#creedence series

[corazondebeskar-reads]

of rage and ruin masterlist

of rage and ruin - ongoing

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

summary: Joel Miller made it twelve years into the apocalypse without getting bit. He turns into a much different kind of monster than he expected, though.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

also on ao3

series warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, torture, forced proximity, non-con/dub-con (due to the nature of heats), canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, monster fucking, graphic violence, graphic depictions of injuries, suicidal ideation, gore, unprotected sex, oral, vaginal, heats, knotting, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), death, murder of innocent people, typical raider/hunter behavior, sexual assault/abuse by captors, mention of cordyceps, angst, hurt/comfort, no y/n, reader is able-bodied and afab with no specific descriptions, viewer discretion is advised

reader notes: no y/n, no name, no description. reader is able-bodied and afab, uses she/her. joel can lift reader but he's a werewolf with superstrength so it's not indicative of body type. reader has no living family.

This is an omegaverse au. It contains typical and altered elements of a/b/o tropes.

You are responsible for the media you consume. Read at your own risk.

This story does not have a set publication schedule or a predetermined number of chapters.

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six: tba

chapter seven: tba

*title from "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival

As always, if you'd like to read but have concerns about triggers/themes/deaths, my DMs are always open.

[madelynraemunson]

CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT ��♡𓆪

(Book #1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club series)

strip club owner!eddie x fem!exotic dancer!hargrove!reader

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ ONLY! MINORS DON’T YOU DARE I AM INSIDE YOUR HOME

Chapter 004: The Eddie Stop

Everyone loves a parked car conversation. Eddie’s van is no castle by any means…but do a boss and his employee have to sit that close to each other?

* = somewhat smut

** = smut

↳ chapters: 001, 002*, 003** , 004**, 005 , 006 , 007* , 008**, 009, 010, 011, 012* , 013**, 014** , 015, 016**, 017, 018, 019, 020*

word count: 4.8k

warnings & disclaimers — slow burn, mutual pining, profanities, sexual tension, marijuana use, SO MANY sexual innuendos, foot play, daddy kink, dirty talk, masturbation, touching, rubbing, talks of abuse, trauma, Eddie talking about “Asshole Dad & Dead Mom Club”, suicide, overdose, reader’s trauma becoming her kink i.e slapping/hair pulling/choking, steddie x reader threesome kinda 🤭, sex dream, p in v smut, unprotected sex, deepthroating, double penetration, idk what else I’m missing so here’s a PSA from Murray

_______________𓆩♡𓆪_______________

♡

And then there were two.

“You better stop that thing you’re doing. I’m telling you, I ain’t lying.”

For the owner of a very successful strip club, you would think Eddie had a...fancier car. But there is beauty in humble beginnings. In fact, you can tell a lot about him from the ketchup stain by the window, empty coffee tumblers on the floor that need washing, crinkled up band posters — along with MORE PAPERWORK — and the tattered leather seats held together by the sheer grit of duct tape. A Porsche would just conceal who Eddie Munson is.

And Eddie’s the coolest boss you’ve ever had. In the safest town you’ve ever been in.

“Hawkins gets pretty quiet after 1 AM,” you observe. Despite being the blasted one, it’s you who’s attempting to break the silence.

You glance out the window, watching the scenery of the Bible Belt town you've grown to romanticize flash by like developing film.

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs. “If you’re looking for nightlife, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

Eddie approaches a four way intersection and stops too late. He does it for a short time too, stepping on the gas pedal not even a second later.

He peers over at you to see if you caught it.

“Sorry if I’m being a crazy driver,” Eddie apologizes. “If the street’s empty I’m only stopping for like... a millisecond. If at all.”

You snort. “You’re fine. We call that a ‘California stop’ back home.”

“You wanna see an ‘Eddie stop’?”

You turn to him. He’s just staring at you and smiling, a look of mischief creeping its way to the surface.

“What’s that?”

SLAM. You shoot forward in your seat the moment Eddie’s foot meets the brakes. A surprised gasp from you fills the air while Eddie joins in with a loud cackle. You glare at him, a frantic hand clutched to your chest.

“What the FUCK!”

“That’s an ‘Eddie stop’,” Eddie explains between laughter.

SLAM! He does it again.

“Eddie, stop!” you plead.

“Hey, that’s the spirit!” he chuckles.

You realize his play on words and shove him.

“Ow,” he remarks with sass, hand reaching over to rub where you pushed him. “Feisty.”

"Yeah? Well, don't dish out what you can't handle."

You cross your arms and jokingly turn your torso in the other direction. Eddie is amused at this, proceeding to poke fun at you while he still can.

"Hmm. Hm hm," he laughs with his pursed lips. "For someone who can't hang, you're one to talk."

You’re still intoxicated. Nothing is leaving your system any time soon, it appears.

It all starts to feel like a dream. You thoroughly enjoyed yourself after a fun night out with friends. There is no angry brother waiting for you at home, blowing up your phone until you walk through the door. And now you’re out on a post-curfew rendezvous with someone who is clearly off limits.

You’re living out your rebel dreams, riding into the night with Eddie. What a regular young adult takes for granted is something you’ve always dreamt about. It’s a dream you don’t want to wake up from.

“I can hang. It's just the edibles kicking in late, silly," you bubbly insist.

“Alright,” Eddie surrenders sarcastically. “Alright. Whatever gets you going…silly.”

You two proceed down the long, vacant road, humming along to Creedence Clearwater Revival and breaking the law with more California stops.

"It's a bummer we didn’t get to go bar-hopping,” you say. “That would've been fun.”

Eddie grimaces. “Eh. Drinking makes me feel gross. I’m more of a mary-jane guy if I do say so myself.”

“Clearly,” you jest.

A whole night dedicated to edibles? Hotboxing competitions with the line cook? Bongs and bowls happening to be everywhere this motherfucker tends to be at?

Eddie’s a walking marijuana leaf as far as you're concerned. Governor Holocomb's worst nightmare. You kick at the velvet bag that masked the huge glass bong sitting at your feet.

“I’m surprised they haven’t arrested your ass yet.”

“I’m just as surprised as you are," Eddie admits. "With all the shit I’ve done…”

The road begins to look familiar and you realize it’s because you’re almost back home. Tick, tick, tick, goes the turn signal as Eddie's GPS instructs him to make a left. A sigh escapes you. You don’t want to leave.

You want time to freeze exactly where it's at so you could spend it with the man who has been giving you butterflies — and the ‘fuck me’ eyes — all night long. To your own surprise, confidence overpowers you.

“Eddie,” you sit up. “Do you think you can stay with me for a bit?”

Your boss’s gaze hardens, a look of concern replacing his easy-going, playful demeanor.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, brows lifting gently in shock. “Yeah... I’ll stay with you."

Eddie makes a turn away from your street and finds a curb to park against. You tap your feet, anxious that he actually followed through. The sound of his tires scraping across the gravel beat against your eardrums as reality sets in. Eddie shifts the gear from Drive to Park before wriggling his keys out from the ignition. The rumbling of the van engine ceases.

Eddie lassos his keys around his thick, long index finger, their jingles piercing through the quiet.

"You feeling alright?”

“Yes,” you confirm. “Just feeling pretty buzzed still.”

“You trying to get more buzzed?” he offers. “Or high?”

You look back over at him. Oh wipe that snarky grin off your face, Munson.

There's a pro to working evening shifts. You can sleep in until it's time to head off to work the next day. Judging by how the night was going, it is far from over. You and Eddie are just getting started.

“It depends...Are you trying to get more high?”

“Is that even a question?”

Before you know it, there's a small tin can with a few nuggets in it in Eddie's hand, followed by a small Altoid case that housed some rolling paper. Eddie places the two on his dash and then leans towards you to grab the bong sitting at your feet.

He undresses it from its cloak. His pride and joy glistens in the moonlight.

“Hello, my darling,” he says to his bong. “You’re so pretty.” Eddie turns to you. “I’ve got nowhere to be, so you bet I’ll be usin’ the hell outta her tonight. No pressure though, Hargrove.”

You shrug. “I'm down to get lit for a bit longer."

"You a joint girl or do you prefer bongs?"

"Either or. Why not both?"

There’s a gleam in his eyes. "I like how you think."

Eddie situates the large bong between his legs, propping it up with his knees. He then reaches for the tin can filled with nuggets. Picking off the bits one by one to accommodate the tiny bowl, he tucks them neatly into the small round outlet. Eddie does it with such ease. Like it's second nature.

Finally, Eddie hovers the lighter over the bowl and gestures for you to inch closer. The placement of the bong remains the same. And judging by the look on Eddie’s face, he doesn’t intend on moving it.

"Ladies first."

So you hoist yourself over across Eddie’s center console and position yourself near his lap. Staring up at Eddie with curious eyes, you ask him,

"Am I good?"

"You're good," Eddie confirms, holding your hair back while you lean over against him. “All yours, babygirl.”

After getting the green light, you bend down further to attach your lips to the mouthpiece of the bong. With the flick of the lighter, Eddie ignites the bowl and you suck in. You and Eddie eye its neck steadily, watching as the chamber fills with smoke.

Eddie slowly starts to remove the bowl. Fear sets in as the bubbles seem to draw on for an eternity. It feels like it'll never end. You're inhaling too much.

When you feel the first kick to your chest, you shoot upwards and exhale. But the smoke got you good. Before you know it, you’re coughing and hacking and grasping for air, clutching onto Eddie’s flannel for support as you try to clear.

"That's right, baby," Eddie soothes you. "Let it out. Clear it, clear it, clear it."

“I’m-” you cough. “I’m t—trying.” A few more good coughs and you’re done. “WOOO.”

Eddie’s laughing at you like it’s cute. The grip he has on your hair loosens and soon your locks fall in front of your face once more. You keep them there to mask your tears. How embarrassing.

"Damn,” he comments. “You choked out.”

Your stomach dances. You think about what he said earlier in the club about his kinks.

"Yeah, I s-sure did-" you choke again, fleshing out your last set of coughs as Eddie pats your back.

The tears trickle down your face as you struggle to self-regulate. You quickly wipe them away.

"You okay?' he asks again, this time gently, sincerely. Angelically. He starts playing with the ends of your hair.

You nod with a sigh of relief. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You want more, hun? Can you handle more?"

You nod again.

"Yeah," you sniff. "I can handle more."

"Alright," he grins.

Bowing your head down once again, you reattach your lips to the mouthpiece. As you're inhaling, Eddie tilts his head upwards to prevent any smoke from getting in his face. You look up at him.

What a sight, your internal monologue gushes. He must look like this when he's getting a...

"There we go, Shy Girl” he hums. "Just like that..."

————🍃———-

“It’s alright. I said it’s alright. Take anything you want from me. Fly high, little wing.”

“So my driving really doesn’t scare you, huh?”

Eddie is taking ginormous rips out of his bong. You, on the other hand, have settled for rolling joints instead.

“Not nearly as much as my brother,” you shrug. “He drives like a maniac. Him and his stupid Camaro.”

You think about the time you and Billy got into an argument about lunch. Out of all things.

Billy had asked something SO obvious. You couldn’t help but respond sarcastically. He stomped on the gas before you knew it, propelling you both across the residential street at 90 MPH. It was scariest you’ve ever seen him. The first instance where he toyed with both your lives and didn’t seem to care.

You try not to shake in front of Eddie. Luckily, he was too busy laughing to notice.

“A Camaro?” Eddie belts. “That’s just about the douchiest, California Chad type shit I’ve ever heard.”

You agree. “Yeah. Douchey is pretty on brand for someone like Billy.”

You fall silent as you continue to roll. Eddie peers over at you and takes note of your newfound seriousness.

You position your body towards him to ensure him it wasn't something he did, and make sure he knows it by the way you relax your legs across his lap. He inhales abruptly at the extra step you took.

"I take it you guys don't get along."

"Billy and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment,” you mumble. “Part of why I'm here.”

“Your brother right?” he questions rhetorically.

“Yeah, my twin brother.”

“Oh shit,” Eddie mutters. “So you guys went from being essentially telepathic to... no contact at all.”

“Precisely.”

You glide your tongue up, down, and around along the rolled joint to ensure that it sticks. When it's sealed shut, you set it down to start rolling the next one. Eddie stares at you.

“Fuck…” you hear him mutter.

“Sorry?”

You try to act clueless, but even stoned out of your mind, you know exactly what you're doing.

“Uh, that’s rough,” he shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s whatever,” you say. “As much as I love Billy, I just think it’s best we’re not in each other’s lives. We bring out the worst in each other.”

“I can say the same about me and my brothers,” Eddie agrees. “And my dad. They’re always asking me for money. Or for me to be an accomplice for their stupid, dangerous schemes. I got my own shit to handle.”

“And your mom?”

Eddie falls silent.

“She died when I was 14,” his voice softens. “I was the one who found her.”

Your chest aches as you marinate in that very, very familiar wound. It seems like just yesterday you and Billy were in Eddie's shoes.

“I’m so sorry,” you mutter. “Billy found our mom when we were 13. Alcohol poisoning and overdosed on pain killers.”

“Wow…” Eddie is stunned. “OD for mine as well. But heroine. She was an addict. Married her dealer and abuser... my old man.”

"Our dad was abusive too," you sympathize. "Well, is. He's still alive, but he and his new wife up and left when my stepsister turned 16. To who knows where. Billy was her guardian up until her b-day last week.”

You roll your next blunt and lick again. Eddie continues to eye you like a hawk, fixing how he was sitting in the driver's seat as he did.

You continue telling him everything you told your Zoom psychiatrist. Eddie doesn’t seem to mind.

Billy was nice. Now he’s not. Blah blah. Sue, Max’s mom, was Dad’s mistress. The idea of it consumed Mom just as much as Dad’s beatings did. When Billy found her, she was on the bathroom floor surrounded by empty bottles of whiskey and painkillers. Aside from you, Mom was his best friend. His biggest supporter. And Dad took that away.

Eddie’s grazing turns into rubbing. He squeezes your calf.

"Our moms died when we were around the same age," he speaks up, attempting to do the mental math. "That puts us in '08, which is around the time of..."

"The Recession," you finished for him. "Yup. Mom also lost her job which meant she was now fully dependent on our dad."

"She was stuck with that piece of shit no matter what," Eddie huffs. "And no matter where she turned, she wouldn't be safe."

You nod, staring off into the distance. "Billy wanted to go with her.”

Eddie gives you a pained look, sighing deeply as he took it in.

“But I told him I would hate him forever if he dared. So he stayed."

You swallow hard.

“Baby-” Eddie speaks.

"I hate him, still..." you choke back tears. "But I'm glad it's just because I think he's an asshole. He's my whole world."

"But you can't be in each other's lives."

"But we can't be in each other's lives."

"Love from afar kinda thing," Eddie mumbles.

"Exactly," your voice is at a whisper now. "I can never be mad at Mom though, for taking the easy way out. I wouldn't know what the fuck to do if I were in her shoes."

"I'm really sorry, Hargrove." Eddie says. "It seems like you lost more than your mom."

"I'm sorry for your loss too," you reply.

Silence lingers. Eddie continues to touch you. You love how handsy he is tonight. His touch brings you calm. Made you feel looked after. Protected. Cherished.

“I like listening to you talk,” Eddie soothes you.

You smile. “Did we just turn this into a therapy session?”

“Looks like we did,” he chuckles softly. Eddie raises a toast with the foggy, smoked-out bong in his hand. "To the Asshole Dad & Dead Mom Club."

You hold up your lopsided joint.

"To the Asshole Dad & Dead Mom Club," you repeat after him. "And to the brothers we don't speak to anymore."

"Can't forget that shit," he says. "To the brothers we don't speak to anymore."

————🍃————

“I want you so bad, it’s driving me mad.”

The night continues on a lighter, flirtier note.

“What’s your love language?” Eddie asks you.

“Acts of service.”

“Mmm.”

“Not like that.”

“I know, I’m just fucking with you,” Eddie winks. “Makes sense though. I see it.”

“What’s yours?”

“Physical touch.”

You look down at your feet, still laid out across Eddie’s lap. A few moments ago he just wrapped up giving you a foot massage after convincing you that you were free to take your heels off.

“Acts of service as well,” Eddie smiles. “It’s 50/50.”

“I can tell,” you say.

“Yeah? How so?”

You run a foot across Eddie’s thigh, watching in amusement as his blinking quickens. He bites his lip and hums.

“I can just tell,” is what you end up saying.

“You can just tell?” Eddie bites his lip. “No other way of knowing?”

“Nope,” you giggle, gliding your foot to the inner part of his thigh. “Just a wild guess.”

Your feet do a little dance on Eddie. He tries to tickle you but you pull away.

“I think Steve’s is acts of service too,” you add. “And gift giving.”

“Nailed it,” Eddie confirms with a nod. “Harrington loves providing. Daddy Steve.”

He smirks at you when he says that. With the info you retained at Hellfire, it’s impossible to think what he’s saying isn’t an innuendo. Your foot being just inches away from his dick didn’t help the case either.

“Daddy Steve,” you echo him. “Yeah, I can tell he loves taking care of people he cares about.”

“It didn’t always used to be that way,” Eddie points out. “I used to think he was an asshat.”

“Then what happened?”

“Nancy Wheeler happened.”

The mood darkens.

“Damn…” you mutter. “It always boils down to House Mom.”

“Because it’s true,” Eddie insists. “Steve was a self-absorbed prick in high school. Then he dated Wheeler senior year. On and off. Something changed in him, when they were done for good.”

Eddie readjusts himself in his seat. You adjust yourself with him.

“It was like…” he proceeds. “Steve realized that there was more beyond himself and wanted to be a part of this greater good. It wasn’t until he started working at the bowling alley I used to frequent that I realized that he’s a pretty decent guy.”

“Like everything’s one big redemption arc for him,” you state.

“That’s exactly what it is.”

“He worked at the bowling alley?”

“He’s worked everywhere,” Eddie laughs. “Dude had so many side quests and jobs. It’s gotten to the point to where I start to wonder where he hasn’t worked.”

“Hellfire,” you point out.

“Yeah, Hellfire,” Eddie nods. “Kinda wish he did. Maybe then I can get a day off…”

“What would you do on your day off?”

“Take you out to lunch finally.”

Your gazes fixate on each other. Eddie’s cheeks turn a red hue in the moonlight, the streetlight you guys were parked under illuminating it further.

The cheeky grin on his face vanishes quickly, the moment he disengages his eye contact with you.

"Yeah, Steve... Steve's a good guy," Eddie gulps. He stares down at his lap. Touches your legs again. "One of the greatest friends I've ever had in my life."

“Mhm…”

“And now he’s my boyfriend,” he teases you with a wink.

You tsk. “Be for real.”

“Nah, I’m just playing — he’s actually my husband,” he jokes again. “And you’re just a pretty lil thing of his on the side.”

“So you think I’m pretty?”

“That’s what you got from that?”

“Who am I to get in the way of your marriage?”

“It makes things complicated between the three of us, that’s for sure.”

There’s a hint of truth in that sentence. You can tell by the way Eddie refuses to look you in the eyes again. For someone who is intentional with his eye contact, him not wanting to look your way when he says that makes it look suspicious.

Eddie cuts it with the jokes and starts up again.

“But yeah, I think you’re pretty.”

“Thank you, Eddie,” you respond, drawing circles onto his inner thigh now with your feet. You do it slower. Then deeper. Clockwise then counter.

“That’s it.”

Finally, he hoists your legs off of him. To your surprise, it’s Eddie now that’s crawling towards you, closing up the space there was between you two. Now you and him are both just a thumb-width apart, faces lingering. The hunger is back.

You feel Eddie’s warm breath against you.

“I’d say a hell of a lot more about you,” Eddie adds. “But I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

“That’s new,” you quip. “For as long as I’ve known you, you always gave off rebel vibes.”

“I’m trying to be good.”

“You’re failing miserably.”

You both look down at Eddie hand that is now resting at your waist. He laughs through his nose, pulling you closer to him.

“Touché.”

With his available hand, he strokes your hair, tucking a strand behind your ears. His fingers explore your cheek and take a detour to your plump lips, hovering around them as you part them slightly.

“You have no idea how hard I’ve tried to not cross any boundaries tonight,” Eddie admits. “To not get any closer to you.”

“Why not?” you whisper.

"I don't wanna ruin whatever you and Harrington have going on…”

"We're just fuck buddies," you insist. “Swear.”

Steve wouldn’t care. You know he wouldn’t. He was the one who even said that you both should give Eddie a little show. Besides, you already know it’ll be a long while until he’s officially over Nancy.

"Of course," Eddie huffs.

"Why?" you raise an eyebrow as you breathe in his face. "Are you jealous?"

"Well when you sound the way you did this morning, how could I not be?"

There it was.

The confirmation of what you already suspected closes in on you and you feel yourself shrink. Eddie enjoys the sight of it, the sight of Shy Girl growing tense just by the way he speaks to you. His fingers dance up your arm before he starts to rub your back.

“And the way you looked the day you gave Steve that private show…” he strains. “It’s like you were made for me and only me.”

“Eddie…” you moan.

“Do you know what it was like? Hm?” Eddie demands. He’s hot against your cheek now. “Touching myself, getting myself off in the bathroom to the sound of your moans? Knowing full well you were getting your back blown out just a wall over?”

You whimper as he continues to hover, the ache of wanting to be touched and destroyed by him gnawing at your soul.

“Gettin’ all dumb for me already?” Eddie taunts you when you don’t speak. “I haven’t even fucked your brains out yet.”

“Just still a little high that’s all.”

That snaps something back into Eddie. “Oh… right.”

You hear his keys jingle again before Eddie turns them back into the ignition. His headlights flash on and soon he shifts the gears back to drive. Away from the curb and back to your place you go.

Your stomach sinks.

“What are you doing?”

“Not this!” Eddie refuses. “Not when you’re not sober.”

“Eddie!” you start to regret ever saying anything. “Come on, I’m fine. I want you.”

“Yeah, well that’s another thing in my doctrine,” Eddie sighs. “I can’t mess with a lady under the influence. I don’t roll that way.”

He routes his GPS back to your place.

“I hate when you’re respectful,” you joust, crossing your arms in retaliation.

He laughs.

“Don’t worry sweetheart,” he says to you. “Next time you’re at work, I’m gonna be disrespectful as fuck.”

The night ends there and Eddie drops you off. He makes sure you get inside safely before driving away. Sadness sets in as the drugs and alcohol wear off. You drag your feet along as sneak your way into you and Max’s room.

You dream of Eddie that night. Him and Steve.

You’re in a private show room at Hellfire with the two Adonises after your heart. Steve’s destroying your pussy again, ramming into you at an intense speed while Eddie fucks himself into your mouth, his warm, sweet precum mixing with your saliva to fill your mouth to the brim.

A moan escapes you every single time Eddie hits the back of your throat.

“That’s right, baby,” Eddie coos. “Don’t be shy. C’mon, take me.”

You try not to scream as you dig your nails into his skin. Tears are streaming down your face as Eddie and Steve abuse your holes, the stimuli from both nearing you towards your climax.

“Such a good fucking girl,” Steve growls pulling you by your hair. “Taking two cocks at the same time like a champ, hm?”

Eddie releases you from his grip, allowing you to come back up for air. You spit the remnants of him back onto his long and girthy cock, stroking him while you gave your jaw a rest.

“Y-yes,” you choke out, arching your back to maximize the sensation of Steve’s thrusts. “I’m being so good.”

You beg for Steve to fuck you harder. Steve and Eddie look to each other and smirk, pleased that you even want to be challenged.

“Harrington’s got you, don’t you worry,” Eddie assures you. “On your back sweetheart.”

Steve pulls out and lets you use him as support. When you’re on your back, he grabs his cock again, stroking himself before lining himself at your tight little asshole.

“I’m gonna let you know when I go in, babe, okay?” he whispers to you, smothering your neck with kisses.

“Okay,” you nod sheepishly.

Eddie kneels down and lines himself up at your dripping cunt, kissing you on the mouth before inserting himself into you.

You let out a silent gasp as he maneuvers his way in, stretching you out even further than Steve already did.

“Oh my god,” you cry.

“Fuuuck,” Eddie moans, hand flying over your throat to wrap itself around you. “You feel so fucking good, baby.”

Then Steve starts letting himself in. He pumps into you slowly, not proceeding until you start adjusting to his length. You lay there in complete bliss, allowing them both to have their way.

“Good job, angel,” Steve cheers you on. “Being so good for us. So fucking tight…”

The speed of their thrusts are agonizingly slow. You tap them both on the arm to let them know they can speed up. They resist at first, attempting to make sure it’s really want you want.

“Please,” you whine. “I want it now, please.”

Eddie’s gaze turns grim. “Whatever you say.”

SMACK! You whimper as Eddie swats your bouncing tits and pistons into you deeper, faster. Steve meets Eddie where he’s at, picking up the pace from underneath you, holding your hips still for extra leverage.

“SHIT!” you squeal. “Y-yes, yes, right there. Don’t fucking stop!”

Three more pumps and they both hit that special spot. You start to shake as your core tightens. It feels too fucking good.

“Dirty fucking whore,” Eddie spits at you while you cry out in pleasure. “There’s no running away now baby, this is what you wanted.”

Slapping. Biting. Choking. Hair-pulling. Name-calling. Spitting. You wanted it all.

“FUCK!” you wail. “I’m gonna fucking cum. I’m cumming, I’m cumming!”

“Let it out, baby,” Eddie encourages you. “Let it out. Make a mess on both of us, there you go.”

That sentence is enough to send you over the edge. Your core is hot, walls twitching and aching.

“FUCK!” you scream one last time before —

“SIS!”

Max jolts you awake, shaking you by your shoulders.

“What? What?!” you shoot up in the bed.

“Are you okay?” Max pants. “You’re sweating like a pig.”

Now that’s a dream you didn’t ever wanna wake from. Reorienting yourself to your room, you find it hard to believe how real everything felt. You grip onto your sheets to make sure you’re really in your room.

“Yeah, I…” you stammer. “I…had a nightmare.”

“I can tell, you were making all kinds of noise in your sleep.”

Max scurries over to your dresser to retrieve your Hydroflask. She encourages you to hydrate yourself.

“I drank tonight,” you admit after a huge gulp of water. “Probably what caused it.”

“Makes sense,” Max nods, hands on her hips like a concerned mother. “You gonna be alright?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Just need a breather.”

You grab your phone and use the flashlight feature to navigate to the bathroom. As you’re peeing, you take a look at the two text messages waiting for you.

Steve Harrington 💋

Made it home lol

Sorry,passed out. Goodnight, beautiful ❤️

You text Steve goodnight before making your way over to the next text message. Eddie.

Eddie Boss

Sweet dreams. Silly.

👸

—————————

author’s note: the steddie threesome dream was inspired by this tiktok 🥵 foaming at the mouth tbh. I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED THIS CHAPTER AND THE DREAM THREESOME WITH STEVE & EDDIE! don’t worry, eddie x shy girl irl fuck fest smut is coming. some juicy shit has to go down first before we cross that bridge ;)

tag list: @changemunson , @the-fairy-anon , @ali-r3n , @corrodedcoffincumslut , @bebe07011 , @mmunson86 , @eddiesguitarskills , @chelebelletx , @imonhereforareasonsadly , @eddies-trailer-babe , @hideoutside , @motherfckerrr , @jxpsi , @munson-magic , @lindseyj23 , @sidthedollface2 , @manda-panda-monium , @elvendria

[angelap3]

La storia della Musica!!!!

Tre giorni di pace e musica. Tre giorni che hanno fatto la storia. Si celebra oggi il 51esimo anniversario del più grande evento di libertà, umanità e lotta pacifica: il Festival di Woodstock. Più che un concerto un pellegrinaggio, una fiera di arte e musica, una comunità, un modo di vivere che ha cambiato per sempre il concetto di libertà. Sul palco, a Bethel (una piccola città rurale nello stato di New York) si sono alternati per tre giornate alcuni tra i più grandi musicisti della storia. Musicisti che provenivano da influenze, scuole musicali e storie differenti ma che avevano in comune ciò che più contava in quei favolosi anni ’60: la controcultura.

Si passava dal rock psichedelico di Jimi Hendrix (che, pur di essere l’ultimo a esibirsi, salì sul palco alle 9 di lunedì mattina per un concerto di due ore, culminato nella provocatoria versione distorta dell’inno nazionale statunitense) e dei Grateful Dead ai suoni latini dei Santana (che regalarono un memorabile set, impreziosito dallo storico assolo di batteria del più giovane musicista in scena: Michael Shrieve) passando per il rock britannico di Joe Cocker (che regalò in scaletta le splendide cover di Just Like a Woman di Dylan e With a Little Help from my Friends dei Beatles) e degli Who all’apice della loro carriera (celebre l’invasione di palco dell’attivista Habbie Hoffman, durante il loro concerto, quasi quanto il lungo assolo di Pete Townshend durante My Generation, con lancio di chitarra finale).

C’era poi il folk, con una splendida Joan Baez su tutti, che suonò nonostante fosse al sesto mese di gravidanza, genere tipicamente statunitense che si alternava a suoni più esotici e orientali, come il sitar di Ravi Shankar. Impossibile dimenticare infine l’intensa performance della regina del soul Janis Joplin, la doppia esibizione (acustica ed elettrica) di Crosby, Stills, Nash e del “fantasma” di Neil Young, che rifiutò di farsi riprendere dalle telecamere e il divertente show dei Creedence Clearwater Revival.

1969, il ‘Moon day’ in musica..

Concerti che rimarranno nella memoria di chiunque ami la musica come simbolo di cambiamento, pace e libertà. D’impatto i presenti come pesanti furono le assenze di John Lennon, che si rifiutò di esibirsi per il mancato invito di Yoko Ono, Bob Dylan, padrone di casa (lui che all’epoca viveva proprio a Woodstock) assente per la malattia del figlio, i Rolling Stones, ancora scossi per la morte di Brian Jones e i Doors, alle prese con una serie infinita di problemi legali.

Il vero protagonista dell’evento fu però il pubblico, la “vera star” secondo l’organizzatore Michael Lang, eterogeneo quasi quanto i generi musicali. Da tutta America arrivarono studenti liceali e universitari, hippie, veterani del Vietnam, filosofi, operai e impiegati. Nessuna differenziazione di razza, etnia o colore della pelle: tutti uniti dalla voglia di stare insieme in libertà con il fango a livellare ogni diversità e i capelli lunghi come simbolo di ribellione. Un sogno che oggi sembra lontano anni luce, nelle ideologie come nell'organizzazione.

Da quel 1969 si è provato a più riprese a riproporre Woodstock, con scarsi risultati culminati nell'annullamento del concerto in programma per questo cinquantesimo anniversario, organizzato proprio da Lang e non andato in porto tra una defezione e l’altra, forse perché indigesto ai grandi organizzatori di eventi musicali mondiali. Forse, a conti fatti, meglio così: quell'atmosfera irripetibile era frutto di una spontaneità organizzativa di altri tempi, una magia fuori da ogni schema il cui risultato sensazionale, iconico e significativo fu chiaro solo anni dopo anche agli stessi partecipanti.

Vanni Paleari

PhWoodstock, 1969

[totallyunbiasedspnpolls]

BEST NEEDLE DROP IN SPN (PT.2)

This will probably be our toughest triad of polls KNOWN TO THE SPN FANDOM. (In our humble opinion, at any rate.) Firstly: what is a needle drop? For the purposes of these polls, a needle drop is an instance of music licensing, or music not written for (but brilliantly used in) the show. There were bunches, but we narrowed it down to our top 30, divided at random into groups of 10. The three winners of these polls will then compete for the A-1, first place, bestest needle drop in hit cult series, Supernatural. Hold onto your headphones, fandom, and LET'S GET VOTING!

NOTE: We didn't include 'Carry On Wayward Son', because come on, that just wouldn't be fair. Oh, and we used the original show selections, not whatever transpired via Netflix.

Part 1 Part3

[thechaoticreader]

10 Booktok Books I Refuse To Read (&Why)

I'm feeling a little controversial today and while I'm a microscopic blog might as well!

*Disclaimer: If you like any of these books, slay! I'm happy for you! These are just my own consumer choices, and imo negative book reviews are just as helpful as positive ones!*

1. Any Colleen Hoover

I don't like her as a person and don't want to give her money

Her writing style feels like I'm reading bad 2010's fanfics

Her plots feel half-baked and contrived

It feels like her plot twists are just there to emotionally manipulate the reader not to actually make the book better

Every twist is predictable

I've never met a likeable CoHo character

I hate reading insta-love

All of the male Leeds (😉) are toxic and shitty

The breeding kink that underlies most of her books make me very uncomfortable

The pick me "not like the other girls" attitude of the female MC's makes me hate them when im supposed to be rooting for them

thats all I can think of right now but there's probably more

If you want Verity vibes but well written, read Rebecca by Daphne De Maurier

If you want the writing style, plot points and vibes of the rest of her work but for free, visit Wattpad or Fanfiction.net or even venture further into this very site

2. Haunting Adeline

Hate the writing style

The Q Anon subplot makes me so upset...like if I wanted to hear righty conspiracy theories and propaganda i'd hang out with my aunt...at least id get food out of that

I've been in abusive relationships and I'd find this book triggering and disgusting, not sexy

3. Fourth Wing

I just feel like I've grown out of the genre (I was an avid reader during the Y/A dystopia craze of the 2000's/2010's)

hate the writing style

the world building makes no sense

bad chronic illness rep

in general not a romantacy fan

4. Sarah J. Maas

Not a fan of her writing style

Not a romantacy fan

Don't have the attention span for MASSIVE series

5. Icebreaker

I grew up in Southern Ontario surrounded by hockey boys...theres not much less sexy to me than a bunch of hockey bros

6. Hidden Pictures

its transphobic :)

7. Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

I loved the hunger games books and I'm afraid this will ruin it

8. Creedence

not into incest

don't find abuse hot

9. Cassandra Clare

not into incest

not into plagiarism

bad writing

series are entirely too long

10. The Pawn & The Puppet

bad writing

the worst mental illness rep I've seen in a long time

transphobia

badly handled eating disorder

toxic at best love interest

don't like the author

there's definitely more but thinking about this book makes me so mad

[julesthequirky]

Jensen and Characters

Hunted: Series: After being stood up, the reader finds the company of Dean Winchester, only to later realise it was all meticulously planned.

Theirs: Series: Back in Helena, the reader captures the attention of two Alphas, Beau and Dean (not Winchester).

The Choice: Series: Three of your favourite characters turn up in your home, and as you get close, you have a decision to make. Who are you sending?

Healing Her: Series: DV survivor moves to Montana to make a fresh start and gains attraction from the Sheriff, Beau Arlen.

Chapter One

Beautiful Trauma: Mini-Series; The reader finds out that after nearly forty years, Ben is alive. (Ben x Reader)

Chapter One. Chapter Two. Chapter Three. Chapter Four

Brat: Series: In order to adjust her behaviour and attitude, Y/N is sent to John’s and whilst she’s there, John’s sons, Sam and Dean take a liking to her.

Falling For The Sheriff: Part of the Creedence Creek Cowboys Trilogy Series; Reader's car breaks down outside of a small southern town and who else comes to her rescue? None other than Sheriff Dean Winchester.

Broken and Unfixable: Drabble; Dean hits the reader with some hard “truths”.

All Out of Options: Drabble; Reader resorts to a last option. (Dean x Reader)

Under The Mistletoe: Drabble; There’s mistletoe. And Dean (Dean x Reader)

Toy Soldier: Ficlet; The reader finds Michael in her apartment.

Classroom Humiliation: Oneshot; Reader gets humiliated in class. (Jensen x Reader)

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Eleven (Part 2)

The thunderstorm is in full power outside by the time the party reaches its crescendo. Rain beats violently against the windows, and lightning forks across the sky. The sounds of Creedence Clearwater and The Zombies drown out the thunder, but still, I could swear that I can feel it vibrate through my bones. I’ve never been so close to a storm in my life, and as I gaze out of the window, blurry with rain to the flashes in the sky, I have a wild desire to be alone with it. I take a cursory glance around and hope nobody is watching me as I dash up the metal staircase to the next floor.

The lights are off on the upper floor, and as I wander into a room off the hallway, which happens to be a bathroom, I find myself pausing at the window to stare out at the sky. It is magnificent. It’s terrifying. I want to run from it as much as I want to stand beneath it and let the rain soak my clothes to my skin. I climb into the bath just so that I can sit on the rim and watch the sky, and lose all sense of how long I sit for. Long enough to hear the muffled chorus of “Zum Geburtstag Viel Glueck” through the floor. Long enough for the edge of the tub to dig uncomfortably into my legs. Long enough to get the urge to look for this fabled painting studio. I leave the bathroom and make my way back down the hallway, peering into darkened rooms as I pass them, feeling as though I’m doing something against the law. 

I crack open the door to Leon’s photography studio after trying several others, and walk inside. I glance around at the equipment, all of the cameras and their lenses. Tripods, different kinds of lighting, the large, white backdrop that’s hung against one wall. What a luxury it must be to have a space like this in your home. I hardly dare to touch any of it, only gently brushing my index finger over the cool metal of one lens, when a deep voice almost makes me rattle out of my skin. 

“I’d a feeling I’d find you snooping around somewhere.” Jude stands in the doorway, and my heart kicks into high gear. “Fuck sake.” I wheeze. “You snuck up on me.”

“Sorry.” He says, and steps inside to wander slowly around and look at all of the same things I was looking at. 

I brush invisible lint off my clothes, just to have something to do with my hands, and look him over briefly. “It’s very weird to see you in a suit like that.” I remark. “All cleaned up with your hair combed back.”

“Freaky, is it?”

“A bit.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, you look very nice. At least one of us has managed to.”

“I look absolutely mad, it’s alright to say it.”

“She did look a bit mad though, didn’t she? I think you pulled it off fairly well.” He approaches the shelf of cameras and pulls one off, and I say with alarm, “You shouldn’t touch the cameras.” 

“It’s fine.” He grins. “It’s my camera.”

“How’s it yours?”

“I come here to photograph my work. Leon has the best setup. I’ve been doing it for years.”

“Really?”

“Yes! I swear.” He laughs. “I feel like you don’t believe me.”

“Well, I do.” I say hesitantly. I nod towards the Canon in his hands. “Are you going to take a photograph of me or something?”

“Would you like me to?”

“If you’d like to.”

“Okay, I’d like to.” With his free hand he hauls a wooden bench into the centre of the backdrop and motions for me to sit on it. Then he fiddles with a few of the studio lights to make sure he’s got it set up the way he likes it. 

“What should I do?” I ask him. 

“You can just relax.” He suggests. “Maybe rest your foot against the bar of the stool, yep, like that, and your hands in your lap. Okay, yeah, just look at me.”

“I’m looking at you.”

“I know, good job.” He snaps a series of photographs while I sit there, stiff as a board. I don’t really know how to relax in front of a camera, I never have. “Maybe a smile?” He proposes. 

“Like this?” I tug the corners of my mouth upwards, and feel twice as awkward in doing so. He nods. “Kind of. You don’t need to grimace like that.” 

“I’m not grimacing. This is my smile.”

“That’s not your smile, darling. You don’t smile like that.”

A giggle escapes my lips. “What did you just call me?”

He blinks. “I don’t know. What did I say?”

“Darling. As in, lil darlin’” I laugh again, mostly at my abysmal attempt at an American accent, and he rolls his eyes. “That’s not my accent.”

“It is! Ye Haw.”

“Get a grip.” He snickers from behind the lens. “I could easily do a horrible impression of you and see how you feel about it.”

“Do it then.”

His eyebrow quirks up and so does the corner of his mouth. “Jude!” He cries in an accent-perfect midlands soprano. “Did you eat all of the crisps? You’re so greedy. And get your horrible foot away from my back, you’re actually the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

My mouth drops open and I insist that it sounds nothing like me, even though it absolutely does. 

“Yeah right.” He says. 

“You’ve been practising that in the mirror or something, you creep. You’re obsessed with me.”

“You’re obsessed with me.” He mimics and I almost take off my chunky sandal to toss it at him, but I’m startled by a sudden clap of lighting that slashes across the sky right outside the window, so close that it hits a rod on the building across the street. I snap to look. “Oh my God, wow!”

“Yeah, holy shit, wow.” He says, “I got a photo of that.”

“Of the lightning?”

“No of you looking at it.” He lifts the camera to look at the last batch. “I think these are good.”

“Are they?”

“Yeah, look.” He comes over to show me a series of photos from that quick moment, a flash of white over my face as my mouth falls open in a gasp, eyes wide with wonder. I look stunned, and thrilled, and kind of pretty. Then he scrolls back and shows me more of myself, of me smiling and laughing and pulling faces at him, and they must be the most relaxed photographs of myself that I’ve ever seen.

“Oh.” I whisper. “I like those a lot.I wish I looked like that all of the time.”

“Yeah, I like them too.” He says, “And actually, you do. That’s just how you look to me.” and in that small moment his gaze feels weighted, so much so that goosebumps erupt on my arms as though there’s an electrical current moving beneath my skin. I feel him watching my face, but meeting his eyes feels risky, it’s always felt a bit risky, because I want him so badly that sometimes it makes it hard to breathe. I fear that too much time spent looking at him might drive me to start doing the sorts of things I know I will spend time regretting.

I slide off the seat and wander out of the room. 

“Where are you going?” He wants to know. 

“To find the art studio.” I reply. 

“It’s the next room.” He follows close behind me, and it’s impossible not to feel his presence, even when I can’t see him in the dark hallway. He opens the studio door and I slip in under his arm. 

I don’t bother flipping the switch, because the light from outside is enough to allow a blue glow through the huge windows and over the floor. It’s so quiet that I can hear my heart in my neck and my ears. I walk over to the window and stare out over the place where his easel is facing, and through the wet and smears of the glass it’s difficult to see much but blurry lights, but still, I can make out the outline of a row of beautiful old buildings below. A cluster of trees, a castle, which I picture in the heat of summer sunshine, and a lump rises in my throat, because I want a place like more than almost anything. All my fantasies of my life and how it might turn out have included a studio just like this. With these canvases, these easels, these organised racks of paints, and brushes, halfway finished work, destined to be completed another day. I look at it all and I think I might start crying, because it feels like I’ve stepped into a fantasy that will never, never ever turn into reality. 

“What are you thinking about?” Jude says softly after several moments, and his footsteps tread lightly behind me. I don’t look around at him. My voice is thick. “About how much I like this studio.”

“It’s pretty spectacular. And the view.”

“Yes, the view is nice. Although, I’m sure it’s nicer when it isn’t raining so much.”

“I like it like this too.” He comes to a stop next to me, and I feel him there, almost touching me, but not. I pat the corner of my eye with the pad of my finger and continue to look out at the sky. “I think that you could have something like this someday.” He says to me, “I think that if you want something really badly you can find a way to have it.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

“Hm.” 

He waits for me to look at him, and I am afraid to. “Evie,” He says, voice soft. 

“Yeah?”

“Can you-” 

I look. “What?”

He doesn’t tell me what. He leans into me and brushes his nose gently against mine before kissing me. Once, so lightly, as if testing that I want it. Twice. He draws back and our gazes mesh, and the third time he angles his head and takes my lower lip between his, and my body goes weak. I forgot what it was like to kiss him, in all of his wildness, abandon, and overconfidence, how the stroke of his lips over mine makes me lose all sense of myself and forget who I am. 

I wind my fingers into his hair and pull him closer to me, and he holds my head in his hands, and he is perfect and I am lucky, so lucky to be here with him now as the thunder rumbles and the rain pelts against the windows, and his body is warm and his mouth is hot and it feels somehow more dangerous to be in here with him than it would to stand in the path of lightning. 

He deepens the kiss, just as I clutch onto him tighter, and the feeling inside me turns desperate. I deserve this, I’ve loved him forever, and I can have this selfish moment if I want it. Maybe I don’t have to tell anyone about it, maybe we’re the only ones that need to know. I let him touch my body and make promises with his mouth and his hands that he can give me all of the things that I want the most, the things I’m too afraid to admit to wanting, the things I shouldn’t. I let myself feel the terror of him taking those things away from me as easily as he can give them to me, and I chase those feelings away with my lips and my tongue as I press into him and tug his lip between my teeth. 

He breaks away for a moment while his eyes travel over my face as if looking for a sign that he should stop but I’m not ready for him to. I’ve been waiting years for this, so when he draws my waiting mouth to his again I arch my body into him and encourage him with eager little sounds that seem to knock the air out of him. His hands are trembling yet insistent as they come to seize my hips tightly and pull me against his, hard, so that I can feel him wanting me, but then suddenly, as though I’ve remembered who I am again, my hands grab his wrists in a steel, reflexive grip, and I take a step away from him. He seems confused, and takes an instinctive step towards me as I move away, unable to compute that I have stopped kissing him. I place my hand on his chest to block him. 

“We can’t.” 

He looks hurt. “Why?”

I stare at him incredulously. “Because of Astrid, obviously.”

His eyes skate across my face, confusion turning to panic as he swallows convulsively. “But I’ve broken up with her now.” He says. “Didn’t you know that?”

“No, I didn’t know that. When?”

“After Christmas.”

My brain feels like it’s functioning at a fraction of its capacity. “So, like, six weeks ago.”

“Yes!”

“After you bled all over my house.”

“It’s the first thing I did when I got back, I thought-”

“And you didn’t think to mention it at any point?” I turn away from him and catch sight of myself in the black window, and I look wild, hair out of place, lipstick completely gone and a bright blush across my cheeks. How long were we kissing?

Jude’s reflection stares at mine. “We’ve been out of touch.” He says. “We could never find a moment to call one another, Evie, I wanted to tell you, but there just wasn’t the right time, you were always in a rush, or I was too busy, and then, I dunno, I suppose after a while I started assuming that you’d heard it through the grapevine.”

“The grapevine.” I repeat, glaring at him. “What’s the grapevine? Shane Healy’s mouth? What on earth would he tell me that for? He doesn’t even tell me how his mother is.”

He spears a hand into his hair. “I’m sorry, I should have tried harder to tell you about it, but I didn’t want to scare you off, or make you think that it was your fault or something. Maybe I was in my head too much, but sending a random text to you on a Tuesday being like ‘So I broke up with Astrid’ seemed a bit too purposeful, a bit like I expected something from you. I don’t know.”

Ripples of fear and longing travel over my skin. “Well, did you break up with her because of me?”

His expression is tortured. “We were doing badly for a long time. We broke up over a year ago, firstly, because I was being a shit, and I couldn’t give her what she needed, and then after a few months we got back together, but it was always rocky from there, it never felt right, we always fought, in the end it just felt inevitable, and, well…” He trails off. 

“And?” I prompt. 

“And I… yeah, I had feelings for someone else.”

“For me.” The words don’t come out, exactly. I end up just mouthing them. 

“Come on, Evie, I’ve always liked you. You know that. I always wondered about you when we were apart, I always thought about what would’ve happened if I’d never left. When I saw you again and I still felt all those things, well, honestly it felt a bit insane to be with someone else. Even last year, when we weren’t talking, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. All the time, like, there wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t think about you. Every time I saw someone who reminded me of you, or something that I knew that you’d laugh at, I knew that the things I felt about Astrid weren’t the same, it wasn’t right, nor was it fair, so I ended things.”

“But then you got back together?” I glare at him. 

“Yeah, I had a bad year, stuff happened with Jen, I felt isolated, I felt like shit, and then I met Astrid again at a party and…” He shrugs. “She was familiar, and I still had feelings for her so it just felt like a normal thing to do. Our breakup seemed kind of stupid for a while. Honestly, I was wondering what had gotten into me when I did it, and then I saw you again, and…” he trails off. “Well, I thought that you felt the same way as I do.”

I take a deep breath, palms tingling. “This is a lot to take on.” I say. 

“I know.”

“I can’t help but think about how I’m just another one of your single friends, and now that you’re lonely-”

“It’s not like that at all.”

“But this is just what you do, you kiss your friends just because you can.” I don’t know why I’m saying these things, because every word appears to have the same effect on him as if I were slapping him in the face, but I can’t stop them from pouring out. Perhaps I just want him to disprove them or to validate me, or convince him that only foolish men like girls like me. He’s too clever for this. 

“That was when I was a teenager. I’m an adult man now and this isn’t just an experiment. I’m in love with you” He says. “and like, for some reason you think that nobody in their right mind could ever love you, but I do. I really do. I can’t ever get you out of my head, I just think about how much I want you every time I look at you, and how scared I am of what I feel about you, but I love you. Not in a friend way. In an ‘I want you to be my girlfriend’ kind of way, and I can’t imagine wanting that with another person, with, like, anybody but you, and it’s not because I’m single and I’m lonely or that you’re in some way convenient to me, I loved you when I had Astrid and when you had Dean, but the time was never right, and now I think that it could be, so why not just… see?”

He stands there, completely vulnerable, and waits for me to say something to him, but I can’t. My mind is swirling with ancient insecurities, ones buried deep in my psyche, the ones that I never let out of me because they batter my self-confidence, smash it to pieces and remind me that I’m not enough for him, even if he foolishly believes that I am. I will disappoint him. What happens if I tell him that I feel the same? Where do we go from there? How do I be his girlfriend, how do I do the things he wants me to do? What? Hold his hand in public and have all of his friends think about how he left a six foot tall goddess for someone like me, have them say amongst themselves that he really downgraded and wonder what it is that’s so special about Evie Kilbride when he could have anybody. They’ll all learn, as he will eventually, that I have nothing to offer but failed promises and unfulfilled expectations, and joke later about that big mistake he made once while he holds another beauty queen in his arms. I think of that summer day in Kelly’s mobile home, and how she stared at me with amused contempt, as though the idea of him ever wanting me was hilarious because I’ll never be able to impress him, or give him the things he wants and expects from a girl. I won’t know how to be. I will ruin this like I’ve ruined everything else, and I will be the biggest mistake he’s ever made. 

“My God, Evie, please say something.” He says desperately. 

“Did you tell Astrid that you broke up with her because of me?”

He stares at me like I’m crazed. “What?”

“Does she know about how you feel?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” He drags a trembling hand through his hair and it all tumbles forward, free of the hold of the styling gel. “I’m not sure why that’s important to you at this moment.”

“She doesn’t seem to like me.”

Beginning // Prev // Next

[georgiapeach30513]

What are your 3 best books you've read

That is hard. Because there are some books/series I have read multiple times. So instead of mentioning those. Let’s talk about the best I have read recently. Because I always have several books waiting in the wings.

1. Haunting Adeline/Hunting Adeline by HD Carlton. They’re DARK but I love them both so much, and I’m including this in one.

2. Dark Notes by Pam Godwin. TABOO! And I love it!

3. Verity by Colleen Hoover. Although I hate so many parts of her books they’re well written and addictive I just don’t always like where they go.

Currently I’m reading Creedence by Penelope Douglas. But have a stack of books waiting on me. And I always want more 🫣

[mantis-dea]

When a Good Deed Causes a Series of Unfortunate Events - Chapter 2 - The Object

Chapter 1

The echoes of a metal door slamming reverberate through the alley. For a moment, the air becomes thick with the stench of rotting garbage. You instinctively wince and mutter incoherent complaints about your life. You open your eyes to the discolored brick wall that reflects the dim light of a single flickering streetlamp overhead. It’s nighttime.

Realizing what transpired, you quickly got up on your knees and gave yourself a pat down.

Condition? Uninjured.

Satchel? Still there.

Items? Not Stolen.

Pants? Still on.

With a sigh, you dust off the dirt on you, aware that a shower would be necessary after this whole ordeal. Just as you were about head back, your eyes gravitate towards the grimy pavement you were unconscious on. You are puzzled by what you are seeing – a small, dull object, no larger than half your thumb. You cautiously pick it up to inspect it closer. It seems to be a fragment of something, with its outer edge colored silver and the rest golden-brown. You can’t discern what is had once been.

“HEY!” A shout jolts you out of your stupor. You snap your head towards the commotion. Near the end, where the alley meets the main road, stands a man wearing ragged clothes. He swishes a broken beer bottle in the face of someone familiar – a resident who lives a floor below you. Screeching to the top of his lungs, the resident runs away.

Ah, that’s why I haven’t gotten robbed.

The drunk begins walking towards you, albeit clumsily. Without hesitation, you sprint towards your apartment and slam the door shut.

Slowly, you make your way towards your living room area, carefully placing the fragment on the coffee table before sinking into your couch. Your fingers interlock, creating the perfect bridge to rest your head upon. You are fixated on this enigmatic object. A terrible, sinking feeling crept over you – you know this item will bring complications into your life.

Abandoning it is an option, of course, but the mere thought scares you. You have a feeling that if you got rid of it, it would either find its way back to you or fall into the wrong hands. You just know it.

With a trembling hand, you pick up the fragment to examine it once again. Now, it appears ordinary, lacking the allure it once possessed. Why was it so difficult to part with this object? Just what is with this object?

Ring. Ring.

You unzip your satchel and pull out your phone.

Incoming Call: Creedence Clearwater

Creedence Clearwater is the owner of the SPW Bar. You’ve only known him for a few months, but you’ve come to appreciate him as a boss far more than any of your previous employers. Unlike previous bosses, he is always ready to lend a hand when you ask for help. He makes a point of addressing his workers’ concerns promptly and efficiently. Creedence can be found at the bar every day, from the moment it opens until it closes, tirelessly ensuring that everything runs smoothly.

You’ve built a good rapport with him in the short time you’ve known him, and he has earned your respect with his dedication. Whether it’s jumping in behind the bar during busy shifts or resolving conflicts among staff members, Creedence is always there, leading by example and fostering a supportive work environment.

However, these past nine days have been different. He’s been in Florida, trying to help his daughter resolve a wrongful accusation of murder. In his absence, you’ve found yourself taking over almost all his responsibilities, resulting in more hours. Creedence assured you that he’ll compensate you more, as he felt guilty leaving on such short notice. While the extra money is nice, you long for his return.

“Good evening, Creed. How’s everything?” you answer.

“Oh, it’s going. Can’t believe I paid $150 per hour for a consultation with a lawyer,” Creedence responds, frustration evident in his voice. “By the way, you know the new guy, Joshu? Yeah. Well, he walked out. I was wondering if you could close the bar with Gwess. Time-and-a-half.”

“Say no more.”

You bid each other farewell, leaving the object on the table before getting ready for work.

[direwombat]

a wip music monday

tagged by: @socially-awkward-skeleton, @fourlittleseedlings, @cassietrn, and @inafieldofdaisies to share some music inspiring my wips!

got a few that have been hitting hard recently for katc, all of which are classic americana (ie, some classic rock and blues music) on my newest katc playlist (don't ask how many i have). lyrics +e xplanations under the cut

Where the road is dark and the seed is sowed Where the gun is cocked and the bullet's cold Where the miles are marked in the blood and the gold I'll meet you further on up the road Got on my dead man's suit and my smilin' skull ring My lucky graveyard boots and a song to sing I got a song to sing, it keeps me out of the cold And I'll meet you further on up the road Further on up the road, further on up the road Where the way dark and the night is cold One sunny mornin' we'll rise I know And I'll meet you further on up the road Now I've been out in the desert, just doin' my time Searchin' through the dust, lookin' for a sign If there's a light up ahead, well brother I don't know But I got this fever burnin' in my soul Further on up the road, further on up the road Further on up the road, further on up the road One sunny mornin' we'll rise I know And I'll meet you further on up the road

*just a really good syb song tbh. i like to think of this as an anthem for her during that weird phase of her relationship with jacob where she's still on the side of the resistance and starting to break, but she hasn't quite gotten there yet. she's still got a journey to go through, but she'll meet jacob there eventually...further on up the road <3

Whoa, thought it was a nightmare Lord, it's all so true They told me, don't go walking slow The devil's on the loose Better run through the jungle Better run through the jungle Better run through the jungle Whoa, don't look back to see Thought I heard a rumblin' Calling to my name Two hundred million guns are loaded Satan cries, "Take aim" Better run through the jungle Better run through the jungle Better run through the jungle Whoa, don't look back to see Over on the mountain, thunder magic spoke Let the people know my wisdom Fill the land with smoke Better run through the jungle Better run through the jungle Better run through the jungle Whoa, don't look back to see

*i just have such a strong mental image of how i would use this song as a cold open/intro if katc was a tv series and i DESPERATELY want to make an MV as if it were. but just imagine syb running through the whitetails, trying to shake her tail of Chosen and Judges, meanwhile jacob is tracking her through the scope of his sniper rifle and the second syb loses her tail and takes a breath, jacob has her lined up in the crosshairs. the screen goes dark with the sound of gunfire and as the song trails off, the title card "kneeling at the crossroads" in serif font fades in.

and just to satisfy the rule of three's, here's one more:

There's something happening here But what it is ain't exactly clear There's a man with a gun over there Telling me I got to beware I think it's time we stop Children, what's that sound? Everybody look, what's going down? There's battle lines being drawn Nobody's right if everybody's wrong Young people speaking their minds Getting so much resistance from behind It's time we stop Hey, what's that sound? Everybody look, what's going down? What a field day for the heat (Ooh ooh ooh) A thousand people in the street (Ooh ooh ooh) Singing songs and they carrying signs (Ooh ooh ooh) Mostly say, "Hooray for our side" (Ooh ooh ooh) It's time we stop Hey, what's that sound? Everybody look, what's going down? Paranoia strikes deep Into your life it will creep It starts when you're always afraid Step out of line, the men come and take you away

*less syb specific, and more a song for hope county (or the resistance as a whole) kind of wondering to themselves "jesus christ, how did we let things get this bad?"

tagging: @trench-rot, @harmonyowl, @carlosoliveiraa, @purplehairsecretlair, @aceghosts, @adelaidedrubman, @madparadoxum, @voidika, @locustandwildhoney, @testyfestyenthusiast, @strangefable, @alexxmason, @deputyash, @josephslittledeputy, and anyone else with some music inspiring their wips! (taglist opt in/out)

[carcrash429]

Oooo username-song tag game!! thanks for tagging me @stargayatlantis

Pick a song for each letter of your url and tag that many people ahh no that is indeed too many people! I’ll tag @louiemutton @noxnthea @therealjambery and anyone else who sees this and wants to!

Chant by Macklemore ft Tones & I

Ancient Names (Parts I & II) by Lord Huron

Rich Love by OneRepublic ft Seeb

Cnoc Na Fèille by Runrig

Run Through The Jungle by Creedence Clearwater Revival

All The Strange Strange Creatures by Murray Gold (Doctor Who Series 3)

Santé by Stromae

Hey World by Michael Franti & Spearhead

42 by Coldplay

2 Heads by Coleman Hell

99 by Elliot Moss

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased to meet you, chapter 10

Summary: it's Will's birthday, and everyone gathers at his place for a nice Sunday barbecue. You choose a particular -sensible- outfit, and some decisions are made in the heat of the moment.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: it occurred to me recently (thank you Fanna) that some of you had subscribed to the taglist without my knowledge... I'm an unworthy idiot and thought I'd get a notif of some sort, so I never thought to check the form out. I'm very sorry. I'm insanely grateful to anyone who interacts with this story. I will never tire of thanking you.

Word Count: 7.1k (I'm very sorry, I don't know what happened, I'm blaming the Millers on this one)

[prev] * [series masterlist] * [next]

Chapter 10: The Deal

(👆🏻 as per usual, from @nicolethered 's treasure trove)

-

Catfish, noun [C] (FISH) : a fish with a flat head and long hairs around its mouth that lives in rivers or lakes.

Catfish, noun [C] (FAKE), informal: someone who pretends on social media to be someone different, in order to trick or attract other people.

Padding out of the steamy bathroom into the adjacent bedroom, you press the home screen button to close the Cambridge Dictionary app and tap open your Larousse translator.

Catfish [‘kætfiʃ] (pl catfish or catfishes), noun : poisson-chat.

None of it makes any sense to you, not in any language you know. Perhaps you should try Spanish? Putain de merde.

Benny’s resounding voice echoes from the living-room, the velvety tones brushing against your naked skin. He’s strumming his guitar to a song you recognise as Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Fortunate Son. The hand holding your phone lowers slowly, your tense shoulders dropping in slow motion as you listen.

Ben’s voice is what you like best about him. It’s the very first thing you noticed, in the hardware store aisle, and also the first that charmed you after your first couple of dates. It trickles down your spine like honey, keeps your inside warm and your mind snug, and when he sings… well, when he sings, on a normal day, it’s plenty enough to turn you on like an electrical wire, and he never gets to play very long when you’re staying at his place.

Only nothing’s normal anymore.

You stood up Rosie at the last minute on Tuesday, unable to face her in the wake of this new reality, instead showing up at work on your day off without an explanation and unilaterally deciding to undertake a thorough inventory of the bookstore. Your boss, Suzanne, was pleasantly surprised, and if something seemed off to her, she didn’t say.

When Benny told you he would see the guys again on Friday night, you attempted to talk him out of it, as subtly as you could despite your nervousness, feeling as though he could see right through you. Which he didn’t.

After closing up that evening, you walked straight to your usual deli, just around the block corner from the bookstore, where the cashier is a Moroccan grandpa with whom you chat in French, much to your delight, and who calls you “cousine”, and bought your first pack of smokes since college.

Back at your apartment, you smoked all 20 cigarettes sitting by the windowsill of your living-room, waiting for a text or a phone call from Benny that never came. He’s not in the habit of texting nor calling you, on Friday nights. He has taught himself to respect your chosen moments of aloneness, with a childlike willingness, eager to please you.

What were you so nervous about, anyway? How likely is it that Frankie would walk up to his friend to tell him, “Hey, I fucked your girlfriend fifteen years ago, and she let me do things to her that she has denied you repeatedly. Want another beer?”

Your manic brain won’t let go about it, however, no matter how sternly you reason with yourself, no matter what logic you employ. Would that eventuality be so far-fetched? You don’t know what these men share. You know nothing of the strength and nature of their bond. Only that they’re like brothers. You’re foreign to that. You’re an outsider. How can you be sure that Benny wouldn’t cut you loose without a second look if his friend told him about what happened between you? Besides, if Catfish looked at you with such unabated anger, he might very well consider it his brotherly duty to warn his friend. “She’s a liar. She’ll never call you.”

The worst being that you can’t make up your mind about what would hurt most. Benny’s abandon. Or Frankie’s betrayal.

If only you knew what the fuck “Catfish” means. If you had this one clue, you might get an understanding of the man he has become. Or so you think.

You put down your phone and retrieve a cotton t-shirt from your travel bag, laying it flat on the bed next to your jeans, smoothing over the fabric with a frown. You brought another choice of outfit, more suitable to attend a birthday party, a cute little white cotton short-sleeves button-up with a red lining around the collar, a yellow one along the button placket and a dark green one on the breast pocket.

Picking up your phone again, you briefly consider running a Google image search, for the hundredth time or so, but instead angrily toss it on the bed, where it bounces off and ends up on the wooden floor with an ominous noise.

“Et merde!”

“Ooooh she’s naked!” Benny appears on the bedroom threshold, dirty blue jeans and shabby Kiss T-shirt, his massive silhouette dwarfing the doorway.

“Sorry, I’m dressing up, I’ll be ready in a minute,” you quickly shuffle back to the bag and crouch down, rummaging through it in search of your underwear. Benny offered weeks, no, months ago, to clear a drawer for you. And a shelf in his wardrobe. You’ve really mastered the art of deflecting, if anything else.

“That’s not what I meant,” he croons, joining you in two long strides, tugging at your arm until you stand up and face him.

“Stop it, we’re bringing the drinks, we can’t be late,” you tilt your head up with a raised eyebrow, your frustration visible.

“I do not care… Come on, I’ll be quick,” he promises with a cocky smile, wrapping both arms around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

“Oh, you’ll be quick? What about me?” you exclaim in mock offence.

It systematically takes you by surprise, every single time, the ease with which this man manages to lift up your mood. No matter how reluctant you are, he just drags the joy out of you.

“I can get you off fast. Three minutes���”

“Three minutes?!” you cry indignantly.

“I like a challenge, come on,” he chuckles, splaying his large hands across your cheeks, drifting toward the cleft of your ass as you try to wiggle out of his embrace.

“Benjamin, it’s late, stop it,” you giggle, but the drag of his lips along the line of your neck is making you weak in the knees already, a small heat flaring up in your belly.

His voice drops another octave and your entire body shudders against his rumbling chest, “Three minutes. Bend over the bed, baby.”

—

Three minutes turned out to be twenty, after what you had to take another shower, and now you’re definitely running late. You’re not cross, however, if anything you feel more relaxed than you have since the beginning of the week. More than quick, he’s been rough, pounding you ruthlessly into the mattress from behind while you frantically rubbed your clit, and perhaps it was just what you needed to straighten your head. To remind yourself that you’re precisely where -and with whom- you’re supposed to be. Because you are. Right?

As you apply mascara in the bathroom, Benny calls in from the living-room, announcing he’s going to start the car. You acknowledge the information for what it means: that gives you five extra minutes, it being the amount of time he likes to run the engine for, before pulling the Mustang out of the garage.

You briskly walk into the bedroom and slip into your sensible underwear and your jeans. The t-shirt you pulled out of your bag earlier slipped on the floor while Benny was fucking you, and you pick it up without looking at it, shoving it back unceremoniously inside the bag. You make a face at the rumpled cotton as you pull out your blouse and lay it on the mattress. As you vainly repeat your earlier motion, trying to smooth the shirt under your palm, you decide that you’re going to ask Benny again about the shelf and drawer, after all, nodding to yourself.

You put on the blouse and start buttoning it up, circling the bed to retrieve your phone from the corner of the room where it fell earlier, and as you pick up the device, the screen unlocks and lights up.

Catfish [‘kætfiʃ] (pl catfish or catfishes), noun : poisson-chat.

You pause for the briefest moment, clenching your jaw and about to rub your eyelids before remembering you’ve got makeup on. Sliding the phone in the back pocket of your jeans, you hurry back to your bag and choose the yellow t-shirt for the second time today.

—

Will is getting a grill for his birthday. An insanely expensive beast of a machine with more knobs than a sci-fi villain’s aircraft. Something he has no use for, since he’s had the same simple, basic charcoal grill since he moved in alone after splitting from Jean. Something Frankie’s dead sure he won’t even like. Pope and Redfly’s idea.

He tried objecting, but he’s no match for the two of them together, and Benny, typically, sided with the two men. So everyone chipped in, Yovanna and you included, he was informed, and Frankie was handed the money in cash and asked to take care of everything, from buying the damn thing, to storing it in his garage and bringing it over to Will’s house on Sunday morning. Everyone else too busy with their respective jobs, kids, girlfriends. He’s the one with the suspension and the big truck parked outside all year round. He’s the one with the empty garage and the empty bed.

When Will opens his front door, bare-chest and his hair still wet, Frankie gives him an eloquent glance from under the brim of his cap, as he moves to the side of the doorway to let his friend see what is hauled up at the back of the red truck.

“Fuck, man, you kidding me?” Will exclaims in his slow drawl. “Why did you let them do that?”

“I tried, brother, I tried. Happy birthday, anyway,” Frankie pats him on the shoulder before walking back to his truck to unload the monster with the help of a trolley.

It takes the two of them to carry it across the soft soil of the backyard, on which the trolley refuses to budge, and position it against the fence at the rear of the garden.

Yovanna and Pope come in soon after with the meats and side dishes, Pope’s winning argument to convince Will to throw a party being that he wouldn’t have to do a thing. While they help set everything on the large picnic table, Frankie starts the grill.

He had flipped through the thick manual the night before, shaking his head and occasionally chuckling at the convoluted instructions. He’d be damned if Will was going to use this thing once, and when he asked his friend whether he wanted him to take away the old grill, Will shot him a “don’t you dare” glance that got him wheezing.

Redfly arrives next with his two daughters, Tess, the eldest, looking like she’d rather stick a fork in her leg than be here with a bunch of old men, her headphones riveted to her head. Frankie notices for the first time, with a pang of sadness, how much she resembles her father, her defeated look reflected on his friend’s face.

The doorbell keeps ringing for a while, more guests pouring into the small backyard, arms full of drinks and food, and gathering around the table. First, the couple from across the street and their two toddlers, and Frankie inquires if they want the kids to eat first, the exhausted father gratefully agreeing to the suggestion. Then the next door neighbour, a cute redhead of indiscernible age named Clare who, Frankie observes, melts on her chair every time Will addresses her, and finally two of Will’s coworkers from the VA.

The table is quickly buried under heaps of food, egg salad, bowls of chips, biscuits and corn on the cob, three different salads, bags of buns and a large plate of homemade arepas brought by Yovanna… So Will neighbour’s suggests to lend him two plastic folding tables to accommodate everyone, that they install after retrieving them from his garage.

Pope plays some music through his Bluetooth speaker and everyone starts loosening up, happily chatting against the sizzling noises of grilling meat.

At which point, Frankie gets fidgety, his carefully crafted composure eroding slowly.

It’s not out of character for Benny to be late, quite the contrary. Even though he’s been tasked with providing the refreshments.

Only, he knows you too will be here. And he came prepared, deciding early on that this day would be a run test for future interactions. Specifically, is he capable of entertaining a polite and distant relationship with you, without feeling like his blood had been turned into lava. Without the need to take the anger out on himself afterward. Without wanting more than just that.

Judging from his increasingly shaky hand clasped around the fancy grill’s spatula, he might have to skip the next couple of happy family gatherings.

—

Will’s house is smaller than his brother’s, although it counts one more room. But being considerably tidier, you’ve always thought it to be much larger.

The front door opens directly into a wide but shallow room, arbitrarily divided into a living-room on the right and a dining area on the left. Beyond this first room, a corridor serves a bathroom and a kitchen to the left, and two small bedrooms to the right, and leads to the well-kept backyard, closed off by a neatly lined white fence.

You’ve been here once or twice before, but when you hang out with the Miller brothers, it’s usually at Ben’s place, or in a downtown bar. It’s not that Will’s house is uncomfortable, the couch is brand new, the fridge well stocked, the TV set modern. But everything about it is spartan, bordering impersonal.

Today, as Will greets you with one of his heartfelt, marked embrace, you can’t help but ponder one more time the contrast between the austere interior and what you know to be the man’s rich, limitless inner world.

“You’re late,” he shoots gruffly at his baby brother.

Ben shrugs carelessly and retorts, “It’s her fault,” tilting his head toward you, before making a beeline to the backyard, carrying a giant beer keg and a cooler filled with beverages with the same ease as if they were fluffy pillows.

Will throws you a skeptical glance and you answer silently with a shake of your head.

“Happy birthday, Will,” you say with a soft smile, and as he moves to follow Ben into the garden, you hold him back, tugging at his plaid shirt. “I’ve got something for you.”

“You mean you weren’t in on the present?” he asks as if it makes more sense, returning your smile.

“Oh no, I am, I wasn’t given a choice, but I got you something else.”

For some reason, you don’t feel comfortable handing him the rectangular, carefully wrapped package you extract from your tote bag in front of everyone, and he senses your hesitancy. He gives you a short nod and you follow him in silence towards the corridor. Somehow, his massive frame looks even more impressive as you walk sheepishly behind him, tall figure, wide shoulders, strong arms. You know him to be slightly smaller in height than his younger brother, but he’s all quiet strength and raw power. You wonder for a brief moment what it must feel like to be facing a man like him in battle, to find yourself on the wrong side of William Ironhead Miller.

He opens the door to the spare bedroom, where you’ve never been before, and before you have the time to withhold it, a faint gasp escapes you.

It’s an office, of sorts, and a cluttered one, with a desk positioned under the single window, covered in notebooks and scattered notes written on loose sheets, an old sofa bed, foam coming out of the thread-bare armrests, and so many bookshelves it looks as though they’re holding the ceilings, the walls barely visible. Rows of non-fiction, philosophical essays, geography textbooks and some exhibition catalogs, several framed military decorations, and framed photos. Dozens of photos.

You’re standing inside William’s brain.

You gape at him in bewilderment, your eyes asking a silent question, to which he replies, “It’s ok, you can take a look,” a knowing smile on his face, and you dart toward the nearest shelf without hesitation.

The picture of the two of them next to the golden retriever is the first one that holds your attention, but there are many more family portraits, some of them with a couple you easily identify as their parents, the boys bearing a striking resemblance to them, and one with a toddler, a girl, holding a very young William’s hand. Everything’s there, a colourful and assorted retrospective of their entire childhood: picnics, mountain hikes, birthdays, first bikes, fishing trips to the lake, graduations… Ben and Will at a variety of stages of their military carriers, lined up in chronological order, as far as you can tell, and because your mind so often works in the same ways as your friend’s.

A growing lump invades your throat, and you begin to blink wildly. You stand here, motionless, numb, unable to pull away from the images, fully aware of the privilege he’s granting you, admitting you into this sanctuary, tucked away from everyone else’s prying gaze.

And then you see it. A group picture of the five of them, siting around a camp fire in front of a large camouflage tent, in what looks like a Middle Eastern scenery. Pope, Redfly, Ironhead, Benny, and Catfish. All of them looking considerably younger. All of them grinning widely. Your heart sinks at the sight of his dimple. How old can he be? Thirty, thirty-five, you assume, his hair short, a soft caramel brown, his face clean-shaven, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes shallow, still, but the crease between his brows deep, already.

You missed out on so much of him. You missed everything.

It takes all of your willpower to turn away and hand Will the package, without a word, not trusting your voice to be steady enough to speak.

He doesn’t tear the wrapping, instead tugging the adhesive open, until the busy book cover is revealed. It’s an exhibition catalog, Bauhaus 1919-1933: Workshops in Modernity, held at the MoMa in 2010, long before you met each other. The first time the two of you visited the museum together, you swung by the bookstore, and you observed him discreetly as he flipped through the catalog’s pages with covetous eyes, eventually replacing it on its pile, with evident regret. It took you a while, several weeks of getting to know him better, before you could understand why. Priced at $75, the book was an unaffordable luxury to him.

You see the surprise play across his handsome features, and you can tell the exact moment when he registers, the memory resurfacing, that milestone in your friendship, the fact that you remembered. You see this solid, pragmatic man, rarely surprised, always prepared, clearly shaken; and as you finally stir to leave the room, wanting to allow him the space you know he needs, he pulls you into his arms, hugging you so tightly it hurts, and he whispers, “Thanks, sister.”

—

“Alright, who wants some alcohol?” Ben shouts into the backyard, his question greeted by a collective and cheerful holler.

Frankie’s knuckles crack in his grip of the cooking utensil, and he has to make a conscious effort to stop gritting his teeth. Ok, he got this, he reminds himself. If he made it through Monday night, he can make it through Sunday afternoon. He turns around to face the house, and his front collides with Ben’s chest, who pats his back with a resounding grunt. You’re nowhere in sight.

“Hey man, wanna beer?” Ben asks brightly.

One of them had a good morning, at least.

“Yea, is it fresh?” Frankie’s voice comes out a bit tense, but he can work on it, he knows he can.

“It sure is,” Ben answers, cracking a can open and handing it to his friend.

Frankie takes a swig of the cool beverage and feels it flowing down his burning throat, scanning the door to the house. You’re still nowhere to be seen.

“You’re alone?” he asks, and immediately winces.

Off to a great start.

“Nah, she’s in there with Will, scheming.”

Ben tries to pick up a wiener from the grill and burns his fingers, swearing under his breath and mumbling something about the size of the machine. Something that Frankie doesn’t hear. His ears are filled with the frenetic thumping of his blood, even though his heart has stopped beating.

Will’s bulky silhouette appeared in the doorway, and as he stepped into the garden, you materialised behind him, pausing there for a moment to let your eyes adjust to the midday light. You’re wearing these jeans again, the ones that are way too tight on your hips, they’re Benny’s favourite, but Frankie doesn’t know that, and it’s not what he sees. What he sees is your t-shirt. A pale shade of yellow, and the print of a book cover. A black cat in a white bow tie, holding a gun in its clawed paw, winking straight at him, and the title in red, bold letters, etched over your breasts, that spell:

The Master and Margarita.

—

You find yourself behind Will again, walking down the narrow hallway to the backyard, but you have to stop on the threshold, blinded by the sudden daylight. It’s early in April, and you recall a Gainsbourg song about April inspiring love. There’s a stereo playing Jefferson Airplane and the smell of grilled meat fills the air. When your eyes adjust to the luminosity, you’re slightly taken aback. You didn’t expect that big of a crowd, and anxiety immediately kicks in at the thought of having to meet new people and make small talk. Something catches your eyes on your right, Yovanna is waving at you, standing next to Pope.

You smile back, relieved, about to step in and join her, when you see him.

A blue and brown plaid shirt pulled taut over his broad frame, the top two, no, three buttons undone, the dip of his collarbones exposed, rolled up sleeves revealing his forearms, locks of hair curling around his ears and on his nape.

When your eyes lock, a faint, wistful smile tugs at the corner of his lips and oh god, you want to crawl under his skin and forever live there.

—

The guests are all seated, now, divided into groups around the three tables in the cramped backyard, except for the neighbours’ kids, who are running around under the playful supervision of Tom’s youngest, Sue.

You’re sitting between Will and Benny, across from Yovanna and Pope, but more often than not, Will’s up and around, refilling people’s glasses, making sure everyone has everything they need. You know him to be more comfortable in quiet settings, but he makes for a very charming host, nonetheless.

Grilling food and preparing the burgers take up most of Frankie’s time, who has yet to sit down and enjoy his own plate. You’ve never seen so much meat, and you don’t think you’ll be able to swallow any for the next two weeks at least.

When Frankie comes over to your table to ask what your party would like to eat, you notice for the first time that he addresses Yovanna almost exclusively in Spanish, whereas Pope and him mostly use English. He’d told you he was born in Argentina, but you’d never heard him use his mother tongue, and it’s invading all your senses. His voice sounds different, softer, rounder, less gruff around the edges.

You won’t let it carry you back to the orange bedroom, not here, not like that, not with your boyfriend’s hand resting on your lap, his thumb rubbing your inner thigh. If you could just effectively control your goddamn breathing every time he lifts that cap and combs through his hair…

“What about you?” his husky voice jolts you out of your reverie. He’s looking straight at you, hands propped on his hips, “What do you want?”

You stare at him blankly, dumbstruck, an instantaneous acceleration in the rhythm of your heartbeat as you feel crimson creeping up your neck and cheeks. Will’s steely gaze is on you as you shift nervously on your hard plastic seat.

Meat. He’s asking about the meat.

“Burger. Rare. Please,” you answer without thinking, before adding hastily, “Wait! Can I have some extra cheese? Please?”

Pope bursts out laughing and Yovanna shoves her elbow in his ribs. A slow, devastating smile appears on Frankie’s face, so broad, so spontaneous, so sincere, all dimple and teeth, and for the first time in this life you’re facing your Frankie, despite the deep creases at the corner of his eyes, despite the cap hiding away his curls, despite the whiskered cheeks stranded with grey, and it’s more, much more than you can stand, you have to lower your eyes onto your egg salad.

The rest of the meal is a game of avoidance, played knowingly and with unexpected skill by the two of you. Every once in a while, you throw each other sideways glances, facing away mere milliseconds before your eyes can actually meet, holding your stare until the last possible moment. But for the most part, you concentrate on Yovanna, exchanging ideas on topics as diverse as politics or cinema, making plans for a girl’s night out with Rosie and some of her friends.

Frankie cooked the food you’re eating right now. You try not to linger on the thought. And he gave you extra cheese, alright, your burger disintegrating in your hands, nearly impossible to handle with the amount he managed to melt on top of the patty.

He loves the way you eat, grabbing the burger with both hands and unceremoniously pushing it into your mouth until you realise there are people around who might be watching.

Memories are resurfacing now, flowing into the gaping abyss vacated by his receding anger, flooding his brain, and his senses.

And if he can’t recall what the two of you ate during the single meal you shared over the course of the weekend, he remembers your voracity. To this day, you remain his best kiss. Like that first one on the balcony, no, not a balcony, a fire escape, when he hung on for dear life to your hips with a bruising grip as you pulled him in, a minute ago shy and self-conscious, all he had to do was show you the attraction was reciprocal.

And that other kiss you gave him after that meal, only it hadn’t been on his lips.

It was already Sunday, in the early afternoon, when you too had first thought of eating. You were together on that bed where you spent most of the weekend. Lying on his back, eyes closed and a smile dancing on his lips, he was focused on the sensation of the tip of your fingers tracing patterns along his torso.

Your stomach let out a very loud, very angry growl. Your eyebrows shot up and you rolled onto your side to cover your face in embarrassment, both of you bursting into a laughing fit. He wrestled you for a bit, trying to pull your arms away from your face, and he finally carried you out of bed. He couldn’t understand why he found the idea of feeding you so satisfactory, even then, as he still does today.

You slipped on his plaid shirt, the act so natural and familiar, you looked so fucking lovely. He felt a pang of possessiveness, a foreign feeling to him, one he’d never experienced until then. You followed him into the kitchen where you ate together in content silence, exchanging cheerful looks, like two happy puppies.

After eating, however, the atmosphere shifted. He felt your gaze on his bare skin and when he looked up, your hooded eyes told him everything he needed to know. You got up slowly, purposefully, and slowly, purposefully took off his shirt, draping it neatly over the back of the Formica chair. Fuck, he loved your tits, so damn much.

He found himself unable to move, mesmerised by your demeanour, confident and full of intent. It was new, and it was something else. You were not quite the same girl anymore, and he wasn’t sure if “girl” was still the fitting term.

Closing the distance between you in one stride, you kneeled in front of him, gently parting his legs with your hands, and you moved closer, holding his gaze. He felt dumbstruck, at your mercy, like he had when you first backed him against that same kitchen chair two nights ago, and he licked his bottom lips in a futile attempt to snap out of it.

You lowered your eyes to the growing bulge in his black briefs and his cock twitched. With parted lips, you leaned in to kiss him through the warm fabric, eyes closed in rapture under your raised brow. Softly, you nuzzled your cheek against the cottony material, and inhaled. He froze, eyes locked on you, his chest heaving, his mouth gone slack. You rested your cheek on the inside of his thigh for a short while.

Then, flicking your eyes open, you started quietly, “I really want to–” and paused, and it occurred to him you might not even know how to say it in English.

“You don’t have to, if you’re–”, he trailed off, hardly recognising his own breathy, shaky voice. What the fuck was he talking about? He might die if you stopped now.

“Please? Please let me. It’s just that… I know I’m not too good at it.”

He was already fully erect when you took him out of his briefs, hard and heavy, and when you hesitantly bit your bottom lip, his eyes squeezed shut. He felt the curled up tip of your tongue collecting the bead of precome from the head of his cock, heard your satisfied exhale, felt your cold mouth enveloping him -cereal, he remembers it now, you had cold milk with cereal-, felt the contrast of your warm hand wrapping around his base.

If you were fairly inexperienced, your eagerness more than made up for it, and he let out a muffled curse when you began licking up broad stripes, before dipping as far down on him as you could.

He wanted to bury his hands in your hair and thrust deeply into your mouth, fill you entirely, the thought of fucking your throat threatening to tip him over too soon, but a part of his brain somehow still functioning remained in control; instead he gripped the sides of his seat until his knuckles turned white.

Your mouth closed around him, you settled in a steady rhythm, tongue swirling around his fat tip, hand stroking up and down with a maddening twist of your wrist, but you were far too gentle. With his cock still in your mouth, your eyes flicked up to his with a question, to which he gave a short, rapid nod, yes, yes, do whatever the fuck you want with me and you withdrew your lips with a popping sound, your timid smile in complete contradiction with the filth of your actions, before spitting tenderly on the head of his cock.

You were going to be the death of him.

Spreading your spit down his length, you stroked harder, wrapping your lips around him again, this time sucking firmly up and down with hollowed cheeks. He saw you squirming, pressing your thighs together, he heard your moans, you were enjoying this. That realisation, combined with your ministrations, was overwhelming.

His hips locked into place, the muscles in his belly strained, his balls drew tighter, he was too fucking close; he reached for the soft hair on your nape and tried pulling you back before it was too late, but you resisted, sucking harder, looking at him from under your eyelashes with an expression that mirrored his when you had straddled him on that same chair. “Do it, use me.”

He came at once. His head rolled back, an obscene grunt echoing in the room, heavy ropes of spend hitting the back of your throat that you bravely tried to swallow, flooding past your closed lips and dribbling down your chin. You kept suckling him delicately through it and when he came around after a minute, or five, or ten, he noticed he was still holding your hair.

You looked dazed, dazed and pleased with yourself, holding him in your right hand, sitting back on your heels like a proud student waiting to be graded, and he laughed breathlessly.

He’s hoping now, looking at you as you wipe your chin clean of the dripping sauce from the burger he cooked especially for you, that he told you then how well you did for him. More women than he’d care to count have sucked his dick ever since, some of them professionals, none made him feel the way you did. All he can remember is that he had been eager to get you cleaned up.

And what happened then in the bathroom had been the beginning of the end for him.

—

When the neighbours bring their kids back home for nap time, the place becomes considerably quieter. Tom takes his leave shortly after, having to drive his daughters back to his ex-wife, and you’re slightly alarmed that his friends are letting him take the wheel, considering how much alcohol he’s had. Then it’s Will’s colleagues’ turn to go. There’s a pleasant, sated lull in the conversations, as the remaining guests stretch their limbs in the afternoon sun.

When Frankie joins your table, Benny sits up as if remembering something.

“Hey baby, I’ve been thinking,’ he starts, looking at you both, “Fish could help you with the car. He used to be a mechanic, right Fish?”

All the food you’ve ingested makes your body slow and heavy, but you think you could start shaking with the way Frankie’s eyes flick up to you, alight with an alarming gleam.

The car. Benny’s big project, getting you out of public transportation. You didn’t need one in Paris and you haven’t bought one here yet, you like the bus rides, you can read and listen to music and daydream. A real luxury. And you’re more than fine with Benny driving you around in the Mustang.

“We’ve talked about this, Ben, I’m not comfortable driving, here,” you remind him tentatively.

Frankie leans back in his chair, arms crossed on his broad chest, and you avoid the sight of his lean muscles rippling underneath the tanned skin of his forearms.

“Look, I don’t like you riding them buses alone at night. She won’t even take a cab,” he adds for his friend’s benefit. “Fish knows a lot about cars and engines and shit, he could help you choose a good one. I think that’s a good idea, that’s all I’m saying.”

Nothing about this is a good idea.

“Cheers, but I’m a big girl from a big city,” you answer with a hint of aggressiveness. “I mean I’m fine,” you try again, softer, “and I’m used to driving a stick, I would want a manual gear, anyway.”

A manual gear. Nice touch, very European, that was convincing.

“Yea I can help you with that, too,” Frankie lifts his head and you get a better view of his face under the brim of the cap, but you’ll be damned if you can decipher his expression.

This whole situation is throwing you off-balance, you can’t process what’s happening, but you know that you don’t like it, not in the least, what do you want, what does he want, what is he playing at?

He wants you safe. He wants you off the buses at night, is what he wants. Nothing else. Nothing more. Aside perhaps from the opportunity to ask you one question.

Clare provides you with a much welcome way out when she joins the discussion.

“I’ve been to Paris, like fifteen years ago? I loved it! What neighbourhood are you from, exactly?”

The topic seems forgotten and you carry out the conversation for as long as you can before excusing yourself and stepping inside for a glass of water. Talking about your hometown has cooled down your nerves, but you still need a moment to yourself.

Will’s kitchen is cleaner than an operating room. It’s disconcerting, and you wonder if he ever eats in. The hob is pristine, so is the oven, and you hardly resist the urge to open the fridge just to have a peek, refraining out of respect for your friend.

The first cabinet you open contains different sorts of coffee, teas and herbal infusions, canned soups and chocolate, something you didn’t expect. You find the glasses behind the second door you open, but your hand freezes on the handle as you hear someone coming into the kitchen behind you.

It’s him. The understanding instinctual. You recognize his gait, measured, calm, assertive, and before you can decide how to react, you’re surrounded by the scent of him. You were right, of course you were right, you do remember it vividly, only now it’s more potent, and it’s so close, too close, it’s there, you feel dizzy, he’s drawing nearer and you brace yourself for an impact that doesn’t come.

He stops half an inch short of your back, and it’s as if your very skin is reaching out for him.

He leans over you, his mouth to your ear, the thin hair on your nape standing, and his breath fans over your throat when he whispers, “Let me get that car with you.” It’s not a request. It’s not a question.

You feel the heat rolling off of him once it’s no longer there. You stand alone in the empty kitchen, eyes clenched, cold and perfectly still, your hand gripped onto the cabinet handle.

It’s a moment before you can walk out of the kitchen on shaky legs. You’re going to do this. You are really going to do this. You can’t pause to think.

You get to the garden and the sun blinds you, they’re all staring in your direction, if only in your head. You go back to your seat next to Benny and you put on a broad smile, willing your voice to sound perfectly casual.

“Ok you win. I’ll get that car. But a small one.”

Oh god he looks so fucking happy, like a child, and he kisses you deep, you hate yourself already when you notice Frankie’s watching, he hasn’t missed a thing. You recognise the sadness in his eyes, it’s the same that’s pinching your heart.

Everything happens too fast afterwards. Benny signals him to come over, and you exchange phone numbers, an ordinary social interaction that is anything but. The irony of the situation drops like an anvil in your stomach and you fear for a moment that you’re going to be sick. Neither Frankie nor you can look at each other as you tap the digits on the screens.

Your entire body shudders at the sound of Benny’s voice.

“Alright, then, Fish, I guess she’ll give you a call!”

—

Why you didn’t call is all he needs to know. He’ll back off once he knows. And he can’t stand the thought of you travelling by bus, alone at night. Two birds, one stone.

He didn’t recognise your scent. Standing so close to you in that clinically clean kitchen, he breathed in your hair, your neck, and it was intoxicating, but it wasn’t like it used to be. Not that he can remember your old scent. He’s forgotten about that, along with your taste, a long time ago, he just knows it’s not it. New shampoo, new perfume, maybe. New boyfriend.

The only thing he remembers after all these years, apart from your eyes and your face, is your skin. The feel of it under the pads of his fingers, under the palm of his hand, under his tongue, between his lips. How it shivered under his touch. The way it caught at his calloused digits. And your cool back against his burning chest. And your breasts, and your own hands as you ceaselessly caressed him.

Is it better to remember?

Around three years ago, he met a girl from Mexico, much younger than him, dark and beautiful, and she made him feel good for a while, he liked the sensation of her soft body underneath his, and he thought he might be in love until he realised it was nothing but a reminiscence of you. Of your skin. Over and over and over again. Always you. Only you. A life spent seeking you through all these stranger, distant bodies.

He got so close to your skin, earlier. He knows that’s how close he’s ever going to get, now. Benny’s never been this happy. Benny’s in love, it’s all over his face, on display for everyone else to see.

But it’s real. He’s got that. Everything that happened between you and him, has been real. That’s what you gave him, today, you clever, clever girl. He can be content with that, he thinks. If only…

If only he didn’t feel your skin reaching out for him.

—

In the orange bedroom, he’d fallen asleep first and you had fought through your own tiredness to stay awake just a little while longer. Looking at him, committing to memory all his singular details. The size of his hands, the shape of his nails, the colour of his eyelashes, the tattoo behind his ear and the one on his thumb, the curve of his nose, the line of his neck, the pattern of his freckles, the dip between his collarbones, the ones over his hips, the flawless shape of his length, the build of his thighs, the sharpness of his jawline, the breadth of his shoulders, the curls of his hair…

You couldn’t ever be satisfied but you didn’t want to disturb his slumber, so you got up for a glass of water and got reminded of the books piled up by the chair.

Kneeling down on the floor, you looked through a first column of physics and algebra textbooks. A few others, smaller, with eye-catching covers, were fiction. Mostly second-hand, judging by the yellowed paper. Some were in Spanish, from authors unknown to you yet, but some you knew and loved, Hemingway, O'Connor, Remarque, Capote… You picked up a beaten copy of Franny and Zooey, inhaling the old paper scent, and flipped through the pages. Here, some sentences were underlined, there, entire paragraphs. His bold handwriting sprawled in all caps in the margin, his thoughts laid down in ink, something you would never dare do.

You put down the book, resuming your browsing, you couldn’t figure out what you were looking for, only that you would know when you’d find it, and oh! there.

You held the book with both hands and murmured the title like one does a binding spell.

“Le Maître et Marguerite”

****

Taglist (Thank you 💕): @nicolethered @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8

[moodmusicmonday]

What a STRONG start for May! Check out this amazing playlist! Seriously! Pop it on in the car, while you're working or even when you're doing your Spring cleaning! Great list, and even greater fics to come! HUGE thank you to all of our creators that submitted their songs! Make sure to be looking out for these *NEW* stories!

Can't wait? Well, you're in luck! Some fics have already been released--and you NEED to check them out! Look for the 📖, then click on the link! Don't forget to show your support! Like, comment and/or reblog!

As always, thank you so much for supporting this blog! Whether you actively participate or you signal boost us, we see you, and we love you so, so much! We'll see y'all again soon! 💜

~🎵~

@alj4890

“Sparks” - Coldplay; Mixed Signals, *new* series [OPH, Ethan Ramsey x  f!OC (Chris), ft. Bryce Lahela  and Tobias Carrick] 

@aussiegurl1234

📖 “Gone” - NF, Julia Michaels; Black Silk, Chapter 5: Thora;  [TRR AU; Liam x f!OC (Alice), Drake x f!OC (Delilah)]

@cariantha

📖 “Hey Stupid, I Love You” - JP Saxe; Power Play [OPH; Ethan Ramsey x f!MC (Sawyer Brooks)]

@peonierose

Wildflower, Part 1/? [OPH; Keiki Lahela (*new* f!MC) x Koa Haulani (m!OC)]

- “Sweethoneylove” - Babe Blakes - “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” - Creedence Clearwater Revival - “Wildflower” - 5 Seconds of Summer - “Blurry Eyes” - Michael Patrick Kelley - “Fallin’ for You” - Colbie Caillat

@tessa-liam

“Ready For Anything” - Landon Austin; Smoke and Mirrors, Chapter 7 [TRR/TRF+; Liam Rys x f!MC (Riley Brooks- Rys)]

“Fall Into Me” - Forest Blakk; Marabelle, Chapter 5 [TRR; Liam Rys x f!OC (Sophie)]

@txemrn

“I Don’t Miss You Anymore” - Loveless; Like Ships in the Night, TBD (OPH; Ethan Ramsey x f!OC [former])

“Take Me with You” - Secondhand Serenade; I Don’t Have Anything to Hide… There’s Just One More Thing… (OPH; Ethan Ramsey x f!OC (Tatum Erikson)]

~🎵~

Tags are in the comments! Please let us know if you'd like to be added/removed!

[arthur-morgans-last-journal]

I am deep in youtube theory videos and came across the whole Jimmy Brooks/The Strange Man thing. Please don your tinfoil hats my friends that's what this post is. Also, spoilers for both RDR and RDR2.

If you don't know, Jimmy Brooks is someone you meet during the mission "Polite Society, Valentine Style." Jimmy recognizes Arthur from Blackwater, and you have to run him down and catch him. He ends up falling off his horse and you have to choose whether or not you'll save him. If you don't save him you lose honor, but if you do save him he gives you a pen and his voice is one you might hear during Arthur's last ride depending on your ending.

Jimmy doesn't show up again in the game, but there's some speculation/theorycrafting that he's a test from the Strange Man, a character we don't see in RDR2 but who shows up as a stranger mission in RDR, where he gives a similar sort of morality test to John. The Strange Man doesn't explicitly show up in RDR2, but you can explore his house in the bayou, and there will be a poem there about Jimmy Brooks which will read one way or another depending on what choice you made at the cliff.

If you accept that Jimmy is some kind of moral test from the Strange Man--and for such a grounded series there sure is a lot of wierd shit in these games lmao--one thing that has a kind of lovely poeticism to it is that the pen Jimmy gives you if you save him can be sold for a total of $10. It's otherwise unremarkable but. BUT. $10 is also the amount of money Eliza and Isaac were killed over.

I don't know that it exactly means anything--maybe it lends more creedence to the whole strange man is death thing or god or what have you--but I do kind of love that regardless. This totem of your first moral choice in the post-prologue game, this stupid little pen, can also act as a sort of reminder on subsequent playthroughs (when you know about Eliza and Isaac) to be good, to not be the kind of person that would kill a woman and child over $10. Arthur saved Jimmy Brooks, he has the capacity in him. He can be good, he even wants to. And if he ever needs $10 so badly, he can sell the pen.

I actually have a lot of other thoughts about that moral choice and its placement in the game but I'll save that for another post. I don't actually think the strange man is very important in the RDR2 game at all but the way Eliza and Isaac hang over it IS and you don't even know until chapter 6 AND if you choose the right dialogue options lmao.

[stwritings]

Funny Seeing You Here

Synopsis

Long time in-patient y/n was looking forward to her upcoming discharge date from the Hawkins Memorial Hospital. That is, until she became acquainted with an unlikely familiar face, Eddie Munson.

Author’s Note

This is a fix it fic following Stranger Things season 4, volume 2. In this fic, we’re going to forget the fact that the Duffer Brothers decided to delete Eddie from the series. :-) These events take place after the battle in the upside down. I’m also choosing to change the ending of season 4 by having the issue with the upside down resolved, therefore, Hawkins is not plagued by the massive earthquake that resulted in new portals being opened.

What To Expect

Slow burn, angst with a happy ending, fluff, smut in later chapters. ♡

Series Warnings

Mentions of mental health struggles, SMUT (in the later chapters, 18+ to read this story), angst with a happy ending, canon-typical violence.

Chapter 14

Warnings:

This chapter extrapolates on reader's past trauma as well as Eddie's. Mentions of physical/verbal abuse, anxiety, depression, general mental health struggles, self-harm and addiction, family struggles and trauma. Please don't proceed if any of the above mentioned is triggering. ♡

Chapter CliffsNotes without the triggers are available for those who don't wish to proceed, send me an ask! ♡

Time spent with Eddie flew by like she had never experienced before. It was only after Margot cut their conversation short that y/n realized that she had been on the phone with him for well over an hour. In that time, she had gotten to know a little bit more about Eddie, like how he disliked mustard in all of it's forms, only learned how to ride a bike at the age of 12 and was an avid fan of Creedence Clearwater Revival due to his uncle listening to their music relentlessly. She shared a few facts about herself in that time as well, per his request.

Y/n was frustrated that their time was cut short, but held onto Eddie's promise that he'd call again tomorrow.

-

Like clockwork, the phone rang again the following day, as well as the next day, and the day after that.

Pretty soon, y/n had gotten used to expecting Eddie's call at some point in the day. She had given him an extensive break down of her daily schedules, and he made sure to write down her free times to ensure she'd pick up the phone when he'd call.

It was on their 3rd phone conversation that the topic of her extended stay was brought up, Eddie's curiosity getting the best of him. As much as she detested the topic, she knew it would come up again at some point. They had gotten to know one another pretty well and she felt closer and more comfortable with him than she'd ever felt with anyone else. She knew it was time to tell him the truth; no matter how raw it was. Opening up came easier to her once Eddie spoke about his background and what he had been through.

Eddie's life had been anything but easy from the moment he had been born. His mother's pregnancy was unplanned and slightly unwanted, at least on his father's part. His parents were very young, having both just turned 22. They were far from financially stable, and knew adding a new member to their family would worsen their situation. Despite this, Eddie's mother stood her ground and spoke her truth; she wanted to keep the baby and would not be talked out of it. This put a strain on their relationship and it became tumultuous over time. His father grew spiteful as time went on and took to alcohol to numb his frustration.

Eddie's father was constantly putting his mother through hell, from his sporadic outbursts to his unexplained disappearances that would last for days at a time. He eventually lost his job due to his erratic behavior and many missed shifts, leaving her with the huge responsibility of making ends meet. She worked well into her pregnancy, eventually being forced to take a leave; her bulging stomach preventing her from accomplishing most tasks at her job.

Luckily, she had her brother to rely on. At first, her pride prevented her from reaching out for help, but when their bills started to pile up, she had no other choice. Eddie's mother was very close to her brother, this made it much more difficult for her to ask for help. Being the youngest, she always felt this need to prove herself and to be self-sufficient. Wayne on the other hand was always looking out for her, feeling immensely protective over his younger sibling. The truth is, he never liked Eddie's father. Upon meeting him, he had this gut-wrenching feeling that the kid was bad news. And boy, was he ever right.

Although protective, Wayne isn't the type to overstep and likes to avoid confrontation as much as possible. He kept a close eye on them as the years passed, and sadly, wasn't surprised when his sister reached out to him reluctantly filling him in on the turmoil she had been going through over the last 8 months.

At the time, Wayne was working two jobs in hopes of saving up enough money for his dream car; a 1966 Chevvy Impala. He had racked up quite the savings and was only a few hundred dollars short of being able to afford it. Those dreams were put on the back burner following his conversation with his sister, as he redirected his focus onto supporting her and his expected nephew.

Wayne never really wanted kids, in fact, he wasn't overly fond of them. That all seemed to change the moment Eddie was born. Unsurprisingly, his father was absent on the day his mother's water broke, which resulted in Wayne being by her side the entire time. He was also the first person to hold Eddie as he took his first few breaths. In that moment, Wayne vowed to always protect him, no matter the cost.

He pleaded with his sister to leave Eddie's father, even offering them a place to stay in his tiny 1 bedroom apartment, but it was no use. Eddie's mother was hopeful, she felt that when his father held his son for the first time, he would turn a new leaf, wanting to better himself for their family. After recovering in the hospital for a few days, Wayne reluctantly drove her back to their shared apartment and made her promise to call him everyday. That promise was kept, but she bent the truth more times than she could count.

With every interaction they had and the countless times that Wayne asked her if things had gotten better, her lies became more distant from the truth. Eddie's father came home after a grueling 5 days away, whiskey bottle in hand, the smell of alcohol littering the air of each room he'd walk into. His mother greeted him with open arms, wanting nothing more than for the father of her child to meet his precious little one. She was met with heartbreak and disappointment when all he did was glance at him in a less than pleased manner and lock himself into their bedroom where he stayed for the remainder of the night. Luckily she had moved Eddie's crib into the living room while she prepared food for herself.

The next morning, after being forced to sleep on the couch, she was woken up by the sound of slamming doors and footsteps. As she groggily got up from the sofa, she noticed that many of their belongings were missing. Eddie's father had been packing his truck and despite his mother's pleas, left within the hour. He had made it abundantly clear that if she decided to go through with the pregnancy, he wouldn't be in the picture. His words proved to be true up until Eddie turned 2.

His mother hadn't heard from him in all this time, and was dumbfounded when he showed up at her doorstep. She was met with apologies and false promises, knowing all too well his patterns of behavior. Despite every nerve in her body signaling for her to shut the door in his face, she craved a better life and some form of normalcy for Eddie, not wanting to deprive him of his father. Reluctantly, she put aside her feeling of dread and gave his father a second chance. Once again, he had managed to charm and weasel his way back into their lives with false promises, broken within days of him being back into the house.

His father's battle with addiction had only worsened in the time he was away; his sudden reappearance a desperate attempt at seeking shelter and money to further his substance abuse. Eddie's mother was unaware of this at the time, his lies and deception were all too convincing. Perhaps she had been naïve, but Eddie likes to think she just had a big heart. His mother was very giving and would do anything for those she loved; a trait that later proved to be fatal.

It wasn't long after his father's return that what little savings she had, were drained, leaving their little family once again ridden with the struggles of poverty. When Eddie reached the age of 5, his mother reached a breaking point. Her previous frustration over their financial situation was overshadowed by pure, unadulterated rage when she discovered a series of deep blue markings on her son. She had noticed Eddie had become much more detached from his father, afraid even. His mother was no stranger to physical abuse at the hand of her partner, and once she realized that Eddie was now at the receiving end of it, she had had enough.

She put up with a lot, too much really. But the moment she found out that Eddie was suffering the same fate as her, she was done. A true mama bear, she packed up all of their belongings and left that same day, giving him a taste of his own medicine. She left him a dingy old sofa and a crappy frying pan, which was more than he deserved really, and thanked her lucky stars that he was out of the house during the process.

Once again seeking solace from her brother, who welcomed them into his home with open arms, they had finally escaped the wrath of his father. Eddie never saw him again.

Their peace was short lived following a well overdue medical appointment. Eddie's mom had been sick for quite some time, but without the funds or free time to see her doctor, she was never able to seek treatment until it was too late. Her diagnosis was terminal and she passed away a few days short of Eddie's 11th birthday.

His mother's passing brought Eddie and Wayne closer together. Without his father in the picture, his uncle became his legal guardian and formed him into the man he is today. Eddie spoke very highly of his uncle who, funny enough, shared the same name as y/n's current guardian. They bonded over that fact and compared anecdotes and stories of each other's 'Wayne's.

Hearing about Eddie's past and seeing him come out of it as such an incredible person had y/n in awe. Although the story was heart wrenching, she admired his strength and felt immense compassion and care for him. She felt safe with him, and knew that he wouldn't treat her differently after hearing what she had gone through. With a heavy sigh, she began sharing her story.

Prior to their divorce, y/n's father was abusive towards her and her mother. Claudia would often face the majority of it, but when she was out of the house, Oscar's attention would be redirected to his daughter. This went on up until the divorce, and began again when she was forced to move back with her father when he won the custody battle.

Whilst living with her father, she tried to keep busy away from home as much as she could, but this proved to be challenging as Oscar had set a strict curfew that unfortunately lined up with the peak time of his drinking. She would often come home to her intoxicated father, and would once again be met with his wrath. Sadly, she became quite good at making up lies for the markings on her body, and over time learned how to cover them up with the help of makeup.

The abuse and drinking seemed to let up a little after he met his second wife, a woman named Beverly who worked at a dental office. They spent the majority of their time together out of the house, leaving y/n to her own devices. Albeit her time alone did become rather lonesome, she preferred it over them being home. Her step mother never really took to her and didn't shy away from letting it known. Beverly would constantly torment her, the mental abuse taking it's toll over time. Her cruelness left a mark on y/n and with her father chiming in with further hurtful words, it eventually led to her first attempt.

She felt guilty, not wanting to subject her father to the grief that comes with losing a loved one but her inner demons overshadowed those feelings. While in the hospital, the guilt returned accompanied by immense sadness. She hoped that her father was doing alright and couldn't wait to see him again. That feeling went away mere seconds after stepping into her house upon being released from the hospital. She was met with a cold greeting, her weekly absence seemingly gone unnoticed by her father who hadn't bothered to visit her after the first day of her stay.

It appeared he had started drinking again. Empty liquor bottles littered their home and Beverly was no where in sight. The house felt cold and empty, there was trash on nearly every surface and a stale smell lingering in the air. Beverly liked to keep a clean home, the mess was an indicator that she hadn't been there for quite some time. Y/n tried to speak to her father, but all he could slur were hurtful words blaming her for his wife's departure. Apparently it was all too much for her to handle, an inconvenience to put it in her words. She refused to return to the home while y/n was still around and instead of defending his daughter, Oscar grew resentful of her.

His old pattern of abuse began once again, further pushing her to the edge. For years now, she had suffered through the mental, physical and emotional abuse at the hand of her father and his spouse. What little confidence she had was torn down further worsening her sense of self-worth. She had been reduced to a shell of a human and couldn't bare to feel this way anymore. The prior sense of guilt was gone, her second attempt was fueled by a deep longing for peace. She didn't want to hurt anymore. Her father's lack of responsiveness the first time also led her to believe that the world would be better off without her. Sure, a few of her friends would mourn, but she felt that as time went on, they would heal from the loss and soon forget.

The events of that night were what led to her extended stay, which proved to be beneficial for her. She hadn't spoken to her father in months, and quite frankly she had no desire to. Much like Eddie, she was content with his absence, accepting that not all broken relationships need to be mended. The truth is, she had found the peace that she was so desperately seeking. It wasn't the bitter ending she was hoping for but rather a shift in her life. A new beginning with better people, specifically the arrival of a 6 foot metal head.

_

Let me know what you think & if you’re interested in being on my tag list ♡

Tag list - @kik51199 , @ladyapplejackdnd , @motheraiya , @jqfan-oxa , @kaqua , @munsonzzgf , @haleighdriver , @thatlonelyalto , @ghoulsgraveyard , @sxpphicfxiry , @hellbaby237 , @grey-water-colors , @tubble-wubble , @moviefreak1205 , @piperd06 , @thats-s0-ravenn , @thegirlwhohides , @starryeyedkoko , @eddieshands86 , @xhorror-nerdx , @fandomsunited , @girlsvvish , @idkidkknemore , @chloe-6123 , @delusionalbabe , @sheneedsrocknroll92

[simurghed]

For the undersiders road trip thing. I think perhaps, if you'd like. You could include a moment where one of them casually drops a fucked up factoid about their life. like regent says some horrific shit he watched his dad do. And all of them just have to sit there and process that. in a cramped car. With creedence clearwater revival playing.

hmmm most of their lives r just a series of fucked up factoids so technically there will b that but i want it to stay silly .. so idk if they will all sit n process but aisha can 🤨 a few times