — that night was coming soon.

The journey back to Torgaard proved easier than the journey out, at least in terms of natural foes. No fenfinks or villainous vines, but the sky seemed to hang much lower. Dark, stormy clouds loomed overhead, casting its pale grey light over the moss curtains outside of Fenwood, over the verdant forests that shuddered in the gusting wind. There was a tension, a dread looming on the horizon that grew with each passing day. Even Eddie could sense it — the way Cybelle stared out into the swath of shifting green like she was attempting to soak up enough for the rest of her life. The way that Lazarus’ jokes were swallowed the creaking of the caravan. How nights that were once spent laughing over a roaring fire were now spent silently watching its crackling embers.

One day—just a few outside of Torgaard—the sky came crashing down. It sobbed in sheets, heavy enough to soak through Cybelle’s coat, to find the tear in her tent and make a lake of it. Lazarus ushered her inside the wagon, offered her a shirt that fit like a dress, offered to sleep on the floor. Assessing the size of the bed, and then the hard, narrow walking path, it was Cybelle who insisted they share it. She was small enough, or at least that was what she rationalized out loud. Lazarus did not argue. Her logic—unlike her tent—was water-tight. And so she climbed in between the soft linen sheets, tucked herself under the weight of the down blanket, and rested her damp, weary head on a pillow that smelled just like him.

Eddie glanced sheepishly around the restaurant, shielding the binder with his arm as Lazarus climbed in beside her. He hinged on each type-written word, lingering over the ones that stirred a fuzzy feeling. Written with careful attention to the way Lazarus’ chest rose and fell, how stiff their bodies were in hyper-awareness of the nearness to each other. How solid his shoulder felt under Cybelle’s cheek when the corner of pillow no longer sufficed. Slowly, they relaxed into the feeling. Not enough to sleep, but enough for Lazarus to free the arm that she was crushing. Enough to wrap it around her shoulder, to relish in the feeling of her cold nose in the warm crook of his neck.

It was good like this. Better when her fingers draped across the landscape of his pecks, felt his chest rise and fall like waves. Best when they awoke in the morning to the sun steaming in through the small, stained glass window above them. When their giggles shook the wagon. When their eyes met, closer than they’d ever been before. There, in the dim cocoon far outside the turning world, the smile that she had hidden for so long finally grew brave enough to capture his. And by the time they reached the towering stone walls of Torgaard, there was nothing more to hide from one another.

Eddie flipped the page to find only a black, plastic pocket. He rubbed it with his fingers to make sure it wasn’t sticking to another. When it failed to separate, he sat back and fumed. That was it. There was no more. No ending, no closure.

Sheri leaned against the top of the booth seat opposite him, hand on her hip, shifting between her dirty white sneakers with a tired sigh. “Listen sweetie, I’ve got ten minutes left of my shift. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, but I’ve gotta cash you out before I leave.”

Eddie glanced at his watch, almost 2:00. “Yeah—yeah, no problem. Sorry for the trouble.”

“’S no trouble, just the way it goes around here. Hope you enjoyed your stay,” she said with a wink as she dropped the check.

After six hours and two meals, Eddie had gotten his fill of watching the world turn through an old, frosted window. His head was spinning enough on its own. With a frustrated huff he peeled his graph paper and manual away from the sticky table before shoving them into his backpack. Slugging it over his shoulder, he grabbed the grease-stained check and made his way to the register. That was when he noticed it — the lonely, half-eaten omelette on the bar.

“Alright that’ll be ten seventy-five,” chimed Sheri.

Tinsel glittered on the tree. Red, metallic bulbs swayed in the echo of his footsteps. Judy Garland caroled on about a merry little Christmas and he wondered if your characters would ever enjoy anything over their shared kitchen table or if that dream would be abandoned for their duties as well.

“Sir?”

Snapping out of his trance, he fished for his wallet and palmed her a twenty. “Keep the change,” he muttered before turning toward the door with a hoist of his backpack.

Her jaw hung open. “Oh my word, are you serious?” she called to his back, but the bell above the door was the only answer she received.

______

Main Street Vinyls was a ghost town on a Thursday afternoon, and Eddie preferred it that way. Aside from Jerry at the counter, it was just him and his noisy thoughts, accompanied by the slow plod of his own heavy boots as they weeped against the carpet. At least in this store he could escape the onslaught of Christmas tunes. Jerry—old hippie that he was—at least had some sense. Sometimes even sense enough to play some halfway decent rock music, but today Eddie would settle for Neil Young over the jingle bell garbage blasting through every speaker in Hawkins.

Glancing down the rows of plastic cassette spines, Eddie perused the M section as he kicked himself for giving away almost ten dollars. There was an album by a new band he’d only read about in magazines called Megadeth. Turning the tape over in his hands, he examined the cover. Everything about it spoke to him — the skull with its mouth chained shut surrounded by knives and candles, the title — Killing Is My Business. Flipping it over to the back, the phrase continued in haunted red letters …and Business Is Good!

The change he gave away in a fit of blind stupidity would have easily afforded it and left him with some to spare. With a bitter sigh, he shoved the tape back in its slot, knowing for a fact that the cash register at Benny’s had eaten the last bill he had in his wallet. Padding slowly down the aisle, he began his calculations.

He had a few regular deals lined up this weekend but would need to dig into his “savings” in the bottom of an old tobacco tin and pay Rick a visit before any of that happened. He might make eighty bucks if he was lucky. Maybe eighty more over the course of the week between the deals at school. Nobody wanted to spend too much time outside this time of year, so the park bench location was always iffy depending on how bad it was. He would resort to other classic meetup spots, like under the bleachers or the back of his van.

If he networked enough he might have some left over after helping Wayne with the bills. Scanning past the Tina Turner and T-Rex tapes, he wondered how much Wayne suspected about his little business. Surely he had to have some suspicion. Gig money, odd jobs, and oil changes for neighbors couldn’t possibly afford the kind of gear he had, or the ink in his skin, or the cash he contributed monthly. Wayne was sharp, and though he was no saint himself, he shuddered to think what he would say if he discovered his nephew was straying down the same path his brother took.

Peering back over his shoulder, he eyed the Megadeth tapes again—only three in stock—lined up like gifts wrapped in cellophane. They were such tiny things. Small enough to hide beneath his palm, to slide into the pocket of his coat with room to spare. Glancing up at the angled surveillance mirror in the corner of the store, he saw Jerry at the counter, humming obliviously as he stuck price tags on a fresh shipment of tapes. Over the tall shelf that separated them, he expected to meet his own eyes, but instead saw another man. A man he hadn’t seen in quite a while.

Eddie remembered finding a G chord for the first time; how big the fretboard felt in his small hand, how awkwardly his fingers had to stretch, how a larger set of hands had helped him find it. He earned a broad smile when the chord rang out, one he would search for again and again with every strum.

Sometimes in the late evenings as he crept past Wayne with a lunchbox full of drugs while he was watching reruns of Bonanza on the couch, Eddie would tell himself that at least he wasn’t stealing cars, or drinking himself half to death, or rotting behind county bars. At least he was still in school, something Warren Munson couldn’t say even at sixteen. At least Eddie could say he was trying.

With a bitter shake of his head, he continued down the aisle, leaving the tapes behind for the record bins that lined the walls. Mindlessly he walked his fingers over the cardboard spines, glazing past titles he’d seen a dozen times. Nothing new. Nothing different. Few things ever were in Hawkins. Every day he’d wake up and slog himself to a different type of prison, sit in a classroom for eight hours and actively feel his brain rotting. He would crumple up his failed tests and shove them in his backpack, endure the stares from kids whose parents cared enough to give them a ride to school, day after day. And every day he would come home and see the twinge of pride on Wayne’s face for the fact that he’d gone at all.

There were a few perks to sticking around, like running his club, and saving lost sheep, and seeing his friends everyday. Like having a swath of potential customers all in one place. It was safe and familiar, like a cage. His little business might be dangerous and criminal but at least it could afford him one thing he valued even more than ink or gear — freedom. Time, for another thing. Flexibility. It sure as hell beat making three dollars an hour flipping burgers or having to answer to some corporate boot-licker telling him what to do. Eddie huffed sharply, wondering what you would think if you knew. You, with your tightly buttoned blouses and endless patience. You, the very last person he wanted to disappoint.

The last look he’d seen on you destroyed him when he thought about it; the pain in your eyes and bitter line your pretty lips became. You were just about the only reason he had left to show up to class anymore, and now that was getting in the way of the one thing that actually had potential in his eyes. Way more potential than a stupid piece of paper that says, congratulations, you’re a real member of society and not a complete disappointment.

You had asked him a question back when you’d first made the arrangement to help him, one that rattled around in his brain ever since. Why did he want to graduate? If his memory served him, he’d given a relatively bullshit answer: to prove all the assholes in this god-forsaken purgatory wrong. It still held a fair amount of truth, but when he glanced up at the surveillance mirror again and saw himself this time, the real answer was abundantly clear. But was proving a point worth the risk of losing you?

The smell of cardboard and cellophane kissed his face as air puffed between each record falling forward. Each a different picture, some repeats of the same. Rock gods wielding wicked weapons, bathed in holy stage lights somewhere in New York or Los Angeles probably. Somewhere important. Sometimes at the Hideout he would close his eyes and imagine he was on one of those stages, but when he would open them as the last note rung out, it was always the same — just Bill and Drunk Sam, maybe a couple of bikers perched at the bar with their backs to him. Empty stools and sticky tables. A weak applause.

Eddie stepped back from the record bin with a heavy sigh and glanced at his watch. He’d killed about thirty minutes in this store, which meant he had at least twenty more before he could return home without triggering Wayne’s suspicious questions. The walls were starting to close in around him — posters like windows into a world far out of reach. Every million dollar strum reverberating through the speakers like a mocking reminder. With a half-hearted wave to Jerry stocking shelves, he left the store. Empty handed.

The drive down Randolph was always dismal, especially in the bleak winter light. Storefronts with yellowing signs that hadn’t changed in twenty years selling mattresses and televisions. A gas station with a rusted awning, dusted with snow. Architecturally speaking, the church was about the most interesting building, but only because it was brick and made up of more than just four flimsy walls. Even that was being generous though. The most exciting thing to happen to Hawkins since the housing development over by Factory Lane thirty years ago was the shopping mall that opened this past summer. Thrilling.

No matter where he drove within a fifty mile radius, it was all the same — a tomb where dreams went to die.

Gripping the steering wheel, he watched the car in front of him make grooves in the dirty slush, hypnotized by the spray off the sides of the tires. It wasn’t until he saw the high school approaching in his peripherals that he even looked up. It always felt good to be on the other side, especially when he wasn’t supposed to be. He could almost see you in there; brushing the chalk off your hands, shifting between your tired feet as you glanced at the clock, gazing out the window with a longing he’d seen in his own reflection — caught sometimes at night in his drivers seat window as he cruised the highway, dreaming of where it could take him.

As the squat fortress faded in his rearview mirror, he pictured you five years from now. Ten. Twenty. Wasting away in front of that chalkboard. Rattling on about stories written by dead people while your own collected dust inside a closet. While your talent withered like the dead, crumpled leaves under the snow; buried and forgotten.

With a hard right onto Prospect, he set out on the final stretch towards home. Sometimes he liked to imagine what might happen if he just kept going, just drove into the sunset and only stopped for gas. He had a vague idea from the movies and the maps that swayed in the wake of Ms. O’Donnell’s lumbering footsteps. Sometimes in the height of his boredom he would lose himself in them, imagine he was at a diner in the desert on his way to a gig with an actual sound system. Because somewhere out there—beyond the flat horizon—there were mountains, and canyons, and cities where names couldn’t follow.

______

“How does it end?” Eddie asked you on Friday between the fourth and fifth period bells. You glanced up from the stack of papers on your desk, cocking your head with narrowing eyes. “Your story,” he clarified.

“Oh.” Blinking, you sat back to ponder. “You know, I don’t think I ever fully decided. Cybelle is in a difficult position. The whole reason she set out on this adventure was to save her brother. I imagine she would want to fulfill her quest, but if she returned to Myrne, it may be difficult to leave again. Plus, she may receive some sort of punishment for leaving in the first place. I had written the laws to be quite strict, if I recall. And then if she chose not to return, her mother would lose two children. No matter what, she loses.”

Eddie furrowed his brow, shifting between his boots with a pained sigh. “I would hardly call a life with Lazarus losing. She seems happy with him.”

“Right, well, of course that would be ideal, but…” you tsked, “it’s complicated, and honestly that’s partially why I abandoned it. I really wrote myself into a corner. Well, that and student teaching started to eat up my time. Then it was finals, and moving, and then after that I met…” you trailed off with a bitter shake of your head. “Anyway, I guess life got in the way. It has a way of doing that, I’ve noticed.”

Eddie looked at you, really looked. You, in your cable knit sweater with pen on your hand and sandbags under your eyes, casting them down over your work with the same amount of hope he’d seen from players rolling threes with even fewer hit points to spare. He racked his brain for something he could offer—a dramatic death speech or a new character sheet—but you weren’t playing and he wasn’t prepared. Any words of comfort forming on the tip of his tongue were swallowed by the ringing bell, and he exited your classroom feeling the same as when he entered; unsatisfied.

______

It was starting to close in around you — the colored lights and ornaments, the mall Santas and fake green swags draping from shop windows. It was the first Christmas you’d truly spent in Hawkins since you graduated college, outside of day trips for visits. Surprisingly little had changed, the main thing being the fact that there even was a mall for Santa to post up in. Duplication must have been one of his many powers because he was still at Sears too, at least he was on Saturday when you dragged yourself out of the oppressive quiet of your apartment and into the bustling chaos.

You had no idea what to get your relatives for Christmas. You never really did, but this year it seemed insurmountable. This year you had no one to bounce ideas off of, and the constant mental chatter left little to no room for inspiration. As you scanned the shelves of cookware and appliquéd dish towels with snow men and reindeers, nothing really seemed to jump out at you.

What did jump out at you—or rather, jumped out at his sister—was a little boy across the aisle hiding in a circular rack of women’s bath robes. Pressing apart the terrycloth like curtains, he would retreat into his makeshift cave to the complete oblivion of his mother, who seemed more preoccupied with the price tags on a set of lingerie than with the whereabouts of her children.

A fantasy tugged at the corners of your mind, more sinfully indulgent than the one you had in class last week involving your desk and Eddie’s tongue. This time the set was the same as the scene before you, only the little boy had a mess of dark curls and Eddie was diving in after him. Not to scold him, but to play. You could almost see those fraying knee holes widening from contact with the carpet. Almost hear the giggles and the shushes and the click of his rings against the metal pole in the center of the rack for balance. You could almost turn around and see them popping out at you, feel the laughter ripple up through your very full belly and into the corners of your eyes as you feigned surprise to both of their delight. You could almost feel the glares from the other shoppers, the regular people eager to get on with their Saturday in peace, same as any other. It wouldn’t matter though, not in your little world.

The real mother in the real world did eventually turn around, grabbing the boy by the wrist and demanding he stay by the cart. Turning a dish towel over in your palms, you lowered your eyes to the machine-embroidered stitching of a corn cob pipe and a button nose as the fantasy disintegrated. You left the store shortly after, your cart just as empty as when you’d arrived.

On Monday it was hard to look him in the eyes. It was easier to meet Diane’s. At least this week you could hold a conversation without crumbling like Ms. Click’s half-eaten fruitcake up for grabs in the teachers lounge. But the coffee was bitter on your tongue, like a lie you were telling yourself.

In accordance with your wishes, there had been no rap of knuckles on your door frame after school, no screeching of chair legs dragged across the tile, only the dull thud of folders sliding into your bag, the surprising click of a magnet under the flap.

On Wednesday you left behind footprints in the parking lot before it had even half cleared, only to be swallowed by the emptiness of your apartment. You filled the space with what you could manage — an early dinner, and an early bedtime. Sleep seemed to be the only thing that quelled the battering ram thoughts, the scales tipping back and forth so much it made you queasy. You would lie there and dream of swirling smoke and plush lips, of arthritic fingers punching numbers on an office phone as you sat and accepted your fate. You would toss and turn, back and forth until your sheets became a tangle, and when you faced the mirror Thursday morning you barely recognized the person staring back.

When the final bell rang on Friday, the hallways cleared out like someone had yelled fire. A mass exodus of students and staff, flowing into the parking lot like a tidal wave outside your classroom window. You watched them as snow fell in clumps, as bright colored backpacks disappeared into the back of sedans, as cars peeled out like a parade into the street.

Assessing the paper mountain range framing your desk, you made an educated guess at how you would be spending your two week break. In hindsight, it might have helped to make the due date for the senior creative writing project last Friday instead, but deep down you knew you would have hardly made a dent by now.

When Ms. Click popped her head in to wish you a merry Christmas on her way down the hall, she seemed surprised to find your hand still moving across paper, not swaddled in mittens like hers. You brushed it off with something casual, the type of thing any regular person would say before the holidays. That it was too much to take home. That getting work finished now would leave more time with your family. You omitted the more personal details like how empty your apartment felt and the small, naked tree your mother brought over last weekend. This seemed to placate her, and with a cheery wave she left you in the silence of your classroom with only the ruffling of paper for company.

It was eery how quiet it was, but it afforded you a small hill of graded papers in the last hour, double what you would typically accomplish in front of the television. Thumbing through what remained of that stack, you counted each staple. Five, six, seven… you stopped when a certain name jumped out in MLA format.

Eddie Munson American Literature — 4th Period 20 December 1985

No title.

Papers fluttered to the desk as they fell from your hands, leaving only his. You held it gingerly between your fingers, as if it was alive. As if it could feel you, or rather, you could feel him through every type-written letter, through the thumb-sized grease stain in the top righthand corner. You could almost hear him too, shifting into a deep, dramatic narration.

Mount Myrne loomed on the horizon like a dark omen. Towering over the bustling docks of Torgaard, it disappeared beneath the ominous clouds with a formidable presence. Merchants scattered about, hauling their wares in heavy crates and barrels onto the many zeppelins.

This was where Lazarus first met Cybelle. In his mind’s eye he could almost see her stumbling about in her clean silk boots and glimmering gold coat. But her appearance today told a different tale. Her boots were caked with mud, her coat was splattered with muck and tattered by claws, her mask hung crooked on her face. Those large eyes that once glimmered with hope and wonder now stared off into the distance with oppressive sadness at the looming mountain.

This was where he was supposed to leave her. This was what they had agreed upon many moons ago. Cybelle just stood there, shifting back and forth between her tired feet as she dug her thumbs under the straps of her heavy knapsack that now held the rare and precious ghostfern. She finally had what she came for. Any moment now she would be moving those muddy boots toward the docks and use what little coin she had to barter a one-way trip back home.

That was the plan anyway..

Cybelle was frozen though. Fearfully, woefully, bitterly, she gazed upon her gold gleaming home in the sky with a sadness that was only dwarfed by Lazarus looking down at her. He looked at her beautiful face like it was the last time he was ever going to get the chance to. He memorized it in his mind as he shuffled his own dirty boots against the cobblestone. He didn’t have eyes for anything else. Not the zeppelins, nor the merchants, nor the mountain. Only her. After a moment that felt like an eon, Cybelle took a step forward.

“Wait.” said Lazarus. Cybelle turned around with surprise but also a hint of relief. “You don’t have to do this.”

Cybelle looked up at him with a mournful frown. “Of course I do, my brother will die if I stay here.”

Lazarus shook his head bitterly. “No, he will die if the ghostfern stays here.” he said.

Cybelle sighed as she looked out across the docks, “But how is it going to get there if I do not deliver it? No one is allowed within the city walls if they are not from Myrne.”

Lazarus furrowed his brow as he watched the merchants at work, hauling their wares aboard the large, formidable aircrafts. Suddenly he had an idea. “There are docks in Myrne, correct? And Myrnish merchants who take goods into the city?”

The gears were starting to turn in Cybelle’s head. “Yes, there are.”

“Well then, can we send the plant with like, a note or something? Some instructions and directions for the merchant to take where it needs to go?”

Cybelle thought for a moment. “I do know a few of the merchants by name. Arturo and I grew up together. He was my neighbor for a long time. He would know where it needs to go, and my mother would know what to do with it.” The brightness in Cybelle’s eyes dimmed suddenly as she had another thought. “But… I would never seen them again. My family.”

“Never say never, Cybelle.” Lazarus said. “Do you know that for a fact?”

Cybelle frowned heavily, “The laws in Myrne are very strict.”

“What if in the letter you told your family to meet you on the docks some other time? Perhaps in another moon or two once your brother has recovered?” Lazarus offered.

Cybelle sighed bitterly, “Only merchants are allowed on the docks. It is strictly prohibited. I was only able to come here because I snuck inside a crate. It was a miracle that they didn’t notice me.”

Lazarus kicked a stray pebble and huffed. There was a long pause before he spoke again. “I cannot tell you what to do, Cybelle. Only you can make that choice. But what I can do, really the only thing I can do, is tell you how I feel.”

All of a sudden there was a knot in his stomach. Because if he was going to say anything he knew that this would be his last chance..

“All my life I’ve dreamed about that cottage by the sea with the garden, and the bed, and the omlet. When I saw that pendant you were wearing I knew that it would be my only shot at ever getting what I wanted. Magic tricks are….. not exactly lucrative. And actually, if I’m going to be totally honest here, I figure you should know the truth about me. The whole truth.” Lazarus sighed, swallowing the bile creeping up his throat at the mention of the truth. He was going to be honest though. Maybe for once in his whole life. “This is difficult for me to say, but I owe it to you if nothing else. I’m a thief, Cybelle.”

Lazarus winced at his own words and Cybelle’s fallen expression, but he bravely continued..

“I confess that for a moment when I first saw you I thought about stealing that pendant, but once I heard your story and saw so much of my own I simply couldn’t. There is a goodness in you that I admire, how selfless and pure your cause is. Over the course of the last few moons I have had the privilege of spending with you, I have come to discover how beautiful the woman beneath the mask truly is. How kind, and curious, and patient you are. I have been all over this land. Traveled far and wide, through forests and over mountains. I have swam in lakes and oceans and gazed out over countless valleys. But never has the world looked quite so hopeful than when I saw it through your eyes. It made me believe that if you could see the beauty there, if you could see the goodness in me, then perhaps I can as well.”

It was startling — the tear that leapt over your lash line. Violently enough to hit the page, to blur the Os in goodness.

“If you choose to stay I promise you that I will never steal another coin or pocket watch. It may leave me poor for the rest of my days but if they’re spent with you, then I would be the richest man of all. It is all that I can offer you. My honesty, and a promise that I will show you more beaches, more mountains, more of the world than you could ever imagine. And since I intend to keep my promise, here is my honesty: I love you. Regardless of what you decide.”

With a trembling hand, you turned the page only to discover there was nothing on the back. Sitting back in your seat with a ragged sigh, you stared out into your empty classroom. Your nose stung, fluorescents flaring in your tear-blurred vision. Separating the pages with your thumb, you flipped back and read it again. The last paragraph. The last two sentences. Those three type-written words. Over and over, wedging in the cracks of your armor as your sniffles echoed off the tile.

The sun was dipping below the treeline, flooding the near-empty parking lot with a wash of somber pink. The snowfall had ceased, settled into the footprints and tire tracks. Glancing up at the clock and back down at the papers, you tried to imagine lifting another, scanning over sentences and writing in the margins like you hadn’t been completely upended by the one that trembled in your grasp. You couldn’t.

Tears dripped down your cheeks as you donned your coat, as you shuffled overstuffed folders into your satchel and slung its weight over your shoulder. You swiped at them with your scratchy wool sleeve, flicking off the lights and shutting the door.

The soft pink had cooled to twilight blue when your boots met the blanket of snow, leaving tracks in the clean, fresh powder. Your breath trailed behind you in heavy clouds. It was quiet here too, barely a scattering of cars in the parking lot. Not even the wind disturbed the limbs of the orderly saplings between the curb and sidewalk, dusted with a glittering powder.

Your hands found your keys, and the key found the hole, and soon you were sliding into your frigid leather seat, tossing the weight of your satchel on the passenger’s side with a dejected thump. You sat there a moment with only your breath for company before flicking your wrist at the ignition.

Nothing.

Stomping on the break, you lurched forward with conviction this time, as if you could convince it you were serious. All it awarded you was a weak, persistent click. It’s fine, you told yourself through gritted teeth as you lunged again, snapping your wrist with a startling anger, like the seal had been cracked on a two liter pop bottle that had rolled around in the trunk for a week and a half. Still, nothing but a pathetic click. A split second thought crossed your mind—that the ferocity of your stomp might actually damage the car—but the logic was quickly snuffed out by your rage. The hard plastic key bit into your numb fingers. Over and over — stomping, twisting, cursing. Cursing yourself most of all for being stupid enough to let this continue for months. You were paying for it now.

The tears were already waiting, primed behind your eyeballs, hardly dried on your cheeks when you left out the back door. They spilled over again, cooling as they dripped past your lashes, down the slope of your nose. One more time, you begged. Just one more time and I’ll be good, I swear. But the white Chevy Nova sat unmoved, offering only a vacant whine where there should have been a roar. You tossed back in your seat and huffed, chest heaving, filling the cramped space with the furious steam of your breath.

Snowflakes glittered in the floodlights, shining like flares through the blur of your tears. It might have been beautiful on any other evening — one where the engine was warm, and your mind was clear, and your heart didn’t sink like a pit in your chest. It was hard to notice anything outside your bitter sobs, most especially the shadow that appeared in the window beside you. The rap of rings on the glass had you jumping, whipping your head to face the set of eyes you’d been avoiding most of all.

“Need some help?” Eddie offered, bracing his knees in a crouch, eyes brimming with concern.

Your stomach twisted with relief, then embarrassment, then a million other things rolled into one, sick knot. Wiping the evidence from your cheeks with a futile swipe of your sleeve, you cranked down the window with your left hand. You must have looked like an absolute basket case, jerking your arm in tight circles as the barrier lowered with the urgency of a tortoise. When where was enough space for him, Eddie braced against the top of your door and ducked his head inside.

“Hey.” The warm sigh of his greeting kissed your cheek, thawing the sting of the cold.

“Hey,” you mimicked, sounding just about as stable as you felt when it came out. “W-what are you doing here so late?”

“Hellfire,” he stated simply. “You know, I could ask you the same question.”

Despite how true it was, it still felt pathetic when the answer left your lips. “Just… trying not to take so much work home with me.” You said it as casually as you could muster, but your voice betrayed you. Your cheeks were still cooling from the remnants of your tears, framing the heat from your dripping nose.

Eddie suddenly looked very serious, splintering your armor with his softness. “You ok?”

You gestured dejectedly at nothing, offering a hollow laugh. “No.”

Eddie filled the cabin with his sigh, eyes narrowing like he wanted to lunge through the window. Instead he just thumbed at the rubber and tipped his head closer, creaking your chest plate with the weight of his gaze. “You know, I could hear you clear across the parking lot,” he joked softly. “The car—I mean. Mostly. You leave your lights on or something?”

You shook your head. “It’s been doing this for months, ever since it started getting cold. I should have taken it to get checked out, but it usually starts after a couple tries.”

“Sounds like it might be the battery, or maybe the starter. I won’t know unless I try and jump it. I’ll swing around—if—if that’s ok.”

The wind ushered a curl toward his lips, and you clenched your hand to subdue it. “Yeah, it’s ok,” you sighed. “Thank you.”

With a nod, Eddie ducked out of the window and pivoted swiftly on his heels. From your side view mirror, you watched him make tracks in the blue snow with his heavy boots, hands shoved in his pockets as he glanced left and right, the ghost of his breath trailing closely behind. The seat creaked as you sat back and blinked like the cursor on a computer monitor; processing. One glance in your rearview mirror told you how disheveled you looked. Even in the twilight there was no masking the puffiness around your eyes, the mascara bleeding toward your cheeks. You swiped at them again, this time with a napkin from your glove box.

With a yank of the frigid handle, Eddie slid across the plaid and pleather padding into the drivers seat of his van. He froze for a second, glancing in his rearview mirror toward your small white sedan. Butterflies tore through his stomach, churning like a tornado as he flicked the ignition. Out of all his ridiculous fantasies, he hadn’t entertained this one. Not exactly anyway. One where you were the damsel in distress. One where he got to be the hero.

The parking lot was vacant enough to drive across the lines. Ploughing through the naked patches where cars had spent the afternoon, he rumbled up beside you. Your stomach did a summersault when he stepped out, plodding around to the front of your car with jumper cables slung under his arm.

“Can you pop the hood for me?” he asked.

The summersault rippled south through your abdomen. Reaching down under the console, your fingers found the leaver and obeyed. You felt kind of useless, just sitting there while he propped the hood onto the stand, shielding him from vision. Before you could form another thought, your hand was moving on its own, finding the plastic leaver of your door and opening it to the cold evening air.

Eddie gave a shy look from behind his curtain of curls before stepping back with a nod. “Well, good news, there’s no monsters,” he joked.

A smile cracked across your face, so genuine it almost felt foreign. You tucked your hands into your pockets, stepping closer to assess the engine like you knew what you were looking at. Your aura prickled with proximity, like his heat could thaw you even from where you stood. Eddie’s glance was soft and quick before procuring a small flashlight from his inner coat pocket. He held it in his teeth, flipping up the red and black plastic covers on the battery terminals.

“I have hands too, you know,” you said with a smirk.

With a playful side-eye, he clamped the appropriate cables onto the terminals. Removing the silver torch from his mouth, he made room for his retort. “Mmhm, best keep ‘em warm. It’s uh, kinda chilly out.”

You shook your head as a laugh escaped your nostrils in a plume. Sauntering over to his van like a dark knight, Eddie leaned in the door to pop his own hood. Your boots made tentative tracks in the snow, drawn like a magnet as he hoisted the metal. From the light pinched in his teeth you could see the expanse of the massive engine, the shadow of his furrowed brow as he unscrewed plastic knobs. What you saw more than anything though—like a filter laid over the scene—were three type-written letters. The hands that typed them fumbled with the cables, squeezed around the thick, jaw-like clamps. When they bit right where he wanted, they released; tendons flexing, knuckles pinking from the freezing air. Reflexively, he wiped them on the chest of his black hoodie peeking out from his open coat.

It might have just been the cold, but even in the twilight—in the absence of the flashlight he was tucking into his pocket—you could have sworn his cheeks flushed when he caught you staring. “Alright, um, go ahead and start your car. I’ll do the same.”

Following the tether that joined the two vehicles, you did as he told you. Nothing came of it though, just more incessant clicking. Exasperated, you tossed back in your seat before slumping out of the car once more.

“Shit, it must be the starter. Probably cracked, that’s my guess anyway by the sound of it,” Eddie explained as he stepped around to face your engine again. Clicking his flashlight, he peered into the compartment. “See, if you follow the positive terminal line all the way down, that’s where the starter will be. Only problem is it’s tricky to get to without a lift.”

You followed his grease-stained finger down the dirt-dusted tangle of tubes, drawing nearer under the subtle guise of interest in your engine. You stopped just inches from his solid leather frame, close enough to brush him with your elbow. “You seem to know your way around a car.”

He huffed, shaking his head as he muttered. “Wish I didn’t.” But before you could comment, he was shutting the hood. “I’m sorry, but I think we’re gonna have to call a tow truck.”

Your defeated sigh rose toward the clouds as you glanced at the squat school building. The lights were off. Judy’s car was absent from the lot, as were all but a handful, including the two of yours. Glancing at your watch under the floodlights, the big hand tipped past the golden dot where a five should be.

Eddie stepped closer, filling the gap with a heavy exhale before meeting your eyes. “You know I could, um—” he scratched the back of his neck, words evaporating quicker than his breath. What could he do? What could he really do about any of this? For most of his life he’d been a leaf on the wind, scuttling across the pavement toward the gutter, struggling to steer himself away. But you were stranded, and if there was anything he was good for, it was a ride. “I could—I could take you back to your place. If you’re ok with that, I mean. We could—fuck—I mean you could call from there a-and I could—”

There were chinks in your armor, cracking with each bumbling word. You looked at him, really looked. Eddie Munson, with grease-stained hands and eyes that pierced like arrows in their pleading. Straight through to the softest part of you, the place between your ribs that cries I want. And oh, how desperately you wanted. Wanted to soothe his worried lips in yours again, to feel his pounding chest again, to be thawed by his heat again. But you just stood there, frozen.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his open coat, he shifted on the balls of his feet as he searched for more words in the snow. “Look, I know you said you wanted space, a-and it probably seems like—shit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, releasing with a sharp sigh. “I just want to help you. Will you just let me help you? Please?”

Your chest plate clattered to the concrete, gauntlets falling in a heap beside your greaves. There was no white flag to wave. No sword to relinquish, or shield to discard. Your surrender was nothing but a soft “okay,” barely heard above the howling wind.

______

A/N: After over a year and 100k words, the smut chapter is finally upon us! Thank you for coming with me on this very long journey and sticking it out. I have no idea how long this next one is going to take me to write, but I can promise you that when it’s finished you will experience every moment in exquisite, delicious, poetic detail.

You might have noticed that I’ve pulled a few small details like character names and places from Flight of Icarus, but I will not be retconning any of Eddie’s backstory.

Also random, tumblr decided to make that one paragraph bold once I changed it to chat font with no ability to unbold it, but that wasn't intended. It kind of worked though so I'm not mad.

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @raccoonboywrites @storiesbyrhi @trashmouth-richie @keeponquinning @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @mrsjellymunson @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @barbiedragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes @ajkamins

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson older reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x teacher!reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson angst #don't stand so close to me #dssctm

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delzinrowe · 5 months

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WORD COUNT: ~1.4K WARNINGS: Mentions of alcohol, idk. F!Reader

Bartender!Takuma Ino has been rotting my brain so here's a little something.

Bartender!Takuma, who is one of three bartenders in a local pub. He’s known for his mixing skills and his moves, constantly getting the highest tips due to his level of wit, skill and his handsome face.

Bartender!Takuma who always has a keen eye for guests and listens attentively when he notices someone with worries. He has a special drink for each occasion that he gives a concerned guest. For a broken heart he has a soft pastel blue coloured sweet cocktail meant to heal. For financial trouble he has a clear drink with green syrup that brings fortune. For family struggles he has a pink cocktail, supposed to lift all the worries and help rekindle.

Bartender!Takuma who gets in trouble with his boss for giving out those cocktails for free (one per guest though) but always gets off the hook cause he brings the most business into the pub and is well liked by all locals.

Bartender!Takuma whose eyes are immediately on you when he sees you walk in. He doesn’t say a word about it but he notices the tear stains on your cheeks, the chapped lips from biting them nervously, the unfocused gaze in your eyes. He’s immediately in front of you when you sit down at the bar, ready to take your order.

Bartender!Takuma who mixes you a special and unique sweet cocktail after you tell him you don’t have the mind to choose from a long list of drinks. He serves you the cocktail with a reassuring smile.

Bartender!Takuma who is known as the one to always make a show but tonight he didn’t perform a single move because all his attention is on you. He keeps coming back to you and asks you if everything is okay, but he never comes across as pressuring or pushing.

Bartender!Takuma who doesn’t give you advice because he knows advice from someone else might come from a good place but mostly falls on deaf ears until the person actually learns the lesson on their own, so he settles for listening to you instead.

Bartender!Takuma whose shift ended half an hour ago, yet he still stands behind the bar, talking to you about mindless stuff until you cheer up a little more because he can’t leave without seeing you smile.

Bartender!Takuma who asks if he should call you a taxi or bring you home himself when you tell him it’s time to go but he knows you’ve had a few drinks. You reassure him that your friend will pick you up and you won’t drive yourself, which has him visibly relieved.

Bartender!Takuma who watches you leave with the sour taste of regret in his mouth that he didn’t ask you for your number or at least gave you his. But he knows it would be unprofessional, and despite everything you (and other locals) share with the bartenders you’re still all just paying customers.

Bartender!Takuma who leaves that day with the least tips he ever got because most of his attention was on you but he really doesn’t care about that because as long as he made you smile it was all worth it.

Bartender!Takuma who spends his shifts during the next few days watching the door almost obsessively in hopes to see you walk in again but he’s disappointed every time it’s someone else. He’s waiting to see you again.

Bartender!Takuma who always gives up on seeing you again and tries to forget you by doing his job extra well, performing different bartending moves and throwing bottles and glasses in the air, effortlessly catching them all and putting on a show for all the guests. He’s so immersed in the show that he only notices the wave of new customers when he approaches them from behind the bar.

Bartender!Takuma who is absolutely elated and immediately has a bright smile on his face when he realizes you are among the wave of customers. He does his best to cater to everyone’s wishes but his attention is still mostly on you as he asks you about stuff related to your first night in the bar. It makes you blush that he remembers even small details.

Bartender!Takuma who doesn’t seem to notice the glances your friends give you whenever he performs a trick just for you. He still performs for other guests too but it’s obvious that he’s putting much more effort into the moves he makes for you.

Bartender!Takuma who slowly but surely gets to know you more, your full name and zodiac, as you tell him happily, your profession, your worries, your hobbies, your likes and dislikes. He’s happy you’re talking to him so much and he’s opening up to you just the same.

Bartender!Takuma who once again forgot to ask you for your number when you leave but it’s okay because he has the strong impression that you’ll visit the pub again, and he hopes it’s because of him.

Bartender!Takuma who is smiling like a little kid on Christmas when he sees you again because he was right that you’d come back. His two colleagues are happy you’re back too because if they had to listen to him talk about you any more they would have punched him.

Bartender!Takuma who builds a solid friendship with you over the course of weeks. You don’t know it but his colleagues tell him when you come in on his days off and how your happy smile always falters when they tell you he’s not working. His heart always skips a beat when he thinks about it

Bartender!Takuma who gladly caters to all your wishes in everything cocktail-wise and always knows which moves to make to get you to laugh. Everytime he succeeds his heart makes a little jump.

Bartender!Takuma who gets urged by his colleagues to finally make a move and ask you out because now that you frequent the pub they have seen many guys looking at you. He gets visibly upset when they tell him that men have bought you drinks on his day off.

Bartender!Takuma who is immediately irritated when a guy on the other side of the bar buys you a drink and tells him to give you a message. But it’s his job, so he has to do it. Instead of making the drink and giving it to you right away however, he asks you if you want to accept it.

Bartender!Takuma who smiles a little too happily when you ask him if it’s impolite to reject the drink from the guy. He reassures you that it’s not impolite and takes care of the guy, in a more or less polite manner because he’d like to keep his job.

Bartender!Takuma who scowls the immediate moment a stranger approaches you and asks if they can buy you a drink. It’s different when someone is standing right next to you, so he knows you’re likely to accept just so you don’t anger the stranger. He takes the stranger's order, internally rolling his eyes at the bitter drink he ordered for you because he knows you don’t like bitter cocktails.

Bartender!Takuma who nonetheless mixes the drink and even performs some of his skilled moves to get you to look at him. When he serves the drink he accidentally spills it, making sure it stains the stranger’s pants. Of course he apologizes, but only you know that it’s a half assed apology that he doesn’t mean

Bartender!Takuma who swears the entire pub can hear his heart leaping when you thank him for saving you with his little stunt. It’s the first time he’s actually blushing and you think it makes him look even more handsome.

Bartender!Takuma who finally has the guts to ask you if you want to go out with him after weeks of pining for you. He’s not as smooth when he asks you, almost a little clumsy with his words but unbeknownst to him you think it makes him seem even cuter.

Bartender!Takuma who can’t hide his relieved and happy smile when you agree on a date. He’s so happy he completely forgets to ask for your number or when you have time. When you leave he wants to kick himself because how can he take you out on a date if he doesn’t even have your number.

Bartender!Takuma who almost breaks out in a happy dance when one of his colleagues hands him the napkin you purposely left behind with your number on it. He’s so happy he seems to be floating and beaming, brighter than the sun itself. All because he’s soon taking you out on the best date you ever had.

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charlesswife · 1 year

Text

Una Noche En Mónaco i

Vaya noche la de anoche. (What a night last night)

unem master list

pairing: charles leclerc x latina! reader

summary: after a one night stand between you and charles, charles continues on with his f1 career. until two months later, you come back claiming to be pregnant with his child.

warning: bad writing, charles is a bit of an asshole at first, is going to be a series. google translate because I do not speak french. teen pregnancy (very cliche, I know. I'm sorry)

a/n: this is based on the idea i posted yesterday, which you all seem to like a lot. i want to clarify that english isn't my first language so please be kind if you see any error, i am trying my best. Also I am very new to formula one, i am binge watching drive to survive and the races. also i hope the timeline is correct lmao. ALSO i am not very great at writing smut so don't expect to see smut until i get better at writing it. enjoy!

word count: 1,771

Just to clarify: If I'm not wrong. In 2018, Charles was 20, turning 21 in that year. Reader is going to have an age gap of two years. So reader is 18 turning 19.

gif is not mine! i love this gif tho, he looks so good.

March 2018

Everything from last night was a blur. I remember his green eyes on me. And then his lips. And then his skin. And then a bit more.

The music was louder than my thoughts. Monaco is a beautiful country with even more beautiful people.

Steph grabbed my hand and dragged me to the bar. "One Jack Daniel's with coke and one Cosmopolitan, please." She told the bartender.

"Cosmopolitan?" I asked.

"Oh girl, it's so good. It's vodka with cranberry juice, lemon juice, syrup, and..." She stopped for a second while her eyes drifted to something behind me. "Oh god, he's cute." I was going to turn around and look until she stopped me. "Wait, don't turn yet!"

By that time, the bartender put our drinks in front of us. I thanked him. "Girl, he's looking at you."

"Is he your kind of cute or mine?"

"I would do it sober, on a Monday." Okay. I have to turn around and see said man. "If he wants anything, he'll come to us." She dragged me to another part of the bar.

We danced and drank, and slowly I was forgetting about the 'gorgeous' man. I checked my phone. 12:00.

It has been two hours since we got to the bar.

When the song ended, we headed to the bar area, I asked the bartender for another drink. "Wait here, I have to run to the bathroom," Steph yelled in my ear and then made a beeline to the bathroom. I took the scenery in. The music was louder than before and everyone was dancing to a song I don't know of.

The bartender put the drink in front of me, and I thanked him again. I lost count of how many times I have thanked him.

"This is your fourth drink, is it not?" I heard a male voice next to me. I turned to see the owner of the voice.

Green eyes. Dimpled smile. His body leaned to mine.

"You're keeping tabs on me?" I asked.

"Hard not to," he said. He turned to the bartender and said, "Fermer la onglet. apporte-elle de l'eau. Je paierai la facture." (Close the tab, and bring her some water. I will pay for her bill.) The bartender nodded. The man turned to me again.

"What did you tell him?" I'm not even going to lie. His accent was very sexy.

"Nothing much. C'mon. Let's dance." he grabbed my hand and dragged me to the dance floor.

He pulled me close to his body. Very close. His green eyes and hands were all over me. And I let him.

He leaned closer to my ear and said, "So are you going to tell me your name or will I only know as the beautiful foreign girl?"

"You think I'm beautiful?" I asked laughing a bit.

"Everybody in this room thinks you are beautiful," he smiled, "So?"

"y/n," I told him. He repeated my name again, trying to see how my name feels on his lips. "And you?" I asked him.

"Charles" I repeated his name and his smile got wider. Deepening his dimples. "Leclerc"

Somewhere in the room, a phone rang. I was entangled with Charles that I just let it ring. His face is so calm, without worries.

"I can feel you staring at me, mon cherie," he murmured. "do you always stare at people when you wake up?"

"Not always," I said. "you're the only exception." He smiled at my comment and opened his eyes.

"Hello"

"Hi," I whispered.

"Was that your phone or mine?" He asked.

"I don't know. If it's important, they'll ring again." As soon as the words left my mouth. The phone rang again. I let out a little whine that made Charles laugh.

"That's your phone, that's not my ringtone." I got out of bed and looked for the phone.

"I can feel you staring at me, mon cherie" I mocked him.

"A sight like you should be stared at all the time." I smiled at his comment. I found my phone in between the pile of clothes that was left on the floor. Steph <3 appeared on my screen.

I lay on the bed again with Charles and answered the phone.

"Hey bitch, I've been calling you all morning"

"Sorry" I answered "I just woke up"

"Are you still with the French boy?" Steph asked with a joking tone. I can't remember most of last night. But she knows about Charles and the fact he speaks French.

"I'm Monegasque," He said a bit loud, just for her to hear.

"He says he's Monegasque" I repeated.

"Uhhh, native. I like it. Well, text me when you're on your way back" With that, she hangs up. I looked back at Charles.

"So, another round?"

At first, Steph was excited for me. She was hoping for Charles to be the next thing to occupy my mind instead of my parents.

She wasn't wrong. The Monegasque lived in my mind rent-free for the past month. Especially after I found out I was pregnant.

Two pink lines.

Positive.

"So? What does it say?" Steph asked. I didn't say anything. Tears started to form in my eyes. "Oh god, I need a drink" She disappeared from the bathroom to the kitchen.

Steph made me take a pregnancy test after several different random cravings that I had. She had enough of me after I ate a burger with extra extra pickles, and then more pickles on the side. For context, I hate pickles, with my life.

Fuck.

"y/n... what are you gonna do?" I haven't realized that she came back into the room, a glass of wine in her hand.

"well... what's done it's done. it's my responsibility to take care so it." I answered.

"Yeah! But so it's his! He has to be responsible too!" she yelled.

I let the tears run down my face. "And how?! I don't have his number! It's not like I could just send him a text saying 'Hey! remember when we fucked a month ago? well, I'm pregnant now, congrats! be responsible and take care of it"

Steph stayed quiet for a moment, just staring at me. After a while, she said, "Do you think he is on Instagram? I mean, think about it, almost everyone is on Instagram." she waved her wine at me.

"And if he's not?" my voice broke for a moment. This is all too much for me. I am overwhelmed and drowning in my own feelings.

"We can only hope so." She put her wine on top of the dresser and reached for her back pocket for her phone. "What was his name again?"

"Charles," I said.

"Love, I'm going to need more than that"

"Umm... His last name was a hard one. It was Lec... Lec-something"

For a moment, she looked at me and then back at her phone. "Leclerc?" She asked, doubt very clear in her voice.

"Yes! Leclerc. Why? Did you find him? You should get a job in the FBI" I commented while fidgeting with my hands. I was very nervous.

"Is it him?" She turned her phone towards me. The first thing I see was a black and white picture of Charles sitting on top of a counter with an Alfa Romeo jacket. The date was March 4, 2018. Just a few days before we met.

"Yes," I confirmed, "Wow, you are better than a PI" She slide her finger up a little and I looked at the username. Charles_leclerc with a verified check. "He's verified? Why is he verified?" I felt my heart going eighty miles per hour.

"You fucked and got pregnant by a Formula One driver," Steph said, in a monotone voice.

Oh fuck.

"What do I do now?" I asked her as I made my way to my bed to sit down.

"Well, you know who he is now. You just gotta find a way to find him and tell him." She said as she sat down and wrapped her arms around me.

Yeah. Right. Like that's going to be easy.

May 2018

"When will the phase of puking stops when pregnant?" I asked Steph as I rubbed my small bump.

"You're asking the wrong person. I am not Google" She replied.

"You would be more awesome if you were Google" I joked as I sat at the dinner table.

The aroma of pho and fried dumplings is drugging me right now. Steph is a great chef. So am I, but I hate washing dishes.

I am glad I have Steph to take care of me. Steph has been my best friend for the longest, she's a year older than me, but she treats me and takes care of me as if I'm her daughter. She was there for me when my parents died. She dropped everything and came with me across the world. And now she's taking care of me while being pregnant. I truly don't know what I would do without her.

Steph served me chicken pho and eight delicious fried pork dumplings. I waited for her to sit down.

She glanced at me for a second and then smiled. "You look like a child, waiting for permission to eat."

I laughed. "Well, I'm sorry I waited for you," I said as I grabbed the spoon and put some of the broth in it, and then took it to my mouth. It is so savory. "This is so good" I grabbed the chopsticks and grabbed a dumpling. I blow a bit into it so I don't burn myself. I took a big bite. "Oh my gosh, this is the best dumpling."

"You know what's better than a fried dumpling?" she asked while she wiggled her eyebrows.

"A soup dumpling!" I said. As soon as the words left my mouth, I heard a ting! coming from my phone. I thought my phone was in silence. We both laughed a bit at the timing and sound of the phone.

I turned my phone, immediately illuminating from the raise to wake mode. My smile dropped.

+377 123 456 7890

Hey, this is Charles. I'm in Monaco for a few weeks, mon cherie. Do you want to meet? 😉

I slammed my phone back to the table and looked at Steph. "What?" she asked. I looked back at my phone, making sure it wasn't a hallucination in my head. The text message was still there.

With shaken hands, I hand her my phone while I eat the other portion of the dumpling. She looked at the text, then at me. "Oh fuck..."

Oh fuck indeed.

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Ahhhhhh!!!!! This is the first chapter of many more to come! Please let me know what you think of it. I would very much appreciate any type of comment, whether it is your opinion or just anything! It would def motive me more to keep going.

@mac-daddy-210 @infinite-wanders @rbrsavage @itsyogurlkel @bbygrlllllll @nerdreader @imnotcryingyouare1 @killerangel88 @obx-mylove-things-blog @triorion @daniellarogers @insssanemindd @bosinclairsgff

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