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luveline · 1 year

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𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Eddie goes home, you’re on tour, and the lines between you both continue to blur.

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Hawkins, Indiana, December 1990

Eddie listens to his walkman until it runs out of juice. Through the flight from California to Indianapolis, the hours-long bus ride that stops just short of Hawkins, and the final connecting bus on the outskirts. Some metalheads listen to strictly metal, but Eddie likes variety occasionally. Plus, he doesn’t think it’s possible to have ears and not love The Rolling Stones’ Some Girls.

He has one girl on his mind the entire journey home. He tries not to think about you. He makes himself sick shoving you down into a crevice of his heart, so he admits defeat. His fingers twitch, eager to write about you. He has some lyrics in mind. Evil wretched girl with wicked sweet hands. Heart eater. Soft around the edges.

He wants to write about your stupid chubby thighs and how they look in skirts. He wants to write about your wrists, your knees and their ever-present bruises. Metaphors for your sickly sweetness won’t stick; cruel becomes kind. Taunting turns teasing.

It feels like it’s eating him alive, spine first. You’re gnawing on his ribs as he hikes the half a mile from the bus stop into Forest Hills trailer park. He can feel your thumb rubbing makeup off of his cheek as he drags his suitcase up the metal steps to Wayne’s —Eddie’s— front door.

“Wayne?” he calls. It’s pitch fucking dark. He’s surprised he got all the way here without falling in some ditch. “Could you let me in? It’s freezing.”

He hears stirring from inside. He calls out again in case his uncle changes his mind. “Wayne, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s late. Please don’t leave me out here.”

He’s joking. Wayne would sooner shoot Eddie dead than put him in harm's way. He’s always been that kind of parent, hiding his deep rooted worry underneath a feigned reluctance. Footsteps shuffle and floorboards creak. The door opens between them, and Eddie shoves his suitcase and backpack inside without properly looking at his old man.

“Eddie, what the fuck, kid?”

“Sorry,” Eddie says, looking up. Wayne’s squinting at him. He’s wearing jeans with deep creases. He must’ve been sleeping in them. “I timed it all wrong. Started coming home and I didn’t think about it. I walked here, you know that?”

Wayne hugs him. Eddie isn’t expecting it. It’s not like Wayne isn’t affectionate, he doles out shoulder claps and hair ruffles like candy, but their hugs are usually one-armed back-slapping affairs. This is a loose encircling with a scratchy cheek against Eddie’s forehead.

“I’ve been worrying about you.”

Guilt sinks like a stone to the bottom of his stomach. Eddie kind of feels like he might puke. He wraps his arms around his uncle and breathes in his smell. Diesel and grease, sure, but so much louder than that is his mint and rosemary soap.

The weight of Wayne’s arms over Eddie’s shoulders is one of his favourite feelings. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it, but then… maybe he had.

He wants to tell Wayne there’s no need to worry, but he’s never been good at lying to him. “Think I might have fallen off the wagon, Wayne.”

“Well. Happens to all of us.” He pats Eddie’s back and steps away. He doesn’t look any older than the last time Eddie saw him. In fact, he looks good. Puffy-eyed but healthy. “I thought for sure I’d have to come track you down and drag you back for Christmas myself.”

Eddie locks the door and Wayne shuffles into the kitchen promising coffee and cake. He should protest, tell Wayne he can go back to bed and they’ll catch up in the morning, but he missed the small stuff like this, when he’d get home late from band practice or a midnight premiere of a sci-fi flick and his uncle would be sitting up waiting.

Eddie loves being home. There’s something to be said about living like the rich —he loves all the high ceilings and endless cushy carpeting— but nothing feels as good as coming home. His room is exactly how he left it minus a few ashtrays and his super unsecret pot stash. The poster wallpaper and the cheap paint. His raggedy bedspread and the corners tucked in haphazardly by tired hands. Eddie resists the want to dive under the covers and slide into the dip in his mattress. He knows every box spring in that fucker, and he missed it.

Eddie drops his bags at the end of the bed. All the clothes in his suitcase smell like Coors Light, so he changes into rags he left behind, a too-big pair of plaid pyjamas that slip down his hips and a sleeveless Motörhead shirt. Maybe. The emblem is worn to nothing but black lines.

He follows the smell of coffee through the hallway and into the Munson kitchen, tightening the drawstrings of his pants as he goes, chin tucked to his chest. “I’m losing weight, Wayne, I’m like a fucking twig.”

“Don’t tell me that shit. God knows I taught you how to take care of yourself.”

“I’m stupid. I’m really stupid, actually.”

Wayne whacks the coffee maker. It whirs. “Pick a mug, son.”

“You been cleaning? I don’t wanna look down and see a spider in my cup.”

“Have you been cleaning?” Wayne asks.

“It’s insane how much I haven’t been cleaning.”

“Some things don’t change.”

“You fucker,” Eddie says, laughing up a storm as he picks out his favourite mug, the Garfield one with a big scratch down the left side.

“You fucker,” Wayne snaps back. “I should send you packing for the bad language alone.”

“They don’t make you clean your hotel rooms, Wayne, that’s the point of them.”

“I raised you better than that.”

“You did. I keep it classy, I swear, I just,” —Eddie sits down in his chair, watching Wayne stir in milk and sugar just the way he likes it, and feels more than sees as a familiar contentedness like a Gaussian film settles over their easy conversation— “don’t clean up after Gareth. He’s a monster.”

“Do me a favour, Eds. Try and be the best you can be, alright?”

He swallows. He purses his lips. A peculiar lump grows in his throat, but he bites it back and squares himself up. “Yeah. I will.” He thinks about all the parties and powders and girls. He’s never done any cruel shit to anybody and he’s a sweetheart with the ladies, but there are times when he’d known he was lying before he even said he’d call. He thinks about some of the shit he’s said to you and has to wipe his sweaty palms off on his shirt.

“I know we didn’t have shit when you were growing up,” Wayne says, not tearful or resentful, just honest as he passes Eddie his mug of coffee and sits down. “And all that money must feel good–”

“It’s not like that,” Eddie says.

“When I see my nephew on TV smashing up equipment worth more than his house–”

“I already told you on the phone it was an accident. And it wouldn’t be worth more than this if you actually cashed the cheques I send you. I know they aren’t bouncing.”

“I don’t want your money, Eddie,” Wayne says gently. It’s odd but not uncommon to hear him speak in such dulcet tones. “That’s not what I raised you for.”

“I know, you–” He cuts his insult off at the stem and scratches his head instead.

Eddie isn’t hankering for a tongue lashing tonight and his scalp is too itchy to focus. He hasn’t washed his hair in a week. It’s obvious just looking at him, curls weighed down and straightened out from the sheer grossness of it. “Shit, I’m disgusting,” he says.

“You’re gross,” Wayne agrees. “I’ll cash a cheque when the bank opens and get you a bottle of degreaser.”

Eddie hides his smile with a long sip of coffee. It’s hot and awful, ‘cause no matter how much love Wayne puts into it, dollar store coffee tastes like burnt grounds from the get go. Eddie missed it more than anything. Sometimes he’s in the back of the queasy tour bus or lying on the floor in his hotel room coming down off of something risky and all he can think about is Wayne’s coffee.

Wayne has a hard and fast rule about drugs: if it isn’t green, I don’t want you touching it. Eddie still remembers the gasket he blew when he found that little baggy of red and white pills shoved inside an altoids tin. He can’t imagine telling his uncle what he really meant when he said he fell off the wagon.

Hey, Uncle Wayne, I have this weird love-hate relationship with a girl I don’t really know, and I got caught up doing party drugs (unrelated to our relationship) until I got so high I blacked out, and when I woke up she was there and she was looking at me like you look at a bird with a broken wing, you know? Anyway, the memory of her face won’t leave me alone. It makes me feel like crying. So I haven’t touched anything in two weeks and I thought coming home for Christmas would make up for all the secrets I’m keeping, but now—

Now Eddie doesn’t know what he was thinking. He can’t tell Wayne any of that shit. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

Wayne would ask something like, It took a girl for you to realise drugs are bad news? And Eddie would say back, No, that’s not it, it wasn’t just her.

“I’m sooooo fucked,” Eddie says slowly, mildly, scrubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He drags his hands down his face and blinks against the burning he’s left in his wake.

“You’re not fucked, kid. Lemme cut you a slice of cake.”

Wayne cuts him a slice of cranberry coffee cake and Eddie eats it in two bites. Wayne makes him a burger after that. He doesn’t know what time it is, if it’s closer to night or morning, but Wayne doesn’t mention it until the burger’s gone and an alarm clock is ringing. Eddie watches his uncle truck into the living room and feels crestfallen though he doesn’t deserve to. Eddie hasn’t been home in months. He imagines Wayne alone at the kitchen table with an empty greasy plate waiting on him and wants to cry again.

Wayne returns in coveralls. He gets a good look at Eddie’s face and sighs, dropping a heavy hand into Eddie’s dark hair.

“It’ll be fine,” Wayne says.

I’m sorry, Eddie thinks. For being a bad kid.

He’d said that once. Wayne was sweeping up a smashed plate after a long shift and Eddie, thirteen and defeated with an ache where his mom should’ve been, had been trying to apologise. It had felt so crushing, that broken plate. The last straw. He’d had tears running down his pale cheeks, his hands in his hoodie pocket desperately grabbing at one another.

And when he’d said it, Wayne had just looked at him. On his knees with a brush, glass shards shining on the linoleum between them.

You think you’re a bad kid?

Wayne isn’t old and he definitely hadn’t been back then. Thirty something with a crying teenager and what felt like all the world's self-loathing crammed into a tiny kitchen. Eddie’s older now, and he knows how much Wayne gave up for him. Not just his bedroom, which had been relinquished with little more than a shoulder squeeze and five dollars for posters, but a life. Wayne could’ve done anything. Could’ve been a rockstar.

I ruin everything, he’d said. Teenage angst, maybe, but Eddie felt it in his bones.

You ain’t ruined anything.

He hadn’t known what to say so he’d cried, waiting for that nice heavy hand that tussles his hair and pats his back to finally strike out.

Eds, you’re not a bad kid. Said so quietly. With a steadiness that meant truth. You’re my kid. Could I make a bad kid?

And yeah, there had been a threshold of sincerity and they were passing it. It was the late 70’s. Boys really didn’t cry. At least, not in public. So Eddie wiped his snotty nose in his sleeve and laughed, and then he got on his knees to clean up.

“Try and sleep,” Wayne says now, older but unchanged otherwise. Still ridiculously forgiving of his not-so-young sprog. He looks at Eddie with his lips pressed together. Eddie wonders if he’s going to hug him again, but Wayne shakes his head. “Shower, you animal. I’ll be back early.”

Eddie sleeps. He showers. He washes his hair three times and doesn’t use conditioner so his curls don’t really curl but it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. He had a moment in the shower where he swore he remembered something you said to him when he was blackout on sniff cut with procaine and booze. Your voice tentative, the heat of your hand on his cheek. “Are you okay?”

He moans into his damp hands, limp hair hanging either side of his head and dripping into his pyjama pants. He can’t forgive his younger self for all the sleeveless shirts, not when Hawkins feels colder than the arctic circle and the window seal in the kitchen has been leaky for the last five years.

He thinks about going shopping, because no matter what Wayne says about degreaser, Eddie’s starting to realise that his uncle won’t be cashing any of the cheques he sent home, and if he wants Wayne taken care of he’s gonna have to do this shit himself, but he doesn’t know where his key is.

“I’m a fuck up,” he says, catching his eye in the mirror as he straightens out.

His reflection frowns at him.

He did manage to get Wayne some shit from California before he came home; a real brown leather jacket from the 60s with minimal wear, though if Wayne wears it is another thing entirely; a Roy Orbinson record that’s miraculously unwarped despite Eddie’s poor packing; more sweatshirts than his uncle could ever wear through. Eddie knows he’ll try.

There’s some other stuff. CD’s and a nice edition of War of the World’s. Whatever he could stuff in his backpack.

“Are you going home for Christmas?” you’d asked him.

He sat on the bottom step of a huge staircase and you the one above him. People walked around you without notice. Two rocks in a stream bed.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? You aren’t sure?”

He’d got stuck looking at your cheek, the soft curve of it and the highest point, where light like a small star had kissed you and turned his stomach, that’s how sick with envy he was.

“I get it,” you’d said, “things at home aren’t always easy.”

“Not that. My Uncle Wayne is my hero.”

“And you still don’t wanna go home?” you’d asked gently.

“It’s not about what I want.” He remembers this part in detail. He’d stopped looking at you, laying back against the stairs, each step digging into his back. The ceiling had been far away.

You’d inched into his frame of view, looking down at him with an expression unreadable to his mixed up head. You weren't quite smiling. He still isn’t sure what it meant.

“It is. That’s the whole point,” you’d said.

Eddie’s all memory this morning. The ones with Wayne had felt less memory and more story, because memory is unfaithful, and over time we start to break down on the details, putting want in place of fact. But your face hovering above his as the soft strands of your hair ghost against his jaw, all your glitters and the shiny pink sheen on your lips, that’s closer. He remembers how you smelled, and how your tongue peeked out to wet your lips uselessly between words.

Jet lag and the general feeling of you keeps him lethargic, but he cleans the house (and he’s always said house, even if some people don’t agree, it houses him, fuck you Jenny P from eighth grade grade) and makes dinner ready for Wayne when he gets home. He puts the radio on and tunes into Roller FM. When one of Godless’ songs comes on, he’s not surprised. He listens with his head lolled against the kitchen wall, eyes closed, and tries not to think about your fingers choking the neck of your bass guitar.

—

Indy Rock Centre, Indianapolis, January 1991

Whoever arranged the tour is a sadist. You can’t believe that a team of professionals sat around a long glossy table with their coffee cups and finger foods and thought, yeah, that will work. You feel like you’re being fucking yo-yo’d between states.

When you’d joined godless as a stand in for Millyanna, your dates had been plentiful but never as disorganised. Nothing compares to this shit. You wonder if going crazy is a sign of making it big, or if maybe you’re not cut out for all of this after all.

Jan 22, Kalamazoo, Missouri. Jan 23, Toledo, Ohio. Jan 25, Los Angeles, California. Jan 26, Philadelphia; Jan 28, Indiana, Jan 29, Wisconsin. February? Back in Missouri, back in Ohio, a couple more state dates and then bam — Canada. Don’t worry though, after a week in Canada, you’ll never guess where you’re playing.

Fucking Florida.

At least you aren’t alone in your torture. For starters, there’s Morgan, your singer, and Ananya, your drummer, who will also endure and suffer. Then there’s the roadies, the techies and the groupies. The opening acts. The managers, the assistants, the personal assistants, the boyfriends and girlfriends and wives and mistresses.

And what’s more, you're one of the hundreds of bands touring in North America this year. Maybe thousands. You certainly aren’t the first musician to have to suck it up and tough it out.

Still, you like to complain.

It’s your right, for dealing with Morgan. And also— you aren’t getting paid for the tour until after the tour is over, so really complaining is the wealth of the soul. You do get a weekly allowance, which is awesome and not something you were getting beforehand, working instead on an invoice. You’d play a show, you’d get paid for the show. This time you’re getting a flat rate at the end of the tour that’s been contractually agreed upon. It’s more money than you’ll ever know what to do with. One of the more shameful ways you waste time in your little bus bunk is trying to figure out where to put it.

I want a house, you think. A mortgage on a small, pretty house where the weather isn't too hot or too cold. And a puppy. Probably. Maybe a fish tank. I want a bed that spans from one wall to another and…

You wince. For a moment, you’d seen something stupid, a pale face hidden in the pillow across the way.

Two puppies, you think forcefully.

You’ve played four shows already this week. You have one tonight in Indy Rock Centre, and another tomorrow in Wisconsin. You got to stay in the warm, non-vibrating luxury of a hotel room last night, but tonight you have to play the show and get straight back on the bus.

“You’re gonna glare holes in her. What did she do?”

You stop your mindless staring and come back down to earth. Ananya’s smiling at you, thick eyebrows lifted in wait for your answering gossip. You’d been staring at Morgan where she’s sitting across the room in a plush armchair, cucumbers over her eyes and swarmed by makeup artists and hairstylists with a pedicurist at her feet.

Ananya does all her make up herself. You want to ask her to do yours, but you worry her messy sweetness won’t suit you. She overlines her already big lips with a sticky red-pink, giving her an effect of having just been kissed (a lot), and rings brown eyes with a slick black kohl.

“She hasn’t done anything. Yet. Today.”

“She has been a monster, hasn’t she?” she asks, sinking down into the couch with a sigh. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. Her curls are so healthy they bounce.

You hum your agreement and slide down with her. Touring again, Ananya has remembered how much it sucks to be alone without allies. Morgan gets especially volatile from the stress and close quarters. She’s nicer when you’re alone.

She’ll still ditch you at a moment's notice, but you get it. It’s like high school.

You miss Dornie.

It’s cruel to make a friend and suddenly lose them. You can’t help thinking he won’t want to be your friend again the next time you see him. It had been so nice… so peaceful, to know there was someone in your corner. Dornie doesn’t care how famous you are or how much money you’re making. He just wanted to make sure you got home safe and talk about old movies.

“I’m gonna go find something to drink,” you say.

Ananya nods. “Bring me back a coke?”

“Yeah.”

Morgan stops you on your way out with a foot in front of your legs. “Hey, killer, I gave one of your passes to a fan earlier. Is that cool?”

“Morgan, when have you ever cared about my opinion?”

“Ooh, meow,” she croons, taking a cucumber from her eye to squint at you. “What’s the matter, baby? I figured you weren’t using them.”

You smile at her. You can’t help yourself. She stopped hurting your feelings a long time ago. “You want a drink from the machine?”

“Sparkling water, serf.”

If you smudge her nail polish on the way past it isn’t your fault. It isn’t cool with you that she’s given away one of your passes, even though you ask your general manager Angel to give them out at the beginning of the show every night. It’s presumptuous! Normal people don’t do stuff like that without asking.

Serf…

Your nose wrinkles. The dressing room door closes at your back and you take a moment to recall where you’d seen the bank of vending machines in the maze of white hallways. Indy Rock Centre is one of the biggest venues in Indianapolis, and you’ve been here before countless times on the other side to see Black Sabbath, Metallica, The Stacey’s, Doorway to Cooperstown. It’s where all the biggest and best get to play. You wish they’d given you a map.

You can still walk around without getting recognised. You’re not a superstar, just a guitarist. You smile at people who smile at you and avoid the rest, dodging past black polo shorts wheeling equipment and busybody higher ups barking orders. Someone stands in a corner talking on a brick of a handheld phone. You stare at him for a bit. You’ll never get used to it, phones without wires. Next there’ll be TVs without satellites and electric guitars without amps.

The vending machine shines like a red beacon at the end of the hallway. You hurry to it, feeding the machine your crumpled per diem one dollar at a time. You get a coke for Ananya, sparkling water for Morgan. When it gets to your own drink, the machine starts to revolt. It spits your dollar out unsympathetically. You pull it from the mouth and flatten it against your thigh.

It doesn’t work again. You nibble your bottom lip. Dollar pulled taut between your two hands, you lift your knee and rub it against your stockings.

“Fucking fuck,” you whisper, watching in mild horror as the machine accepts and then rejects your dollar for a third time.

You tuck it back into your purse, a pretty leather thing that clasps shut and fits perfectly in the small pocket of your jacket. It’s your luck, but whatever. They’ll probably bring a couple of bottles of water to the dressing room in a bit. Maybe even a cocktail bar.

“Hey.”

Your internal monologue chokes. You question your senses for the split second it takes you to meet his eyes — baby browns, soft and flush with gorgeously long lashes. If there’s one thing about Eddie Munson, it’s that he has very sweet eyes. Not the kind you can replicate in daydreams.

He’s dressed like a bitch. You’re so sick of him. He has his jacket tied around his waist and his shirt has no sleeves, the alarmingly shapely stretch of his arms on full display. Black ink climbs the hills and ridges of his stark veins, his herd of bats jumping as he offers you a dollar.

You take it. You aren’t sure what to say, so you bask in the almost-silence, every nerve aflame as you feed the vending machine and click the button for your drink. Equipment cages rattle. Radios chirp. Your drink thinks from behind the red Coca Cola panel down into the bottom of the machine for collection.

“What’re you doing here?” you ask finally, squatting to grab your drink.

You stand, train your eyes on the floor, shove your drink under your arm, and crack open your purse to give him your defective dollar in exchange. He takes it without fanfare.

“Are you busy?” he asks.

Regrettably, no. The majority of soundcheck is done, and the show doesn’t start for hours. He gestures to the left and you follow, stupidly, with no idea where he’s leading you to and not a clue what he wants, leaving Morgan and Ananya’s drinks for whoever finds them. Eddie’s jeans aren’t as loose on his hips as they were the last time you saw him. His distracting arms are bigger, biceps like a taunt as he holds a door open for you. You take a breath as you pass him, but he doesn’t smell like anything. No sweat or cologne, no cigarette smoke.

“Is it mean if I say you look good with clean hair?” you ask, squinting in the sudden brightness.

He’s led you outside to the back of the venue. Your tour bus stands imposing at the end of the lot, surrounded by Godless branded vans and fancy cars. A truck beeps as it loads into the receiving area backward.

“Probably.”

“You do, though. Look good.”

“So people tell me.”

Fuck, you think. Fuck it. If he’s gonna be weird about it then you’re pulling the olive branch back in and snapping it in half.

The sky is white as snow. It hurts to look at, the sun like a steaming egg yolk covered in its own whites, thick clouds shielding her warmth. You pull the sides of your jacket together and button up, uninterested in catching a cold when the next six months of your life are planned down to the hour. Eddie puts his jacket on and zips it tight.

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asks.

“Why?”

He pushes his hands into his pockets. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he felt self conscious. “Why not?” he asks.

You nod. You and Eddie aren’t friends, but you aren’t not friends, either. You’re being cold because you’re seized with embarrassment, not because he deserves it. You have memories of his hand on your cheek, and a cherry stem between his teeth, and you don’t know what you said exactly but you know it hadn’t been amicable small talk. You hate him for knowing stuff about you that you’d wanted to keep secret, and you hate yourself more for telling him in the first place.

“I came home for Christmas. I’m back in Los Angeles tomorrow night.”

“That’s convenient,” you say.

“Just had to see you before I went,” he agrees. Deadpan humour is terrifying on him.

He ducks under a low tree branch and holds it away from your face. Together, you begin to walk down the street and into the city, over patched sidewalks and past brand new stores. The mom and pop shops of your childhood are mostly gone.

Conversations between you two have this odd oscillation between over familiarity and stilted nothings. You like over familiarity better, when you’re both prone to misunderstandings. You’d take snipping at one another over this strange quiet.

“Is it nice? Being home?” he asks finally.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’ve been here for what, a month now? I just got here, and it wasn’t to see the ‘rents.”

Eddie lifts his chin to the sky a touch. Molasses of sunlight seep through the clouds now, racing to caress his waved hair and high cheekbones. “It’s been awesome,” he says, his eyes closed. His voice like tree bark, uneven but tough. “Makes me wonder what I liked about L.A. so much.”

“All the free stuff,” you offer. “And free girls.”

“The girls aren’t free,” he protests.

“You aren’t getting free girls?” you ask.

“Are you?”

“Would that bother you?”

Close-lipped, his tongue pokes the skin under his bottom lip.

“You think stuff like that bothers me?” he asks.

“It bothers some people.”

Eddie isn’t meeting your eyes consistently, but you don’t think he’s lying when he says, “No, it wouldn’t bother me. But my Uncle Wayne would fucking kill me if he heard me agree that the women are free.”

“How progressive.”

He visually bites back a laugh. He looks up from his shoes and sees you smiling and it breaks him, his laugh sputtering out in bits and pieces. “Shit, I’m just trying to be an okay person.”

You concede, “Fine, the girls aren’t free. They’re just very happy to sleep with you for very little reward.”

“Some might say the reward was, you know, pleasure–”

“Ew–”

“Don’t be childish. What did you want me to say? The reward is a long night of rough and tumble fucking–”

“I liked pleasure better,” you interject. You dance around a huge crack in the sidewalk and pause as you and Eddie reach a crossing. “All night? Really?”

“Want me to prove it?”

“I don’t think you could, Munson.”

“I could…” He rests his hand between your shoulder blades. “But I don’t think we’re there yet.”

He encourages you to cross the street, weaving and winding between parked cars, moving cyclists, and a small family bulldozing passers-bys with a twin stroller. When you’ve crossed to the other side uninjured, his hand falls away. The heat of his palm lingers.

“Good observation.”

“You��re sarcastic today. Or is being on the road making you cranky?”

“Being on the road is definitely making me cranky. It fucking sucks, I forgot how badly it sucks, and I don’t get paid day to day like I used to.”

“Oh, you’re getting a flat rate now? Go you, superstar.” Your walk is more of a crawl, the two of you turned to the left side of the street where children shriek and giggle in the outdoor seating of a restaurant. Eddie stops. “How’s the allowance?”

“You get one of those too?”

Eddie bumps his elbow into yours. “We’re kids. They know it. It’s pretty shitty considering how much money they make off of us in the end, but that’s an asshole thing to say, right? We’re lucky.”

You roll your shoulders. He’s more than right. Coming from nothing, a small town, with no college degree and no rich parents to float you, Eddie’s right. You might have talent and you might work hard but so do a lot of other people, and you’re here, and they’re working for minimum wage back home still hoping.

You wish every kid like you could get to where you are, but they won’t. You’re more than lucky. You should buy a scratcher.

“We’re fucking lucky,” Eddie says slowly. “And it’s awful anyways.” He grins. “Come to dinner with me?”

You blink. “What?”

“Dinner? I’ve been there before,” —he points to the restaurant you’d stopped across from— “and it’s nice.”

You’re insane and you agree. It’s not too fancy to feel like you’re on a date from the outside, and once you’re indoors you feel relaxed. With a glass of cider in your hands you feel positively giddy.

Eddie slouches back into a velvet booth seat that might’ve once been red. He keeps the jacket on and you’re grateful for it, lest you see his stupid nice arms and turn ditzy. His nose twitches as looks out over the restaurant floor toward the kitchen visible through a long window. It’s warm but not stuffy in here, the air fragrant with browning butter and minced garlic.

The menus are sticky. You pretend to pour over one, not knowing what to say to break the silence.

“I know I said you were being sarcastic,” Eddie says, “but I think I meant quiet. Even when you sound annoyed, I can barely hear you.”

“That’s dramatic,” you murmur, proving his point.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Well, in what way?”

“What way feels wrong to you?” he asks.

Trapped. You sip your cold cider. He raps his knuckles against the table. “Come on, what have you got to lose? What did you say to me before?” His eyes soften. “Nobody would believe me if I told them.”

You tap your glass with your thumbnail.

“I’m okay,” you say honestly. “Most of the time, I feel fine. Or, I forget what’s wrong.”

Eddie flicks his own glass. “Is this about feeling like nothing?”

“I don’t know why I told you that.”

“I have one of those faces.”

“And you were feeding me booze.”

“Don’t say that. You make it sound so shitty.”

“It wasn’t shitty,” you say. “Free drinks, right? What’s shitty about letting a pretty guy pay for you?”

“You think I’m pretty?” he asks.

You kick him under the table. You don’t know what comes over you, shy at your own honesty and irritated with his ridiculousness. I let you kiss me, you want to say. I’d let you do worse. Of course I think you’re pretty. You aren’t cruel — it’s more of a shove with the toe of your shoe. Eddie laughs through a gasp and kicks you back, heel of his converse flat to your calf.

“You fucking–”

“Sweetheart?” he finishes.

“No, fuck you. You string me around with your hot and cold act and now you’re coming to my shows taking me to dinner,” —your voice stiffens, thickens, as you glare at him from across the table— “asking me how I’m doing? And I’m the one who has to explain themselves? You tell me, Munson. Do I think that you’re pretty?”

Eddie’s sort of frozen, like a laugh got stuck in his throat and he really is surprised by your sudden anger. You might feel surprised yourself if you had the wherewithal. As it stands, your irritation and your want for an answer is too much.

He hits the toe of his shoe into yours. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry. I’m not… trying to string you around.”

He doesn’t say anything else. You deflate, ashamed of your sudden outburst. Tired of all the games.

“I think you’re pretty,” he says.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what I’ve been trying to say.”

The food arrives and saves him. You want him to explain —you want him to expand, needily, on what he means and how much he means it— and he clearly doesn’t. He grabs his fork and starts shovelling pasta into his mouth like it’ll magically turn the conversation to something more palatable for him.

“I’d like to change my answer,” you say.

Eddie swallows harshly. “Can’t. All compliments have been locked in. Maybe at our next cat fight.”

—

Eddie’s heart isn’t pounding like he worried it might when he asked you to follow him into the bathroom. He pictured sweaty, shaking palms, his hands hesitant, a reminiscent picture of a past self who didn’t know how to make girls make noise. He thought the next time he was alone with you, it would be the tragic scene from the movies where the boy bears his heart and the girl can’t accept it. He’s not expecting you to understand. It’s getting to the point where the mean shit he said to you isn’t made up of words anymore but the image of you in the Prover Theatre with your sparkling dress and your dull eyes. He hates that he made you feel that way, and he should say sorry. He feels fucking sorry.

“Don’t cut me,” you say, quiet so you won’t be caught together.

“I won’t.”

“When was the last time you did this?”

“It’s like riding a bike,” he insists. “I haven’t forgotten.”

You simper. Propped up on the sink’s counter, your skirt hiking up your thighs (imagine him covering his face with his hands, rocking his head from side to side, you’re wearing garters) and your jacket falling into the basin. You’ve turned one arm toward him trustingly, but apprehension plays clear as day over your mouth. He wants to remark that your mouth is pretty, but it’s not the right word. Perfect feels closer, but again, it’s not what he wants. He has a fascination with how you talk and when you don’t, how your lips have a mind of their own sometimes, nibbled and popped and pouting.

“It’s easier if you take your shirt off.”

“How many girls believed that one?” you ask happily. He’s ecstatic. Dinner perked you up and now you’re all smiles and warm laughs. He doesn’t know why you’d been angry with him (he does) because you started it (not really), but you got something off your chest at least.

“None,” he says. “I’m serious that it’s easier. But you really don’t have to take it off for me to make it look good.”

Eddie wields his small pen knife toward your arm.

“I like my sleeves,” you say as he takes the hem of one such sleeve into his free hand.

“Don’t be a baby.” He pulls it taut from your skin. You’re both smiling. Carbs are good like that.

“I have fat arms,” you try.

He’s out of his mind. Eddie leans down and kisses the top of your arm quickly. “Shut up,” he says.

He doesn’t have time to think about what he’s done. It’ll torture him tonight when all he has for distraction are hotel sheets, and then tomorrow on the red eye back to L.A. He honestly doesn’t wanna look at you because if your nose is even slightly wrinkled he’ll have to turn to the gross toilet in the corner and chuck up, but he also doesn't want to freak you out. He looks up at you from under his lashes.

You look flustered.

Not disgusted.

“I’m doing it,” he warns.

“Yeah,” you say, nearly normal. “Fine. Make me look cool.”

“You admit that I look cool.”

“No.”

Eddie digs the tip of his pen knife into your sleeve and starts pulling. The fabric tears away in a jagged-lined but even circle around your arm, broadening a tantalising stretch. His stomach hurts a bit. To reach your second arm, the one furthest from him, he has to take up station between your spread legs. Or maybe he doesn’t have to, but he does, your thighs like two warm spots either side of him as he leans in close.

“And this is what’s gonna make them all like me, right? This is the cement of my street cred?”

“Your street cred? No. And I don’t think anything you do could make them like you.” You lean back at his words. He pulls you back in, fingers braceleting your arm as he fakes taking a measurement. “If they don’t like you already, they won’t. Not your fault, not your problem. Who says you even like them?”

“I do, though. That’s my problem. I even like Little Miss Fleetwood,” you grumble.

He raises his eyebrows to show he’s listening, stabbing at your sleeve and tearing slow. “She still tripping you up?”

“No. I’m just trying to make you laugh.”

He laughs under his breath. “Mission accomplished, baby,” he murmurs.

Both sleeves sliced, Eddie steps away from you, ignoring the heat in his stomach to take you in. People who don’t know where they stand shouldn’t be so close to one another, he decides, ‘cause wishful thinking has him marking your hands as wanting. Your fingers move slowly as if through water, tip of your index on the left hand stroking down the back of your right marriage. Eddie pins salaciousness on everybody he meets —coke is falling out of fashion fast but sex is always in— but he can’t get a faithful read on you now. He wants you to want to be kissed. Doesn’t trust that you do.

“You look edgy.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” you ask.

“An awful way.”

You go quiet, your hands go still. You raise your head until it’s too much, and he realises he’s been moving back in. He drops the penknife in the sink on top of your jacket, putting his hand on your freshly bared arm and bunching the sleeve up as much as he can without it pulling at you. He’s greedy and he wants to palm at your skin like an asshole, that’s not your problem.

“That bad?” you ask.

He angles his face over yours. He needs two inches maybe three, and you’d be kissing. His hand falls down your arm to your elbow, clasping weakly over your skin.

“No,” he says. He can barely hear himself.

Greedy. His second hand comes up to your face, waiting, and when you lift your jaw just so he slots his hand under it and holds you.

“What are we doing?” you whisper.

What are ‘we’ doing?

“Nothing you don’t want to do.” He widens the gap between you.

“I know– I know that.” Your arm ventured forward, fingers twisting around the hem of his shirt. You tug it gently, pulling him forward again. “I just don’t understand it. You. I don’t get what’s happening, Eddie.”

“Well… I was going to kiss you.” Eddie fights to sound the way he feels, out of his element but so earnest his chest aches. “I really, really… want to kiss you.”

It doesn’t feel like admitting defeat, as he’d initially thought it might. Neither does it feel confessional. You can’t confess to a secret already known.

He kisses you just once. A light brush of his lips against yours. Anymore than that and he knows he’ll start making promises like someone who has room for them. His eyes scrunch closed hard and he struggles not to squeeze your poor cheek as the pressure of your lips builds, as they part, as he pulls back and you chase him. He can’t kiss your mouth anymore than that, but your hands are grabbing at him, pleading and twitching and cold against the searing skin of his abdomen as they search underneath his shirt. Eddie feels the soft curve of your hip under his hand, knowing he can’t fuck you here, and undecided on whether that’ll be his ruin or his saviour.

You shudder as he kisses down. His hands are hungry but his mouth is sweet, gentle like you deserve as he noses down the column of your throat.

“I don’t get you,” you say, your fingertips sewn into his hair, scratching over his scalp lightly. Your breath catches as he parts his lips. His teeth scratch over the damp crescents of previous kisses.

He loses himself in the ticklish feeling of your hand and the heat of your skin. “Hm?” he hums.

“I understood you better when I thought you didn’t like me.”

He kisses up to the soft crook of your jaw before edging you away, just enough to see the sad set of your eyes.

“Hey,” he says, utters, like you’re trading secrets. His thumb rubs your cheek, a rough touch. He’s never been much good at aligning his words with actions; his heart and his hands.

He doesn’t know what to do to fix your sad frown. He kisses you again in case that’s what you wanted but couldn’t say, and it works for a handful of blessed, wretched seconds. You kiss back hard. Eddie has to break it to take a breath.

You rest your forehead against his. It slides slowly to his nose, and eventually you’ve bowed your head, your hands slipping down to his elbows.

“I feel sick all the time,” you say. Your hands flex against his skin. “The only time I feel alright is when I’m playing– when I’m making something.” You press your head to his chest. “Or when I’m with you.”

Eddie thinks of all the shitty decisions he’s made. His restlessness, his bad attitude. His propensity to assume the worst. How he’d taken your thumb rubbing a smudge off of his cheek in the Prover Theatre as a jab, rather than a helping hand.

He wraps his arms around you.

Your head fits under his rather well.

“I know what you mean,” he says. And out of everything he’s told you today, that’s the hardest to say aloud.

Eddie hugs you in the dim light of that dingy bathroom knowing he’s running on borrowed time. All too soon, you’re pulling apart and he’s helping you off of the counter unnecessarily. You don’t hold hands on the way back to Wings Stadium. He thought you might. You’re quiet. He tries to cheer you up, feeling more and more like he’s done something wrong the closer you get to the venue.

He doesn’t have anything to offer. You’re both on tour now. He doesn’t have a clue when he’ll see you next, or what he’ll say when he does.

Miraculously, he gets you back to your dressing room. He gives your cheek a quick squeeze.

“Play well tonight,” he says.

“I always play well.”

You do. He watches you from the VIP section a couple of hours later, impressed. Mildly nauseous. His thumb worries the edge of the pass until it splits in his hand, paper coming apart from cardboard. Your singer might be a handful, but she knows when to be discreet. He slinks out before your set finishes through a side entrance, and his head races with your image. If it weren’t for your cut sleeves and the flank of your upper arm glowing under the stage lights, he’d put his kisses down to surreal delusion.

Eddie doesn’t notice the lone photographer hiding in the eaves.

The photographer notices him.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

!!! thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging, it helps so much! Let me know what you thought, what bits you liked and what you want to see next

can you feel another spat coming along 0.0 I honestly had so much fun writing this one especially the scene with Wayne and then the end scene in the bathroom <3 it’s always crazy to see hours and hours condensed into chapters like this but idc I’m having the time of my life and hope u guys r too! the word count is now at a solid 26k I believe though so it does feel rewarding in that way

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #stranger things fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie munson x reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson angst

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xhoneygirlxx · 7 months

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Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince

Steve Harrington x Reader

summary: The cheerleading and boy's basketball coaches are the talk of Hawkins High. When they can't seem to put two and two together, the students have to take matter into their own hands to get the pair together.

warnings: fluff. Steve and reader are both in their 20s. gender/body size/ethnicity are not discussed (the name of the fic was simply picked based off of one line). a little cameo from our favorite metal head. a bit sappy but who cares. idiots in love. we stan the students in this fic, they were doin god's work frfr. also modern au! spelling errors/shitty writing, i'm sick so forgive me for any mistakes lmao.

*if i miss anything please let me know*

a/n: As we all know, today would have been the last day of Honey's birthday bash. That was the plan my friends but bc of party festivities, hangovers, and now a bad cold, we are now behind on schedule. Thank you all for hanging in there with me :) I hope you all enjoy this, love you bunches!

The whole school is rolling fake dice.

Whispers traveled through the echo chamber hallways, bets being placed with the shaking of hands, and gossip being passed back and forth in the lunchroom like a breadbasket at dinner. All anyone could talk about was the two coaches that were blind to their own attraction to one another.

Unbeknownst to you and Steve, you guys were in the middle of a storm of circulating rumors since the beginning of the season. From the moment you two met all hell broke loose, a wildfire spreading through the classrooms of the school.

Everyone could see how much you liked each other, it was so clear like the scoreboard that shined brightly in the gym, except for you. The perfect love story, the cheerleader and jock, it was bound to happen sooner or later.

It started as a game between the cheerleaders and the basketball players, betting on who would break first and finally make it official. Soon it became a game amongst the rest of the student body, all of them biting at their nails and crossing their fingers in the hope that one of you would crack.

To everyone's disappointment, neither of you ever did. It was exhausting watching the two of you dance around your clear feelings for one another. The two of you tried to play it cool, act like any of the accusations were just that, accusations. But it was there, bright as day, on display for the whole world to see.

It was in the way your eyes would find each other's in a crowded room, feather light touches that would linger for way too long, shy smiles and rosy cheeks. The way you talked to one another was anything but two people who worked together. It was teasing, flirty, and breathless any time you talked.

There was a big wager for this whole thing, which team would win the biggest check and which one would have to fork over all the money. The cheerleaders and half of the school had their money on Steve, his reputation as a ladies man helping them with their decision. The basketball team and the other half of the school bet on you, knowing you were more outspoken then he is.

Now it's been months since the bets were placed but neither of you finally crossed over the line from friends to lovers. So the cheerleaders did what they do best, they rallied everyone on their side, made a plan that would guarantee their win.

Winter formal was only a week away, both of you were sure to chaperone without a date. So the cheerleaders got to work, making sure their plan would be executed flawlessly.

Phase #1: Plant the seeds

Two loud knocks against the heavy wood door of Steve's office bring him out of his computer screen. Shouting a come in, he's met with the sight of the student council president, Lauren McPhee who holds a white paper.

"Sorry to bother you but I need this form filled out for the dance next week!" She's too chipper for a Monday morning, smiling brightly like the sun that hangs in the cold December sky.

"Oh yeah, let me just get a pen." Wheeling back on his desk chair, Steve begins to pat his shirt while looking around at his cluttered desk for the writing instrument.

Once he snatches the ballpoint pen from under the stack of papers, Steve grabs the flimsy sheet from Lauren's hand and scribbles down his signature on every empty line.

"Alrighty, there you go." With a tight lipped smile, he hands it back to the nice girl.

Steve watches as her eyes flit over the paper, flipping it front to back to make sure everything is filled out properly. When her features twist in confusion he can't help but wonder why.

"Everything look good?" He questions and she shakes her head while still reading over the curled letters of his name.

"Y-yeah, it's just," pulling her lip between her teeth, Lauren begins to chew on it anxiously, "the section for your date has been left blank. Excuse me if I'm crossing a line here, coach, but you're not bringing a date?"

Her voice is sympathetic, lips pulled into a deep from and her eyes sparkling with pity as she looks at the older man. Steve isn't sure why she seems so upset about him going alone or why it would be a problem, but when she looks at him like a dog that's been kicked he feels the need to answer.

"Oh, well I don't really have anyone to take. Plus it's more important for me to be paying attention to the punch bowl to make sure no asshole- I mean jerk, spikes it." With a forced laugh, he waits to see if his answer is enough to suffice the girl's curiosity.

"O-oh that makes sense I guess, I just though maybe you and the cheerleading coach would go together. You know cause they're also going alone and from what they told me, they never been to their winter formal before." Shrugging, the girl moves her sights from him back to the paper.

"They told you that?" Steve's answer is met with a hesitant nod from the girl. "I-I didn't know that." He breathes.

"At least they'll finally be able to go, right?" Again she shrugs, pulling a folder from her bag to put the paper away.

"Wait!" It comes out louder than he expected, cringing slightly at his volume. "Can I hold onto that and then had it in later?"

"Sure! I'll be back on Wednesday." A sunny smile shines at him, the white paper being passed back to him. "See you then, coach."

Waving him goodbye, Lauren shuts the door behind her where the cheerleaders wait for her. With a singular thumbs up, they begin to jump with joy only for a moment before moving on to phase two.

Phase #2: Destroy the band room

Now destruction of school property was not something any student was willing to get written up for, but with the help of an adult maybe they wouldn't have to.

Mr. Munson was the band instructor and drama teacher, as well as Steve Harrington's right hand man. Before he was an educator, Eddie Munson menaced these halls for many years. Before getting his act together and after he quit selling weed to the students in the woods, he worked as an apprentice for a while, following a plumber around for months while he went to college for education.

"Mr. Munson come on, don't you want to see your bestie finally get a happy ending?" Karissa Thomas batted her eyelashes at him as she begged for his help.

"I don't know guys, I could get into a lot of trouble." Rubbing his forehead, Eddie sighs as he weighs out his options in his head.

"Think of it this way, you can finally give principle Higgins the finger. At least metaphorically." Anthony Whitmer adds.

"Plus, we'll give you some of the profits." Mark, another band kid pleads from the group.

Eddie leans against his desk wide eyed, smirking slightly at his band students. Who knew they would be so devious.

"Fuck it, I'm in." The group before him shout in victory while Eddie laughs devilishly. Somethings never changes, he thinks.

So this morning when he arrived at school, Eddie made sure that no one was around when he began fucking with the pipes. After about twenty minutes and sore upper arms, he finally succeeds by springing a leak.

When he reported the leak to principle Higgins, he was met with a side eye before getting the approval of the gym slot after school, which meant you and your team would be forced to share with Harrington and his team until it got fixed.

Phase #3: Offer planning services to coach Harrington

Now to bring this whole plan together, cheer captains Dan Morrison and Amber Hall needed to be in the same place at the same time as Steve Harrington. The only problem was his office and where he usually occupied the most was the east wing of the school. The east wing was the closest to his office and it was the least traveled hallways out of the whole school.

That meant they needed to make it look like they were that way for a reason. Luckily for them, the art room was also in the east wing, so they would make it look like they were grabbing poster boards for last minute winter formal posters.

Lunch time was the best time to put this into motion, so the minute the 11:50 bell rang, Dan and Amber sprinted to the east wing in the hopes they would catch him.

After rummaging around for glitter, markers, and poster boards, the two waited at the door, peaking over the frame in the hopes to catch the older man. When the door of his office opened, the two seniors began to walk out of the room talking about random things to not make it look so obvious.

In the hopes of sparking a conversation with him, Amber dropped the container of markers causing colorful pens to fall all over the hard floor.

"Amber, I told you not to drop them!" Dan laughs, putting the white posters to the floor in order to pick up the rolling markers.

"You made me laugh!" The girl argues back, laughing loudly as she crouches to help.

"I didn't even do anything." He replies, making the girl laugh even harder at his comment.

The echo of Steve's heavy footsteps could be heard by both teenagers, but they ignore it so he wouldn't catch on.

"You guys cool?" Steve asks, crouching down to help pick up what fell.

"H-hi coach," Amber greets, catching her breath from her heavy laughter, "We're okay, Dan just made me drop these."

The boy in question huffs and rolls his eyes playfully, continuing his actions of gathering the rest of what's on the floor.

"So what are you guys doing with all this, anyway?" Steve asks, pushing off on his knees to stand.

"Oh, just last minute posters for the dance." Dan says nonchalantly as he gathers his pile of supplies.

"You're going, right?" The young girl asks and Steve responds with a small sigh, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah I'll be there." Nodding his head, the man places his hands on his hips looking at the two kids in front of him.

"That's fun! Are you bringing a date?" Amber wiggles her eyebrows.

Shoving her playfully, Dan looks at her with a gasp. "Oh my gosh, Amber you can't just ask that. Sorry, coach." Doing his best to look sympathetic, Dan offers his best smile to the older man.

"It's okay, Dan," Steve places a hand out, looking at the brown haired boy, "Actually, I was wondering if you guys could help me with that."

"Sure!" The cheerleaders agree in unison.

"Let's talk about this in my office." Pointing a thumb to the end of the hall, spinning of the ball of his foot to lead the way.

Steve defiantly doesn't see how bright both of the teen's smiles are from where they walk behind him and he surely doesn't see them giving each other a high five.

Phase #4: Get you to go to the parking lot before practice

This phase was probably the hardest of them all. You were very keen on punctuality, always the first to be at the building to make sure everything was set up. Now that you'd be sharing the gym with the basketball team, you were more than likely to be there a whole lot earlier than usual.

Now this is where the most important players come in, Lauren Hernandez and Simon Carter. The two freshmen were bright stars at Hawkins High, the leading members of the mathletes and very trust worthy students.

When this whole plan started it was known that they'd need someone who was convincing to divert your attention, so the two meek students volunteered without a second thought. The amount of money they'd win if coach Harrington made the first move was way more important than credibility at this point.

When they spotted you coming through the outside gym door, the two kids began to put on their show. Rushing through the two gymnasium doors, Lauren and Simon pant acting as if they ran a mile.

"C-coah, we need-" Simon bends over, bracing his hands on his knees while breathing heavily, "We need your help!"

You immediately drop your bags, sprinting over to the two youths. Worry is written all over your face, eyes immediately checking for any visible injuries on them.

"I-is everything okay? What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Placing a hand on your chest, you wait for them to catch their breath.

"There's a fight outside. Max Newman and Devon Lewis are fighting in the parking lot." Lauren rushes out, eyes wide and glassy under the gym lights.

You're more than shocked at the news, the two boys have been great friends the whole time you've coached them. In a flash, you urge both kids to get coach Harrington from his office while you break up the fight.

What you don't know is neither Simon or Lauren have to get him, waiting until the slam of the heavy gym door both run after you to make sure they don't miss a single moment.

Rushing through the entrance doors, the cold winter chill instantly hits you but you don't pay too much attention to it when there isn't a fight happening.

When you walk outside, you see your team of cheerleaders lined up on both sides of the steps, a red rose in each hand. As you walk, they hand them to you, bright smiles on each of their faces when they do.

You can't speak with the amount of confusion that runs through your brain. Even though you want to ask them what all of this is about, you just let your feet carry you out into the parking lot.

You jump slightly when you hear Wildest Dreams being play, the only difference is the band kids stand off to the side with their instruments. Giggling slightly, you imagine Eddie Munson teaching his kids a Taylor Swift song but Bridgerton style.

With a bundle of roses in hand, you continue out into the snow covered parking lot. Under the street lights you see him standing with his hands in his pockets. Behind him stands some of the drama kids, holding big white posters. Taking a moment to read the blue and silver lettering, you gasp when it finally hits you.

F O R M A L ?

Tears prick your eyes and not just because of the cold winter wind. The thought and dedication that went into this must've taken so much (more than both of you even realize), you're heart beaming with the thought of Steve putting this together.

"So what do you say, coach? Will you do me the honors of being my date to the dance?" Steve's cheeks are red and his teeth glimmer under the florescent lights.

You can't help but let more tears fall, all of the pining and wishing finally coming true under the darken sky, right where the two of you first met. It feels too good too be true, a real life fairytale happening in real time.

"Of course I will." It comes out loud enough for only him to hear, the two of you looking at each other in adoration.

In a split moment, Steve's strong hands pull you in and wrap you in the tightest hug, something you dreamt of all this time. Even in the cold temperatures, his body heat, his touch holds the heat of a thousand suns.

The roaring cheer of all of those around you, besides the band who continue to play, fills the open air. You and Steve are so wrapped up in each other you don't even notice the flash of the camera, Andrew Johnson of the yearbook committee getting multiple shots of the whole thing.

Pulling back enough to look at one another, you smile brightly up at him. Steve looks so pretty like this, cherry nose, snow flurries collecting in his eyelashes and hair, and a smile so sweet it could rot your teeth.

"I can't believe you did all of this." You say with a laugh, shaking your head in amazement.

Chuckling slightly, he looks down bashfully at you. "Yeah well, I had some help." The two of your look all around the parking lot where multiple students stand, all from different clubs, groups, and social brackets beam and cheer for the two of you.

The two of you turn back to one another, gooey looks on both of your faces and love filling your eyes. "Who would've thought." You say breathlessly and he agrees.

"Can I kiss you?" It's breathless and hopeful when Steve says it, and you're answer is just as breathless.

Connecting his lips to yours felt like two puzzle pieces fitting together, it's feels like home, and it feels right. Like a snow globe, you and Steve are frozen for just a moment under the December snow.

I hope you all enjoy! Love you all <3

#steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington blurb #honey's birthday bash #honey's holiday celebrations

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phyrestartr · 6 months

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Till Death Do Us Part (Miguel x Reader)

Miguel x Husband!Reader W/C: 9.5k

#NSFW, exhibitionist kink, praise kink, hurt/comfort, infidelity, toxic relationships, brief verbal abuse, mending relationships, mentions of medication, mentions of mental illness, difficult/complex feelings and emotions, things work out in the end, nobody dies, the zombies aren't that important, old men just really going through it

Note: I cried a lot writing this lol please also cry and enjoy! (I also tried my best with the Spanish and tried to reference good sources, but I apologize if it sounds whack lol I only know EN and JP o(--( )

-- Till Death Do Us Part --

"(Name), where the fuck are you?" Miguel ran his hand through his hair as he watched the news, as he stared outside at the cascade of chaos. He waited for you to pick up the phone. He'd already called so many times, but you weren't picking up. Why weren't you fucking picking up?

"Miguel, he's probably fine," Dana cooed as her arms looped around him from behind. "You need to worry about what we're gonna do."

Miguel shook his head and shoved Dana's arms off of him. "Our daughter–Gabriella–"

"You mean our daughter?" Her tone was vile. So, so fucking vile.

"Shut up," Miguel barked before ripping the phone from his ear when your voicemail picked up again. He shot you another text, asking where you were before his fidgety fingers scrolled the log up and down, cruelly reminding himself of the messages he'd ignored from you just a few days ago.

November 18th 7:04am babe come home 7:04am please 12:19pm we can talk about it 12:20pm we'll figure it out 12:46pm gabi misses you 9:34pm call me tomorrow

November 19th 7:35am you still ignoring me? 7:40am gabi wants to call you 7:41am you gonna answer if it's her? 8:05am i'll tell her you're busy with work 9:50pm i miss you

November 21st 9:56pm call me

November 23rd 12:01am i shot someone 12:01am i had to 12:01am but i can't stop thinking about it 12:32am i need you 1:12am please 2:07am miguel

November 30th 7:16am miggs shit's crazy outside 7:17am lock the doors, don't let anyone inside 7:17am maybe stock up on food first idk this might take a while 7:18am but DON'T help anyone who's bit or injured 7:19am they evacuated gabi's school but i don't fucking know where they're going 7:19am i'm gonna find her, i promise 7:20am i love you. stay safe.

December 2nd 3:05am i love you 3:06am i'm sorry

Miguel rubbed his eyes. He sped past his own wall of text starting from that day, December 3rd, and sent another plea, another wish that you'd respond back sooner than a week from now.

"Oh my God, just give it up–"

"Dana, shut the fuck up, just shut up."

He called you again.

And this time, you answered.

Miguel's heart jumped. "(Name)?"

"Babe?" You sounded like you were panting, like you were straining against something. "Are–are you okay? Where are you?" A string of coughs punched out of your lungs in rough staccato, pinching Miguel's nerves with every ghastly beat. He was scared. He was so fucking scared.

"I--I'm," Miguel stammered, still unable to have that conversation, still too much of a coward in the end. "Does it matter?"

"Just keep the doors locked," you continued. "Keep 'em locked, and…and I dunno if you're in a tower or a house or fucking whatever, but don't leave until things get quiet." You picked yourself up from the ground, Miguel could tell by the scratch of gravel echoing wherever you were. "Don't get bit. Don't help anyone who is bit. Put yourselves first."

"But, I–you–do you have Gabi?" Panic gripped his throat as jets flew overhead, high above the city. The engines roared a gruesome apology, a sound Ouranos himself must have made when his own children slew him, so filled with godly enmity.

Then, molten death rained on the city. Miguel stared at roaring explosions dotting the cityscape, watching pillars of flame feed into the world's chaos. His hands trembled when the same carnage screeched through your phone.

"I'll find her. I-I promise, Miguel, I'll find her and--and I'll–shit."

There was gunfire. Gunfire encased in wild snarling. It devoured the crack of plastic hitting concrete, the noises you gasped out, the–

Silence.

Miguel hated his mind. He hated how it remembered that one moment so clearly, like it'd happened just a minute before the present. Sometimes, when he felt like torturing himself more, he wondered what your face looked like in those last moments. He wondered where your life flickered out. He wondered when he'd see you stumbling through the streets and have to put a bullet in your head.

But he'd force good memories to the surface when he found the light growing too dim; that confession and first kiss, starry nights spent lazing on the hood of your jeep, the look on your face when you finally held little Gabriella for the first time–it all chased away the darkness. It all made him feel whole again, it let him see clearly again. But with clarity came the difficulty of accepting what he'd lost.

He found a way to do it. He found a way to talk about you, too. It was hard not to–your old colleagues, other officers of the lost world, were an integral part of the Alchemax colony. Jeff Morales and George Stacy, amongst a few others, had known you, and by proxy they knew Miguel.

"He was a good guy," Jeff had mentioned when the moment felt right. "Bragged about having the best-looking and smartest partner around. Now, I ain't gonna say he was right, but he wasn't wrong." That brought warmth to Miguel's chest, but guilt smothered it too quickly.

"Never stopped talking about your daughter either." George smiled when he recalled it, but it was something small and morose. "Gabriella, right? Yeah, he said she was a smart cookie. Kind of a brat, apparently, but hey, with that guy as her father? Hah! I'm not surprised."

Miguel liked having them around. He liked the happy memories they brought to your name.

But on bad days, vulnerable days, Miguel wanted to break their necks and watch them turn so he could kill them again in their undeath; they still had their children, their families. How could they bring up what he'd lost while they still had everything?

Today was one of those days, too, one where your memory hurt just a little more than usual. Maybe it came with the snow whirling in the blue-drenched outdoors, or the sudden darkness the world lost itself in. But he knew the frostbite decaying his heart came from the eternal proof of your lost existence:

December 2nd 3:05am i love you 3:06am i'm sorry

Why did you apologize? Miguel sighed, and carded a hand through his hair as he paced Alchemax's halls. Enough of that, Miguel. You need to focus. Focus.

And once he stepped foot in the control room, the routine morning check commenced: doors remained sealed with no record of tampering, security cameras still functioned, the solar panels still collected more than enough light to keep things rolling. Good. Perfect.

"Hey, hey, how's it lookin'?" Peter asked, a cup of coffee in one hand and his little girl tucked in the other arm. It would've been a wholesome sight, if Peter hadn't ruined it with a too-loud slurp from his mug. Ugh.

"Fine," Miguel grumbled. "Everything's in the green. Nothing to worry about." He ran a hand over his face with a sigh. "Just have to clear the snow off the solar panels later today."

"Oooh, snow! It is that time of the year, huh? December already! Who woulda thought. Time goes by pretty quick when you're not worried about getting eaten all the time." Peter looked at his little May and cooed. "Isn't that right, Mayday?"

Miguel rolled his eyes fondly and shook his head. "If you're that excited about snow, I'll put you on shovelling duty, Parker."

"Oh, wow, I'm suddenly deaf and can't hear you." Peter shuffled away in his stupid slippers and stupid bathrobe. "Oh, right, right, MJ made bread! Can you believe it? I feel like I haven't had a bread-carb in forever! We really gotta do another supply run or we're eating canned beans all winter long. Y'know what? I'll put it on the 'to-do' list!"

Miguel threw a glare at Peter over his shoulder. He was annoying, but he wasn't wrong. They did need more food, more supplies, more ways to sustain themselves. Scavenging the dregs of supermarkets and convenience stores wasn't cutting it anymore; there were too many mouths to feed, and shitty, packaged foods wouldn't suffice much longer.

Miguel braced his hands on the centre console after pulling up a satellite map of the surrounding area. The lab they called home laid nestled away from prying eyes of citizens, making it a safer place to start to rebuild the semblance of a normal life. Though, at the same time, it made it more difficult to get in and out of the city in good time. They had to pick their destination on the map, calculate the time it'd take to get there, and then execute the plan with little to no hiccups. It was hard. It was a pain in the ass. But it had to be done.

Miguel took his time scanning through the map, trying to spot any buildings they hadn't already marked off as empty and not worth the trip. These days, they had to get creative, they had to think of places that'd have food where people wouldn't expect, where the average scavenger wouldn't think to look and–

"Shit," Miguel breathed before rushing to move the map. "How could I forget?"

He spotted a small building on the map, one they'd never ventured to, one they never thought to go to. A chain link fence surrounded the perimeter, giving about five metres worth of breathing room around the building. Clusters of huge garden pots dotted the area randomly, along with whatever outdoor trees and shrubs that'd survived all these years on their own.

Miguel covered his mouth as he smiled.

"You might've just saved us, viejo."

Because you were a country boy. A farmer's son.

You convinced (begged) him to pull over, to go to the new garden store that'd appeared not too long ago. Miguel, far too smitten with you, couldn't find the heart to say 'no' to the excitement buzzing in your voice.

The store was filled with beautiful plants, ranging from common houseplants, to tropical rarities that Miguel never knew existed. All sorts of bushy plants, tall single-leafers, and vining beauties lined the displays and bathed in the gentle, constant mist raining down on them. It really felt like a tropical jungle landed in New York.

You'd sauntered over to the seed section while Miguel wandered through all the store had to offer before finding you again. You had several sachets in your hands and scanned the shelves for anything else that piqued your interest; they were all vegetable seeds, stuff like corn and green beans, tomatoes and onions, but the occasional herb showed itself as well.

To Miguel, raising vegetables seemed like a cute hobby. But to you, raising crops meant revisiting your childhood.

"You wanna get some?" Miguel asked. He looped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as he read all the different seed names on display.

"Yeah. I mean…maybe. Dunno if a vegetable garden'll go with the house." You laughed softly, a little self-deprecatingly, before you reached to put the packets back. "I just–I don't know."

"I think it'll work." A smile warmed Miguel's face as pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. "We can make a greenhouse. A big one. In the backyard." He kissed your neck next. "You can show me the farmboy fantasy."

You laughed, turned in his arms, and kissed him. "Done."

Miguel crept up to the garden centre with Hobie and Gwen in tow. Travelling anywhere from the safe confines of Alchemax was something of a nightmare, but Miguel was used to it–despite being the man who knew how to run the building, he too often volunteered to head out on supply runs himself. He needed the space to think, to feel the darkness they’d found themselves in, and to feel the light of the sun on his skin to remind himself it wasn’t over. Because it was far from over.

The garden centre was surrounded by chain link fences encircling the entirety of the building, the very same ones Miguel had seen from the satellite’s view. Honestly, he found himself surprised to see just how good the place looked–the windows were mostly intact, the fences hadn’t been torn through, the doors were still sealed, and a row of crippled undead and frozen re-deads dotted the perimeter, but none were inside. It didn’t seem like any had ever been inside, actually.

“That’s…kinda weird, right?” Gwen murmured as she adjusted her toque. “This place feels like…like it never went under, or something.”

“Damn near stuck in the past, I’d say,” Hobie agreed. He looked to Miguel. “Fishy’s an understatement, yeah? Might be some not-so-dead-yets in there.”

Miguel took a deep breath as he thought. “It’s a plant store. Not the highest priority for scavengers like us.” He headed forward, grip tight on his hunting knife. “Try not to shoot. Not unless there’s a runner.”

“Better not be any runners,” Gwen grumbled. “It’s December. Hopefully they’re all freezing to double-death right now.”

Hobie scoffed a smile. “If not, we just give ‘em an early Christmas present, hey?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure they’d love their brains blown out.”

“Eh. I would.”

Miguel rolled his eyes as the youngins bickered softly behind him. There was no point stopping them–trying to dad them out in the wilds of New York just gave Miguel a bigger headache, and too often ended in a louder match of bickering and scolding, which then often resulted in the undead stumbling their way. It was always a mess. Maybe he should stop bringing the dynamic duo with him.

But you’d known them. You were fond of them, too, always letting them off the hook with a slap on the wrist when they were caught vandalizing buildings or stealing from stores when they were teenagers. You laughed when you told Miguel stories about them, about how Hobie’d call you “officer tall, sunny and handsome” to get on your good side (which worked), and how Gwen would try to bribe you with car-washings and babysitting to get you to not tell her dad what happened. You knew they were good kids, just bored and too smart for their own good. Miguel knew that, too; the two of you were thick as thieves back in the day, total petty-crime masterminds. Maybe Hobie and Gwen were your dark apprentices, in a way.

Miguel smiled faintly. He missed the days where you both broke into abandoned buildings, haunted houses and everything else inbetween to fool around and fuck. It’d always be filmed, much to Miguel’s embarrassment, but watching the videos back always made him feel…wanted. Appreciated. Like a rare piece of art.

You’d always cheese it up and make it sound like some sort of bad porno or found-footage film, like you didn't just break into Chuck E. Cheese to fuck in front of the creepy animatronics. Breaking the law got you excited, as ironic as that was for a future cop. Miguel thought you were a freak. Miguel was kind of a freak too, though.

“Fucking God,” Miguel moaned, somehow louder than the squeak of the table hosting your feverish coupling. His hips bucked and rolled against yours in a desperate attempt to keep up with your brutal, delicious pace, and his thighs dug into your sides with his hands clutching to your shoulders for dear life.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you mumbled into his ear. Miguel’s body gave a sharp, involuntary jolt, kickstarting the sudden crescendo of his well-earned euphoria. He let his voice be heard as he arched off that shitty table and up against your solid frame, his hips still rutting and moving in sync with your own. You groaned too, letting yourself be just as loud in the midst of him tightening around your heavy, thick cock pummeling into him.

“God, lookit that pretty face,” you growled when you pulled back to see how fucked out he was. “You feel good, huh? ‘M I makin’ you cum hard?” Your hand slapped the side of his ass, and Miguel whimpered sharply. “You’re so good, baby, so fucking good. I’ll make you cum again, yeah? Make you cum while you–while you take everything I got.”

You were terrible. Horrible. A monster in the sack, and apparently in front of powered-down robots. You did what you promised, and ripped another orgasm from his exhausted, over-stimulated body before reaching your own blissful undoing with a rude grin on your stupid, annoying face.

It made for good content, though.

They reached the front gate without problem, only to find it locked with hefty chains and thick padlocks. If there were people in there, then breaking through the first line of defence wasn’t their favoured option–they didn’t like other survivors, no, and they didn’t work with them without good reason, but they weren’t in the business of sabotaging them, either.

“Hobie,” Miguel beckoned, muffling the chains’ clanking while holding up one of the locks.

The young man smirked and flicked his old lock picking set from his pocket. “Don’t mind if I do, coz.”

He unlocked everything in record time. Miguel thought of you for a moment, and wondered if you’d taught the young man a few nefarious tricks since you, too, were an expert sneak. But Miguel pushed the thought aside as they all carefully, slowly, painstakingly unwrapped the linked metal from the fence, and pushed it open with just as much care to keep the noise to a minimum. It’d be a shame to ring the dinner bell in such an untouched place.

They relocked one of the padlocks for peace of mind before wandering towards the front entrance. The doors’ windows were boarded neatly and meticulously, Miguel noticed first. He crouched down and noted something blocking the small gap between the ground and the door, but the faintest reach of light still reached through the few cracks that remained.

“Lights’re on. Front’s boarded,” he sighed before backing up. “Might be a different way inside. Looks like there might be people in–”

“Miguel!” Gwen whispered. He looked her way, and saw her point to a decrepit shed nestled up against the side of the building, right underneath a large window. Shoved against it laid a single, heavy pot flipped on its end, serving as a sort of stool to get up on. But the lack of snow on the newfound path gave Miguel pause.

“I’ll check it out,” Gwen said before nimbly scampering up the side of the shed.

Miguel frowned. “Gwen–”

“Relax, I’m just gonna look.” But Miguel did not relax, especially not when she rose on her tiptoes on that shitty, rickety shed roof and peered through the window before her eyes grew wide with a soft woah.

“Whatcha got, Gwendy?” Hobie asked, approaching the shed himself.

“You two–” Miguel warned. He looked around cautiously, his body aching with primal instinct–they weren’t alone. There had to be someone else here. Gwen and Hobie had to realize that. They were smarter than this. They wouldn’t do anything stupid. They wouldn’t be hypnotized by whatever was in there and throw caution to the wind to get it. Right? Right.

…Right?

Excited, Gwen smiled and glanced at the two before looking back at whatever she saw. “There’re–there’s…trees? And bushes with veggies and–and wow, you were right, Miguel.”

“Well, I say we hop in there and snag a few to bring back, yeah?” Hobie suggested. “Reckon they grew on their own?”

“No,” Miguel scolded. “They didn’t. Come down, right now. We need more people for this.”

“I’m juuust gonna...” Gwen reached for the window, and Miguel’s anxiety peaked.

“Gwen.”

“Just a little–” The window groaned as it popped open.

They froze. They died as statues for a single, long moment, rejecting the need to breathe, letting their eyes freeze solid in winter’s mercy while their ears pricked, searching like the alert deer suspecting death stalking nearby after a misstep on a brittle branch.

One minute passed.

Then two minutes.

Three minutes.

But the birds kept chirping, the world kept spinning, and Ares didn’t come to collect their battle-worn souls.

Gwen looked at her group with a nervous smile, a guilty thing that said, “oops?”

Miguel was furious. But now was not the time to argue or yell. He could let her father handle that back at Alchemax.

But someone grabbed her, and yanked her inside.

Hobie didn’t hesitate. He jumped up to where Gwen once stood and took the plunge after her, scrambling up into the window, but that same someone shoved him, sending him plummeting down to the frigid concrete. Miguel rushed to his side when he hit the pavement with a choked-back groan.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Miguel rolled him on his back. “Hobie, you fucking idiot.” Miguel’s panic ebbed just the slightest bit when he saw the punk blinking away stars instead of losing consciousness.

Click.

Electricity burst through him. Miguel ripped his revolver free of its holster and returned aim up at the shadow in the window. The tired winter sun illuminated a barrel of black metal, and the small, tawny hand holding it steady. A child. A kid. He was pointing a gun at a kid.

“We don’t want any problems, kid,” Miguel called up. He tried to relax, but he couldn’t; children who grew up in this world were ruthless. They were cruel, unrelenting, and unapologetic towards their targets. He couldn’t blame them. It was all they’d known, all they’d been taught. But they were only as cruel as their teachers made them. Some of them still held on to shreds of humanity.

And judging by that unwavering hand, Miguel feared their adversary was at least a confident shot if not a full-blooded monster.

“Yeah, c’mon,” Hobie groaned. “We just–we just want some seeds ‘n shit, ‘at’s all.”

The small hand faltered a bit. Seems she still possessed sympathy. But a voice, deep and thread-bare, called to her. She looked over her shoulder for a second, before pulling the window closed and locking the latch behind her.

Panic lanced through Miguel as anger possessed Hobie. “I’m gonna snap that kid in half–” but the creaky hinges of the front door opening cut him off. Miguel aimed toward it, and Hobie did the same once he got himself together, but then–then Gwen peeked out.

“Guys!” Her hand fluttered and ushered them to come. “You’re not gonna believe this! It’s–”

“Daddy?” A young, gentle voice asked, and Miguel’s gaze snapped to her. To her. To the little girl peeking out from around Gwen. To his baby, to his tiny world, long lost but never forgotten. To–

“Gabriella,” Miguel breathed.

“Ho-ly shit,” Hobie commented.

Gabi’s eyes flooded with emotion. She sprinted to him, nearly slipping and tripping in the snow before jumping into his arms and holding on tight. She was so much older now, so much bigger; her tiny face used to bury into his stomach, but now she had her head tucked up against his chest, staining his jacket with heavy tears.

“It’s okay, mija, it’s okay. I’m here, Daddy’s got you.” Miguel kissed the top of her head. He fought back tears of his own, but did so so pitifully with broken, bewildered laughs and shaking breaths. He pulled back and looked down at her face, her beautiful, beautiful face, and carefully wiped away the wet trails freezing on her cheeks. “I–you–L-Look at you. How’d you get so big?”

Gabi smiled and sniffled as she wiped her eyes. “I-I, um, finally ate my veggies.” She took a breath to try and still the quiver in her lungs between thoughts. “Y-You have so much grey in your hair now!”

A few beats of warm laughter left Miguel. “Yeah, no thanks to you. Spent all this time worrying about you, kid.” His hand, so used to killing and defending, trembled as he brushed flyaways out of her face. "Listen, I–I'm gonna take you somewhere safe, okay? You won't be alone anymore."

Gabriella blinked. Her small hands clutched his jacket. "What? But–"

"She's not alone."

Miguel almost didn’t look. He didn’t really believe what he just heard. But when he risked it, when he managed to wrench his gaze away from his daughter and back to the heavenly light of the front entrance, he saw you. The man who'd been haunting him for years. The man who'd been keeping him warm at night. You, his lover. You, his husband.

(You, the man he betrayed.)

"She hasn't been alone," you said, the words punctuated by hazy clouds of warmth–proof you were alive, that you weren't an illusion, not this time. "I promise."

You looked so, so tired.

But Gwen was grinning, and even Hobie smiled with a lack of irony as he walked to you and gave you a hug.

"My man! Officer tall, sunny and handsome in the flesh!" He clapped his hand hard against your back but you hardly wavered. You offered a smile, and hugged him back, short and sweet.

"Hey, Hobie. Behaving?"

"Eh. Sometimes."

"Good enough for me." You let him go and scanned over all the survivors, your eyes not lingering on anyone for too long. "Head inside. It's warm, there's food. We'll talk. Gabs?"

"Okay!" She hurried to corral everyone inside. "In, in, in, we gotta lock up for the night." Her gaze turned to Miguel as he hesitated, still watching you with glazed eyes. "Daddy, are you–?"

"I'll be there in a second, mija." And, thankfully, his baby girl read the room better than he could have at that age, and let you two be.

You looked over your shoulder, so like a predator making sure his cubs were inside and safe before prowling through the night. A man enchanted, Miguel followed you, watching you re-lock the gates they'd slipped through, and lagging behind while you checked the perimeter with thorough hands. Miguel would give anything to have those hands on him right now.

He didn’t know where to start. "(Name), I–"

"You said you could take her somewhere safe, right?" You asked before you turned that timid, unsure gaze back to him. "You meant that?"

The words took too long to register. "I–yeah, I meant it. I mean it." Miguel forged courage out of trepidation and used it to fuel his journey to you. "We have a colony. The old Alchemax building, you remember?"

"The one that was supposed to get torn down?" You wondered.

Miguel nodded. "Yeah, that one."

You kept walking. "Didn't we fuck in your office there?"

A smile threatened Miguel as he followed like a lost puppy. "We did."

"Ah. Always liked that building. Liked that desk, too." You shrugged. "Comfy, all things considered."

Miguel hooked his finger into your belt loop and pulled you closer to him. "Then you'll be happy to hear it hasn't changed."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You almost laughed, Miguel heard it. But you pulled away from him, and wordlessly finished up the perimeter sweep.

"You should stay the night," you mumbled on the way back. "Pretty sure it's gonna snow."

"Might make it harder to get back tomorrow," Miguel said, following you inside and watching you bar the door again. "We came here by foot."

"No truck?"

"None."

"I'll take you back, then. I got a truck."

"You make it sound like you're not coming." Anxiety gripped Miguel. "I'm not losing you again." He held onto your arm tightly.

You looked troubled, glancing between the hand on your arm and Miguel's eyes. "Did Dana die?" You asked.

Sickness coiled in Miguel's stomach. "What?" But his tone was too deep, too dark.

You shook your head. "No, I–I'm sorry I don't know why I said that, I'm just–"

"We both know why you said that," Miguel said through clenched teeth.

The way you looked at him, eyes full of bristling hatred for the woman who'd stolen away everything from you, set alight an ancient sort of fear in Miguel’s core. It was so like that night, the one where you'd found out.

Gabi was still at daycare. You were at work. Miguel was supposed to be at work, too. It could have been the perfect crime, one full of sinful lust and infinite rapture.

But you came home early.

You didn't even say a word when you walked into the bedroom and found him tangled in the sheets with Dana, with the woman he'd convinced you to think was a surrogate, not someone he was fooling around with and just so happened to knock up. You had that same stare, rotting with hatred, infested with betrayal, all for the woman underneath your husband. Miguel loathed that look, but he found some sick joy in hurting you, too. Because he hated you, for some reason.

Dana laughed when you walked out, some smart comment about how pathetic you were dancing off her plush, scarlet-stained lips. Miguel scoffed a laugh, too. You really were a coward, weren't you?

(But you weren't.)

Miguel finished with Dana, and she left. He heard her say something to you, something light and playful and damn hurtful, but Miguel didn't say anything. Nor did you.

He found you in the living room after he'd pulled some clothes on like it mattered. He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms, staring hard at your profile while you graced the ground with an empty gaze. Your hands clasped and unclasped slowly. Your head nodded shallowly.

"You're really not gonna say anything?" Miguel goaded.

"What am I supposed to say?" You offered.

Something. Anything.

Miguel laughed, mocking, and sat down across from you, on a mirrored couch, across the glass coffee table you'd picked out together.

"How long?" You managed.

Miguel hummed in thought. "How old's Gabi?"

That got a reaction out of you, something Miguel craved so deeply; your eyelids fluttered in disbelief, and your lips parted to suck in a sharp breath. You looked hurt. You looked like you were feeling something.

"The prenup says you keep what's yours, I keep what's mine, yeah?"

Miguel's smile faded. "What?"

"Gifts fall into that category. I’m keeping the Jeep."

"Wait–"

"I'll find a lawyer in the morning." You got up, and Miguel snapped.

"You're not even going to fucking ask why?" He yelled, pursuing you into the bedroom. "You don't wanna know why I'm fucking someone else? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

You ignored him. Miguel's temper flared.

"Fine! Fine, fuck it, I'll tell you. You don't excite me anymore. You don't try, you don't wanna fuck me, you don't wanna do anything anymore–"

"Miguel–"

"You're not the same man I married. What happened to you? When'd you get so–so pathetic and weak?" He took a pause to breathe. Or maybe gasp, more like, as the stabs of panic started to overtake him. "I hate you. You can't leave me."

He braced on the door, trying to get his bearings on his own, but you were quick to his side. With a strength Miguel loved and adored, you eased him down and fell in slow-motion with his shaky frame secured in your arms.

“It’s okay, Miggs. You’re okay.” Your fingers combed through his hair slowly. You held him tight, and convinced him to breathe with you. In and out. In and out. In and out. He breathed to the rhythm of your heart, as it turned out. Slow and steady. Hurt and bleeding.

“We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

And he believed you.

That’s why he took off the ring, and left first thing in the morning.

Hobie and Gwen passed out after eating their fill of stew. Miguel was beyond annoyed, but couldn't find it in himself to wake them up and leave, not when you were undecided about going with them, but very much wanting him to take Gabi.

Honestly, he didn't think you'd still be hurting after all this time. Dana was something of the past, a succubus that followed the steps of opportunity and wealth wherever it may go. That's why she wasn't with the group anymore. That's why she left him when he needed her most, and jumped in a truck with strangers while he bled out, alone, in the solitude of an abandoned pet store.

Chills raked his spine, breaking off chunks of bone when he thought about it. He'd never been so fucking scared in his life. He wished he could have called you to come save him. He wanted you to be the one to walk in there and find him, crying and dying, because you would have stuck by his side through all of those moments; if he hadn't let his emotions get the best of him, if he hadn't made so many stupid decisions, he would've been with you. If he died that day, it would have been in your arms.

"Hey," you murmured with a gentle touch to his shoulder. Miguel jumped, and your eyes softened. "You okay?"

Miguel swallowed thickly as he nodded. He looked around, grounding his mind through the touch of your hand, the duo snoring and slumped against bags of soil, and the gentle flickering of the propane campfire keeping the space warm. You taking a seat beside him helped, too.

Copper eyes took a moment to pace around the old garden centre; true to the outside, it was more or less untouched on the inside, just more cluttered with haphazard barricades and half-done projects. Miguel watched his ghost walk through the isles, once filled with tropical plants, but now replaced with beautiful, healthy trees raised by your hand. It was no wonder Gabi grew up so strong.

Speaking of--"Where's Gabi?"

"She's in the next room. Watering some seedlings." You smiled for a fraction of a second. "Putting her green thumb to the test. Tryna show her old man up, I guess."

Miguel smiled though his eyes stung. "Sounds like an O'hara."

"Yeah, I thought so, too."

You shared a few broken beats of laughter before silence fell, just like the snow beyond the door. Then, shyly, like you'd never done it before, your arm reached around his waist. Miguel didn't hesitate to lean his weight into you, though, and that arm didn't wait to pull him in closer right after.

"So. You still hate me?" Miguel dared to ask before the dancing cinders.

Your hand smoothed up and down his side thoughtfully, soothingly. Miguel melted against you more with a sweet, content sigh.

"I never hated you," you whispered in return. "Never."

Miguel made a little sound, something caught between surprise and relief, while your words sunk deep into his thoughts. You didn’t hate him. You didn’t hate him.

“Then come back with us.”

“Miguel–”

“There’s no reason to stay here,” Miguel bit out, frustration egging him on. “We have shelter, we have water, showers, rooms, beds–we have everything.”

“What about food?” You asked quietly.

But Miguel didn’t have an answer; food was the reason they were coming out here, to find more ways to create sustainable living, to try and make life work again. He couldn’t help but look at the trees and bushes bursting with colourful fruits and vegetables, showing off years of dedication and hard work through the literal fruits of your labour. Miguel didn’t know how hard it was to get there. He didn’t think he wanted to know.

“...It’s a work in progress,” he grumbled instead of admitting the truth. “But we could use your help.”

Your warm fingers dipped under layers of clothes to find the searing skin of your past lover. To Miguel, it almost ached. He hadn't been touched in so long. He hadn't felt your hands on his bare skin for even longer. It intoxicated him, filled his mind and blood with wants and needs–things only you could fulfil for him.

"I won't leave you hangin', promise that. I just–I need to figure out how this is all gonna work." You looked around the room, taking stock. "Lots of gear we'll need, lots of shit to move. I'll send you back with whatever's already picked. Not worried about the cold with those. The trees are another story, don't want 'em to go dormant while–"

Miguel kissed you. Sloppily, and wantonly, but with genuinity. Your hands scrambled to hold onto his massive frame when he leaned into you and almost knocked you off the discounted garden bench. This time, you were the one who made a cute, surprised noise.

And you were the one who kissed him the second time, but it was smaller and shier coming from you, not so eager to consume like Miguel. Your calloused hand held the side of his neck, and your thumb ran along his jawline thoughtfully when you parted, noses bumping and nudging together in a weak nuzzle.

"I guess you don't hate me anymore?" Your whisper ached Miguel's heart.

"I never did," he confessed.

"Then why did you say it?"

"I don't know." He traced the curve of your lips with tired, weighted eyes. Your cupid's bow had a nice shape to it, so soft and pillowy, meant just for him. "But I didn't mean it."

"I need a better answer than that." You swallowed down what Miguel could only guess to be a tincture of fear and sorrow, or maybe rage and betrayal. "I've lived with–with that for a long, long time." Your eyes glistened with unspent grief, suddenly. "I need more than 'I don't know.'"

Miguel's heart lurched. He hadn't bore witness to the consequences of his selfishness before, not with you, not during his affair with Dana. He'd only seen you grow distant across that coffee table far before that god-awful night. And back then, he wanted a reaction. He wanted something like this out of you, but now, he couldn't fathom why.

"Mi amor, I–it's hard to put into words, and I was a stupid kid, and–hey, hey, don't--don't cry." He wiped away the bravest tear to fall first before you turned away, back to the flickering blaze, and rubbed your face roughly.

"Here's my guess," you muttered. "You wanted to fuck, and I couldn’t–I just–it was hard for me. Or maybe it wasn’t hard, maybe that’s a better way to put it.” You rubbed your face, and held your head in your hands. "The, ah, the medication, the anti-depressants or whatever, they were fucking me up. I didn’t wanna fuck you. I didn’t wanna do anything. Then I was in training to join the force. Wasn't home, and when I was, I was too tired to take care of you and Gabi, so I focused on her. And that made you go back to Dana. Again."

Bile scorched the back of Miguel’s throat. "You knew." A realisation, not a question. "You knew we–that she and I–"

"Yeah, that she wasn't a surrogate.” You picked your head up from your hands and stared at the fire, unseeing. “Because she was dating Gabe at the time, and you were with me." You sighed and let a deep, venomous grief finally escape from the space between your lungs, from the spot where that thing had festered like a disease for too many years.

"I could let it go the first time, turn a blind eye because she gave me–gave us–our daughter, but–the second time? With all the shit you two said?" You shook your head. "I just--I couldn't–I wish you'd just told me what was wrong. I wish I'd told you what was going on with me, too, 'cause I know all the shit that happened is my fault, too.”

"Dad?” Gabi's small, hollow voice rang. The both of you turned to her, but you were the one who got up.

“Baby,” You said with a hushed tone, somehow so comforting but so afraid. “Hey, you done with the watering?”

“Uh, yeah, but…um, is everything okay?” Her gaze flicked between you and Miguel. He could almost hear her little mind firing on all cylinders as she tried to parse what they were talking about. “You look sad.”

You crouched before her and took her hands in yours. “We’re talking through some things, honey, it’s alright. We’re figuring things out.”

A light of worried realization illuminated Gabriella’s gaze. Miguel fidgeted and futzed with his clothes as he looked away, unsure of how to deal with her accusatory revelation. How much did she know? Did you tell her anything? No, no, you wouldn’t do that, you wouldn’t dirty her memory of her father like that. You were a good man. You were a better man than Miguel.

“Oh,” she whispered.

You nodded and brushed some hair free from her freckled face. "We’ll be alright, baby. You just get some sleep, alright? Tomorrow's gonna be a busy day. Lots of loading up to do."

Gabi whispered the softest okay before giving you a hug. She paused for a moment, before running to Miguel and throwing her arms around him for a few precious seconds before running off to the loft to sleep.

You sighed, then, and Miguel did too.

You turned to him. “Look, you–I don’t know why I’m starting shit right after you…you wander back into my life,” you murmured, going back to Miguel and straddling the bench before taking his hand and squeezing. “I’m sorry. And I love you. You know that, right?”

That pang came back in Miguel’s chest, but this time, it was warmer.

December 2nd 3:05am i love you 3:06am i'm sorry

Miguel squeezed your hand back and this time, he was the one tearing up. “Mi amor, you don’t need to–you’ve done enough apologizing already.”

"Miggs, don't say that. I–"

"Stop. Stop it." Your husband straddled the bench, too, and scooted closer to you until he was more or less in your lap, his heavy thighs draped over your own.

"But–" you started, and stopped as Miguel cupped your face with both hands and squished your cheeks. You sighed and leaned into his touch when it eased up. "Baby–"

"Me arrepiento de lo que hice," he whispered to you, "espero algún día puedas perdonarme." He let go of your face, and found your hand to kiss its back. "Te amo."

You smiled. Something real, something happy. Something that stayed around for more than a few seconds, and made the corners of your eyes crinkle with the beautiful way you'd aged. Then, you kissed him.

"Te amo," you murmured back, your lips still touching his. "We'll figure this out. Work it out. We have the time." Your lips pressed against his again. "I'm not giving up on us."

This time, Miguel cried.

It took some time to transport everything to Alchemax. It took a little bit longer to get you there, too.

But you got there eventually, ready to stay for good, and ready to put Miguel's mind at ease.

Your old friends and coworkers greeted you, clasping their hands on your back and hugging you tight until you couldn't breathe anymore. You smiled, too, and asked them how they were holding up, if your husband was keeping things in line. You couldn't help but remind them that you in fact hand the handsomest and smartest partner in the world, too.

They let you get acquainted with the building pretty quickly, probably seeing the haggard, exhausted state you'd lived in for five years and wanting to let you unwind for the first time in a long time. And that called for a hot shower, food, and some sleep.

"I'll take you to your room," Miguel told you as you both left the common area.

"My room?" You retorted, sounding mighty confused and damn near insulted.

Miguel blinked and looked at you. "Yeah. There's enough for–" Oh.

"What's yours is mine, yeah?" You said, stern and a little bit spicy. "Then your room is mine. And your ass is–"

"Câllate," Miguel cut you off with a smile. "I'll take you to our room."

He led you there with a bit of a spring to his step, and you kept up with as much enthusiasm. The room was nothing special, featuring nothing more beyond a mediocre bed, uninspired furnishings, and random knick knacks Miguel had left here over the years. But it was home. Your shared home.

"Huh." You looked around the room. "I think that coffee table woulda looked nice here."

Miguel scoffed a laugh and rested his hand on the small of your back. "You think so? I think it'd clash."

"Yeah, well, you have bad taste, hun."

"Oh, wow, you're really gonna say that when I'm married to you?"

"I'm the one who confessed first. I'm the one who proposed. Pretty sure it's safe to say I picked you." You leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. “And I have good taste.”

Miguel felt his face get hot. "Shut up and take a shower."

"Your wish is my command." You set your pack down by the bed before sliding open the door to the ensuite. Miguel watched you like a hawk, his prey drive skyrocketing when he caught swaths of your bare skin peeking out from the washroom. He wanted to watch more, but you deserved a little privacy.

"Oh," you said, peeking out from the doorway. "I, uh, kept my phone through everything. There're some photos of Gabi, if you wanna check it out." You vanished back into the bathroom and Miguel heard the water turn on. "It's in my pack! In the shitty little phone pocket thing."

"Yeah, I–okay, I'll take a look, thanks." Miguel smiled, and rummaged through what you'd brought with you before pulling out that beat up phone with the charger still plugged into it and kept together with bandages of tape. Colour him impressed.

He sat on the edge of the bed and went straight for the camera roll. There were loads of new pictures ranging from Gabriella when she was littler, to pictures of animals that Miguel guessed Gabi had a hand in.

There were old pictures, too. Mostly of Miguel, as embarrassing as that was, but the baby photos took over his reign once that perfect little girl entered your life. It made Miguel wish he’d taken more photos, that he hadn’t thought it was too cliche and embarrassing to capture every moment. He used to say shit like, “Do you have to take a photo? Can’t you just live in the moment?” but you’d stick your tongue out, give him a pinch or a bite on his cheek or something else in retribution. Because you didn’t care, you wanted to look back on little memories.

He scanned through photos until he caught one that sent a rush of red to his features; it was of him, on his back, eyes teary and face alight with a fierce blush as you, well, obviously fucked him stupid. It was the only one of its kind. Maybe you forgot to delete it? Maybe–

The videos. Oooh, now that had Miguel excited. Miguel scanned through the other folders, but found nothing, much to his dismay and relief, seeing as Gabi probably had free access to your phone.

But then, he spied a locked folder.

The first password he tried worked (your anniversary because duh. You were such a sap), and a whole catalogue of videos and pictures were unleashed.

Miguel glanced up at the washroom door before he skimmed through. He remembered all of these places (but the geo tags helped, too. Christ, you were so organised with your exhibitionist porn), ranging from IKEA after closing, to an abandoned amusement park. He still didn’t know how you picked out these places, or how you knew how to get into them without getting in heaps of trouble with the authorities.

He tapped on a video and bumped the volume up a couple notches, just so he could barely hear; it was him on his knees, on a rusty old ferris wheel, staring up at you like you were God himself as he gripped your thighs and did his damndest to give you the blowie of a lifetime. Your sighs and soft moans rippled through the speakers like waves lapping at the shoreline. Present Miguel rubbed his mouth, worrying at his bottom lip before licking the dryness away.

“Good boy,” You whispered on the other side of the camera. Your hand came into view and carded through dark locks before cupping his cheek. Miguel of the past turned into your touch and took your thumb into his mouth while his hand took over stroking your length from base to tip over, and over again.

Miguel swiped to the next video. He was on his back this time, in your shared bedroom, if that duvet cover was to be trusted, while your fingers plunged deep inside of his heat and tore loud moans and gasps from him. He remembered this; you called it an experiment before you bullied his prostate with three, thick digits.

"How's that feel, gorgeous?" You purred. Miguel swallowed thickly, both in the video and in the now. His hesitant hand crept down his thigh slowly, like he was trying to hide it from himself and call it an accident as he reached to palm himself through his jeans while he watched. He almost felt guilty. But that's what made it better.

"Good. Really fucking good." His past self rocked down against your fingers, choking on a needy whine as his eyes slid open, and found you. "I need you, mi amor. Please–"

"I know, babe, I know. I'm almost done here," you promised. You tilted the camera down to his stretched hole to catch what you did next. "Then you can have whatever you want from me."

You pressed your pinky in, then, and Miguel of the present bit his lip as his shocked gasp and shaky cry pierced through the speakers. Miguel still couldn't describe the deranged pleasure he got from having half your hand in his ass, nearly to the point of fisting him.

Miguel switched to a different video quickly. The next one was in the Jeep you loved so much. You were both out camping for the weekend, something you loved and Miguel had learned to love; that stupid red truck became home for so many long weekends, it became host to long hours of napping and intimacy, it turned into one of Miguel's favourite places.

The video started with you adjusting the camera and squinting at it while Miguel’s younger self bitched and moaned in the background.

"I'm just making sure the tripod's working 'n shit, babe, just gimme a sec!" You whined back.

"My dick's getting soft," Miguel threatened, so blasé but annoyed at the same time. "Come on, viejo."

You pulled away from the camera, grinning smug as a fox, and scooted back to your lover. His past self was lounging, hair and clothes already a mess from the prologue to this movie, as he watched you.

"I'm here, I'm here." You kissed him, and Miguel could almost taste the s’mores on your tongue, the coffee on your lips. "Sorry, just wanna make sure it's perfect."

"Oh, yeah, 'course. Gotta make sure your indie porno looks good."

"Hey, one day we're gonna look back on this! It's worth it, baby, trust me."

"Whatever. Just kiss me," Miguel demanded with a laugh. And you did as you were told, kissing his lips, then down his chest, then–

"Knew you'd like watching 'em back."

Miguel jumped, nearly dropping the phone as he jerked his hand away from his clothed bulge. "I, uh–what?" he asked dumbly as he stared at your built frame leaning against the doorframe. God, you were still an impressive specimen. He wished that loose towel would just drop from your hips already.

"Our, ah, home videos." You grinned, so much like that fox from the past, and paced to Miguel. "Nice looking back, ain't it?" You cupped the underside of his jaw and tilted his face up. "Got you a lil' excited, yeah?"

You weren't wrong. With a hammering heart, burning skin, and tingling nerves, he couldn't deny he was stuck deep in a pool of desire and need. And now with you handling him like this–fuck. He was in trouble.

Miguel nodded weakly. "Yeah." He took a deep breath. "Just a little."

“I’ll help.” You eased onto the bed and took great care in settling behind him. "Let the video play," you whispered against his neck before leaving a possessive kiss.

Miguel leaned back into you. He watched you pop open his jeans and slip a hand down, down, down, until your warm palm met his aching length. A shuddered breath escaped him when you felt him up, pulled him free, squeezing and stroking in all the right spots; it'd been so long since anyone touched him. It'd been so long since he touched himself.

"I, ah, don’t think we–did we lock the door?" Miguel heard himself moan in the video, and he dared another look; your head bobbed between his thighs while fingers pistoned into him. He wondered if you would do that to him again. Maybe tonight.

"Nope.”

“Shit.”

"Mmmh. You want me to stop jerking you off so you can lock it?"

"No."

You chuckled. "Okay."

Your hand still worked him slowly and thoughtfully while lovers of the past filled in the rest of the silence. Miguel's hips bucked, and you hummed, so pleased with yourself. Pleased with yourself for pleasing him. Something Miguel found self-value in.

"I think I, uh, I think you mighta been right," he murmured to the air, trying to control his voice. Your gentle hum of intrigue spurred him on. "I think I need you to fuck me more than I realized. Need you to want me, ‘n…take me."

“Yeah?” You asked before sinking a bite into his neck. “Figured you had somethin’ of a praise kink. Makes sense, in hindsight.”

Miguel gasped when you picked up the pace. “Fuck–I’d call it…mmmmn, I’d call it a-a love language–”

“Huh, didn’t know there were six love languages–”

“Sh-shut up, shut up, you know what I–what I mean–!” Miguel bit down hard on the inside of his mouth as his hips rocked up into your cruel, talented hand. He was close. How embarrassing. “I, uh…physical touch. Words of affirmation.”

“‘Needing my husband to fuck me and tell me I’m sexy.’” Miguel moaned and dug his head back into your shoulder as you chuckled. “That sound about right?”

“Viejo,” he whined, setting the phone aside to be forgotten. “I–”

“I know, baby; show me how hard this love language makes you cum.”

It only took a few more strokes for Miguel to come undone. His teeth clattered together as he strained to keep his voice on lock as a forgotten rapture ripped the air from his lungs and electrocuted every vessel in his body. He clung to the other arm that’d come to wrap around his chest and hold him against you while you worked him through the motions, slowing down, accommodating the way his body reacted to the blinding pleasure. There were words said, probably encouraging ones muttered into his shoulder, but Miguel didn’t have the mind to parse the meaning of what you’d said.

“Y’know,” you tried again when Miguel’s mind levelled out, “I think I have a praise kink, too. But a complimentary one. One where I like praising you.” You rested your chin on his shoulder and hummed. “Hm. Who woulda thought.”

“Hah. Good to know you’re still annoying,” Miguel said with a chuckle. He scrunched his nose up when you licked the side of his face. “(Name)--”

“No.” You bit his cheek this time, and he sighed. You did, however, feel his softening cock start to come back to life again. “Want me to lock the door now, old man?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. You got off the bed, letting the towel fall where it may, and Miguel finally gazed upon his lost treasure. “And set up your phone. We need to update the archives.”

You grinned when you turned back to him, and Miguel felt so at ease.

There were still things to work out: the mental illness you hid from him, the cheating Miguel tried to hide from you, the little secrets you both kept wedged in the darkest cracks of your minds. But with you with him, the man who refused to give up on their bond and their love, Miguel felt safe indulging in mindless pleasure you so generously gave to him. Neither of you were about to seal away the past again, but if you could share in the good of your relationship while acknowledging the bad, then hope wasn’t lost; it was found in the moment you’d pulled his old wedding band from your pack, and slipped it back on Miguel’s finger that night, murmuring the words you said in a church so long ago:

“Till death do us part.”

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader #atsv imagine #atsv reader insert #male reader insert #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x male reader #miguel x male reader #male!reader #atsv male!reader insert #atsv x reader #atsv x you #miguel x you #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara x y/n #phyrestartr #smut

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littlespacereader · 5 months

Text

Is it the first of December? Yes. Is the Halloween fic finally finished? YOU BET! I apologize for the wait but here it the long awaited Moon Knight Halloween Fic!! I rewrote the story a couple of times but I hope you all enjoy the Fic!!🌙👻🎃

The Little Protector of the Night🌙

A Moon Knight Halloween Special🎃

Caregiver!Marc Spector & GN Little! Reader (SFW)

Tags - Marc Spector saves the reader, some mean things said about regression, pacifiers, sippy cups, stuffed animal, pull-up (mentioned), dress up, hand holding, hugs

Nicknames - kid, kiddo, little moon knight

A month ago I was walking back from a night class when I came across a group of people. It was almost as if they were waiting for someone to stumble upon them so they could cause trouble.

I tried to just walk past them to no avail. They kept standing in front of me, trying to grab and push me around.

“Go away!” I yelled, looking for my chance to run.

“Aw! Come on! It’s not every day we get to see walking by this time of night.”

One of the members of the group grabbed my backpack and ripped it off me. “Well, well, well, what have we got here?”

“Give it back!!” I rushed forward to grab it back but one of them shoved me back onto the ground.

They proceeded to dump all of my belongings inside onto the alleyway floor. Scattered across the payment fell my school books and such but also my little things like my pacifier, my favorite stuffie, a pull-up, my crayons and coloring book, and some fidget toys.

The group paused only for a second seeing the items. Then they bursted into laughter.

“What are you three?”

“Awwww! Just a little baby are you?”

“Isn’t it past your bedtime baby?”

They inched their way back to me, though not without stepping on all my belongings. I started to crawl backwards and they started towards me.

“No! Stop! Please!”

Tears sprang my eyes as they approached. I just covered my face and wished they would disappear.

And in a way, they suddenly did.

I felt a gust of wind blow past me. Then the sound of the men falling onto the ground 5 feet away. I lifted my head to see, and what I saw widened my eyes.

This god like figure appeared from the night sky and started attacking everyone. One guy got hit into the alley wall, another smashed down to the ground.

I froze in place, watching the man dressed in all white take on the group of people. Where did he come from? How did he know I was in trouble?

Sure, I knew superheroes existed but they were mostly in America. Was he a superhero? He didn’t look like an Avenger. He looked different, but in a good way.

With the last guy taken care of, he stopped and looked at the scene, at all my belongings scattered around, my backpack thrown to the side and me still sitting on the ground with my legs pressed to my chest and on the verge of hyperventilating.

He looked almost like a mummy the way he was wrapped up. A long cape behind him, his face shielded with a mask and a hood. In his hand he held a crescent shaped dagger of sorts. He looked intimidating but so cool.

His mask disappeared and suddenly he was just real. More real than he was before. Before he felt like something from another world, almost god like. Without the mask he was just a person, just like me.

Once his eye caught my own and I think he could see that I was still in a bit of shock because he put the dagger away and held his hands up.

“Hey kiddo, it’s alright now. They’re not going to hurt you anymore.”

His voice sounded surprisingly calming despite being someone who just appeared out of no where and beat up a whole group of people. His voice also sounded surprisingly American.

“Are you an Avenger?” I asked before I even had a chance to think about it.

The man chuckled, “No. Far from it. But I’m a good guy, I promise.“

He began to walk over to me but paused. His eyes caught the sight of my stuffed animal bunny laying down on the gross ground. He picked the stuffie up and walked over towards me.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I’m sorry for what these people did to you and your belongings.”

He crouched down on my level and held out my stuffie to me. “But it seems like your bunny made it out unharmed.” He smiled.

I carefully took my bunny back into my arms and held it tight to me, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. What’s your bunny’s name?”

“Fluffy.”

“Fluffy,” he smiled again. “That’s a nice name fluffy. Fits them perfectly.”

“What your name? I mean your real name and your superhero name?” I asked so curious to who the mystery man was.

“My superhero is Moon Knight, but you can call me Marc. I’m the protector of the travelers of the night just like yourself.”

He stood up and offered me his hand to help me stand. I gladly took it, standing up on legs a bit wobbly. He quickly realized and came over to my side, helping me for a moment till I was okay.

“Thank you. That was scary. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you…” the thought started to make me upset.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay! There’s nothing to worry about anymore. You’re alright and safe now.”

He held his hand in mine for a little comfort. “Let’s get your belongings and take you home okay? I don’t want you out any longer tonight. You shouldn’t be walking home at night by yourself.”

I nodded my head and squeezed his hand. He squeezed it right back before letting it go to help me.

He picked up all my belongings, well, the ones that weren’t destroyed and put them back into my backpack for me. My sippy cup and my pacifier were two of the thing that they destroyed but were replaceable.

Then with my backpack zipped he flung it over his shoulder and took my hand in his once again. “Now, let’s get you home.”

He held my hand the entire walk back to my flat. I thanked him again for everything and just like that he left. And I haven’t seen him since.

The only sign of him from that night was a package I received a few day later. Inside was a new sippy cup and pacifier. I looked at the box confused. I didn’t order anything. But then it hit me who sent it.

No note or anything, just a new sippy cup and pacifier wrapped in tissue paper. The cup’s had a beautiful moon and star design to it and the pacifier had a little moon charm on it.

That was a month ago and yet it feels like yesterday. I can’t shake the idea of him from my mind. He wasn’t like the Avengers, no he was so much cooler than them.

Yet he was so gentle with me. Unlike the group that was trying to hurt me, he didn’t judge me for regressing, in fact he didn’t even mention it. He just noticed and started to help me.

It was weird to say but I missed him. When he held my hand and walked with me back to my flat I almost wished that he was going to stay and make sure I got settled okay. He made me realized maybe I wanted a Caregiver in my life.

But I shook that thought away. No. He was just some guy who knew about regression and was kind to me. I mean that was a month ago! The chance of me seeing him again were slim to none.

~~~

Halloween arrived and everyone in London dressed the part…literally. Everyone walking around was wearing a costume and it was fun to see.

This year I opted not to buy a costume but make my own. With the help of some medical bandages and hot glue I made a replica of the costume I saw Moon Knight wearing. It wasn’t a copy of his costume but I think it was close enough. I even made his crescent moon daggers out of cardboard.

My friends invited me to their house for a costume party. I stayed for a little bit and hung out. Obviously no one knew who I was for Halloween. They just assumed I was a mummy and I was alright with that. The costume was for myself more than anyone else.

But as the night dragged on I could feel myself starting to get tired and starting to regress. So I said my goodbyes to everyone at the party and called it a night.

I don’t live far from them so it wasn’t a long walk. But my quiet night walk was interrupted by someone yelling behind me.

“Hey it’s that moon freak!”

I turned around to see who was yelling and my heart dropped. It was the same group as last time. How? I have no idea.

They must’ve recognized me too but I didn’t give them the chance to comment on it. I took off running. I was close to home, maybe I could make it.

But the group was fast on my tail trying to get me. My feet and their feet echoed down the alley way towards my apartment.

I grabbed the door and was about to enter when they grabbed me and pulled me off. The group pulled me away despite my struggles to break free.

“Can you imagine our luck! The baby from last time. And look, they’re dressed up as that crazy man with the cape.” One said.

I tried to pull my arms away from their grip but I couldn’t. “Stop!! Go away!!”

“It’s a shame he isn’t here to join us in our reunion! Oh well, guess we’ll just have to go on without him.” Another laughed.

Suddenly a mental crescent dagger hit the man next to me, then suddenly another.

We all looked up to see Moon Knight flying from the roof top down to the alley way. I stepped back as he started to take on the group for a second time. Like the last time it was interesting to see.

But as he was fighting I could see one of them grabbing something to hit him with. So armed with my two cardboard crescent moons I threw them at the guy. It did nothing to him, but it did distract him enough for Marc to take him down.

“Nice shot kid!” He yelled out.

I smiled back, proud to help the fight. Then, like the last time, everyone was laying unconscious on the ground. Then it was just Marc and myself.

“What did I say about walking alone at night?” His mask disappeared again so I could see the eyebrows raise.

“I was right around the corner! I didn’t know they would be here!” I argued. I’m

Marc smiled, dropping the tough guy act. “I love your costume this year. You look exactly like me. It’s almost uncanny. Did you do that yourself?”

“Yeah! I made it myself! I really wanted to be you for Halloween! You look so cool.” I smiled.

“Well I think you look cooler. Plus my costume isn’t homemade, making you’re the coolest.” He winked.

He walked over to me, “Where’s fluffy tonight? Didn’t join you for Halloween?”

I shook my head, “I didn’t want to lose them at the party.”

Marc hummed. He looked around and sighed, “Listen kiddo, I don’t feel safe with you going back to your flat with these idiots laying unconscious outside. But I also don’t want you to be alone with your headspace right now. So, if you feel comfortable with it, I can take you back to my apartment and keep an eye on you there. Sound good?”

I smile broke out across my face, “Yes!! That would be so much fun!!” I was practically jumping up and down.

Marc smiled back, “Alright good. Let’s go to your apartment and get your things and then we’ll head to my place.”

Running up the stairs of my apartment, I quickly brought Marc into my flat and introduced him to every stuffie I had, all of which he shook their hands, paws and fins. Then he helped me pack a bag and grab whatever I would need for the night.

With my apartment door closed and locked the two of us started walking towards his apartment, strolling through London together hand in hand.

Problem was his apartment was a bit of a walk across London. So as the walk went on I could feel myself starting to get more and more tired. At one point it felt as though he was dragging me along.

Eventually he turned and picked me up, holding me on his hip. “There we go. Tuckered out from all your crime fighting my little moon knight?”

My little moon knight. It sounded so nice.

“Can I be your little moon knight?”

My heart was beating out of my chest. It’s wasn’t just anything…it was asking if he was a caregiver and wanted me as his little one.

Marc smiled, “I would be honored to have you as my little moon knight. My little sidekick in both life and now crime fighting.”

I smiled back and rested my head against his shoulder. I can’t believe Moon Knight is now my Caregiver. I’ve never felt more safe and happy.

~~~

I drifted on and off while Marc walked through London. After the the third time waking up in his arms I lifted my head up and looked at him confused.

“Marc?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going the right way?”

“Yeah…yeah I think we’re going the right away…I have to ask Steven.” Marc said talking to myself more than me.

At first the comment went over my head, blame it on the tiredness. But then it hit me.

Who the hell is Steven?

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twoidiotwriters1 · 2 months

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The Curse of Oenone (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: The House of Hades chapters were massively fun to write, I hope you love them -Danny Words: 2,237 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

XXVII: I'm in My Critical-Thinking Era

Today is Ara's 15th birthday, according to the magical screens surrounding the room: The beach has remains of a party. The fireworks show must've happened while they were fighting the rock giants or while she was sleeping.

Leo glances at the screen, then freezes and takes a second look. "Hey—!"

She drags him out of the room. "Don't say anything to them!"

The boy scowls. "What? Why not?"

"This is the worst timing possible," Ara's expression is horror-struck and pale. "Do you think I'm in the mood to celebrate?"

The boy blushes. "But pretending it's not an important date..."

"In the future..." Ara trails off. There is no future. If they're lucky they have a few weeks at most. "Listen, just forget it."

Leo glances at the screens and makes a face. "You shouldn't be spending it like this."

"Don't start," she groans, turning away to enter the mess hall, but Leo stops her.

"You should be in camp with Lily. Or with your parents—"

"And what difference does it make if I'm here or there? My family would be incomplete, the Romans would be all around camp..." she huffs, pushing his hand away. "There's no way I would've enjoyed my birthday this year. Let it go."

Leo stares at her, struggling to find the words. "If... If we'd met sooner, I would've thrown huge parties for you. A whole week of 'em."

Ara wants to cry at his words, but she thinks this is a worthy trade at the very least. She saves the world, therefore she only gets shitty birthdays. Whatever. She got to have three birthday parties throughout her entire life, it's not like she's suffering a major loss.

Leo was supposed to find her last December, it had to happen that way, otherwise, she wouldn't've taken the role of daughter of Olympus, and her prophecy is their only hope to break the curse...

Mike wouldn't've died. Janus whispers mockingly. Is one life worthier than the other?

She cups his face. "Having you around is enough. Besides, your birthday is also in two days, we can celebrate then if you want."

"I communed with the dead last night. I was able to learn more about what we'll face," Nico says as they eat breakfast. "In ancient times, the House of Hades was a major site for Greek pilgrims. They would come to speak with the dead and honor their ancestors."

"Sounds like Día de los Muertos," Leo mentions. "My Aunt Rosa took that stuff seriously."

"Chinese have that, too," Frank adds. "Ancestor worship, sweeping the graves in the springtime. Your Aunt Rosa would've gotten along with my grandmother."

"Yeah," Leo mutters. "I'm sure they would've been best buds."

"A lot of cultures have seasonal traditions to honor the dead," Nico agrees. "But the House of Hades was open year-round. Pilgrims could actually speak to the ghosts. In Greek, the place was called the Necromanteion, the Oracle of Death. You'd work your way through different levels of tunnels, leaving offerings and drinking special potions—"

"Special potions," Leo mumbles. "Yum."

Jason flashes a warning look at him, he doesn't want him to upset Nico because then he will tease Ara in turn. "Nico, go on," the boy says politely.

"The pilgrims believed that each level of the temple brought you closer to the Underworld, until the dead would appear before you. If they were pleased with your offerings, they would answer your questions, maybe even tell you the future."

"And if the spirits weren't pleased?" Frank asks.

"Some pilgrims found nothing," Nico shrugs. "Some went insane, or died after leaving the temple. Others lost their way in the tunnels and were never seen again."

"You always know the hottest spots to visit," Ara jokes.

"Right up your alley, desperate sacrifices just to get crumbs. Anyway, the ghost I spoke to last night, he was a former priest of Hecate. He confirmed what the goddess told Hazel yesterday at the crossroads. In the first war with the giants, Hecate fought for the gods. She slew one of the giants—one who'd been designed as the anti-Hecate. A guy named Clytius."

"Dark dude," Leo says. "Wrapped in shadows."

"Leo, how did you know that?" Hazel questions.

"Kind of had a dream," Leo explains his nightmares to the group and Ara leans forward on the table rubbing her forehead.

"So the giant is Clytius," Jason concludes. "I suppose he'll be waiting for us, guarding the Doors of Death."

"And the woman in Leo's dream?" Frank inquires.

"She's my problem." Hazel says. "Hecate mentioned a formidable enemy in the House of Hades —a witch who couldn't be defeated except by me, using magic."

"Do you know magic?" Leo asks

"Not yet."

"Ah. Any idea who she is?"

"Only that..." There is a brief pause and Ara looks up to see Nico and Hazel sharing a look, then the girl speaks. "Only that she won't be easy to defeat."

Ara remembers what Leo told her: Maze. Magic. A woman. It's not that hard to connect the dots, and she hates how quickly she understands what they'll be facing, part of her hopes to be dead wrong, but it's unlikely.

"But there is some good news," Nico says. "The ghost I talked to explained how Hecate defeated Clytius in the first war. She used her torches to set his hair on fire. He burned to death. In other words, fire is his weakness."

"Oh," Leo sits up. "Okay."

Ara shifts uncomfortably in her seat, nothing is as easy as it sounds, but she doesn't want to say it. Athena's blessing is working within her, she knows at last how it feels to be Annabeth and Lily, her brain constantly seeking info to make plans.

"Leo's fire isn't the same kind of magical as Hecate's. But I could try and teach you to control the mist," she offers to Hazel, and the girl blushes at Ara's offer. They haven't interacted a lot, so it's still a bit awkward between them. "I'm not a sorceress, but it's got to be worth something, right?"

"It's worth a try," Jason agrees. "At least we know how to kill the giant. And this sorceress... well, if Hecate believes Hazel can defeat her, then so do I."

Hazel sighs. "Now we just have to reach the House of Hades, battle our way through Gaea's forces—"

"Plus a bunch of ghosts," Nico adds. "The spirits in that temple may not be friendly."

"—and find the Doors of Death. Assuming we can somehow arrive at the same time as Percy and Annabeth and rescue them."

"We can do it," Frank tries to encourage them. "We have to."

"Well, that depends on how long it'll take us to get there," Ara turns to Leo.

"So, with this detour," he voices, "I'm estimating four or five days to arrive at Epirus, assuming no delays for, you know, monster attacks and stuff."

"Yeah. Those never happen." Jason says sarcastically.

"Hecate told you that Gaea was planning her big Wake Up party on August first, right?" Leo turns to Hazel. "The Feast of Whatever?"

"Spes. The goddess of hope."

"Theoretically, this leaves us enough time," Jason interjects. "It's only July fifth."

As expected, Nico's gaze locks with hers and he opens his mouth slightly, tilting his head as if about to ask something. Ara's eyes widen and she shakes her head discretely but making it clear that he has to stay quiet.

"...We should be able to close the Doors of Death, then find the giants' HQ and stop them from waking Gaea before August first," Jason finishes.

"Theoretically," Hazel nods. "But I'd still like to know how we make our way through the House of Hades without going insane or dying."

"Well, that's Nico's job," Ara points out. "You're the Ghost King, right?"

Nico scowls, but Frank pushes his plate away with a look of discomfort and speaks before the younger boy can. "It's July fifth. Oh, jeez, I hadn't even thought of that...."

"Hey, man, it's cool," Leo replies. "You're Canadian, right? I didn't expect you to get me an Independence Day present or anything... unless you wanted to."

"It's not that. My grandmother... she always told me that seven was an unlucky number. It was a ghost number. She didn't like it when I told her there would be seven demigods on our quest. And July is the seventh month."

"Yeah, but..." Leo taps his fingers on the table anxiously, the morse code for I love you on repeat. He doesn't seem to notice. "But that's just coincidence, right?"

"Back in China," Frank continues, "in the old days, people called the seventh month the ghost month. That's when the spirit world and the human world were closest. The living and the dead could go back and forth. Tell me it's a coincidence we're searching for the Doors of Death during the ghost month."

"Man, shut up," Ara doesn't like the idea of her birth month being an unlucky one, especially because Leo's birthday is on the seventh day, and Jason's...

Ara looks at him. Jason's birthday! It was the same day they lost Percy and Annabeth... Jason doesn't even flinch at Frank's speech, he keeps it together like a true Roman, but still, Ara feels guilty.

"Let's focus on the things we can deal with. We're getting close to Bologna. Maybe we'll get more answers once we find these dwarfs that Hecate—"

The Argo II stops violently and they get tossed in different directions. Ara hits her ribs on the edge of the table and looks around not understanding what's happening.

"Nico!" Hazel gasps when he collapses against a wall.

"Look!" Jason pointed at the images of Camp Half-Blood.

Except it is no longer Camp Half-Blood. In its place, all she sees is chubby messed-up faces standing too close to the cameras. They flicker again and show the deck, where Piper and Hedge are gagged and unable to move.

Ara holds onto the wall and seizes Almighty. "What are those?"

As they watch the two little creatures bounce around stealing stuff, one of them snatches the Archimedes sphere out of its place, which sets Leo off. "No!"

"Piper!" Jason exclaims as he gets out from under the table.

"Monkey!" Frank shouts in alarm.

"Not monkeys," Hazel helps Nico up. "I think those are dwarfs—"

"Stealing my stuff!" Leo rushes out of the room.

Ara Jackson is a girl with a short fuse.

It's carefully hidden, though, which means not many things can trigger it. But Dwarfs breaking the things she's been looking after since they left home? That's definitely a way to get her murderous mode on.

She watches them jump from one place to another and realizes she can't beat them with brute force. These beings are faster than she ever was, and by the looks of it, are professional bandits. Even Connor and Travis wouldn't stand a chance.

"Duck!" Leo tackles her by the waist before a grenade hits her.

Ara groans and tries to push Leo off, but she can't. "You left those on deck?!"

"Sorry I didn't think of the possibility of dwarfs setting them off!" Leo complains, unable to move.

Ara can't function properly, the dwarfs used the grenades Leo made for her (he was trying to cheer her up after what had happened at the Fort). They were filled with Apollo's magic, some liquid booming melodies that were meant to disorient and stun.

Ara crawls to a sitting position just in time to see a dwarf run away with Leo's belt... and Almighty. They reach a ballista and one of the dwarves shoots the other out of the ship, then the one left walks towards the rail, hits Coach Hedge, and jumps out of sight mockingly waving goodbye to Ara and Leo.

"Those horrid sons of—"

"Come on," Leo stumbles to his feet, his eyes red and glossy.

Leo and Jason pick her off the ground and Ara stays still trying to get rid of the dizziness. Gorilla!Frank is out-cold, tongue out.

"Piper!" Jason stumbles over to his girlfriend.

"Don't waste your time on me!" The girl complains when he pulls out the gag from her mouth. "Go after them!"

Ara makes her way to the control board and discovers with horror that the dwarves also took her Octopi. She turns to Leo, understanding in their gazes as they fall to the same conclusion: Those dipshits have to pay.

Leo turns to Jason. "You feeling good enough to control the winds? Ara and I need a lift."

"Sure, but—"

"Good," Leo interrupts him. "We've got some monkey dudes to catch."

Ara's fingertips are burning with the need to strangle the living garden gnomes. "My plushie bags are off-limits," she says gravely. "They're going down."

"Where to?" Jason asks once they are in the middle of the small town.

Leo frowns. "Well, I dunno. Let me pull my dwarf-tracking GPS out of my tool belt... Oh, wait! I don't have a dwarf-tracking GPS—or my tool belt!"

"Be nice," Ara palms her pocket and with relief finds Almighty has come back to her. "Jason's trying to help."

"Thank you," says the boy, though also looking angry. Piper being mistreated isn't something that he lets slide. "The ballista fired the first dwarf in that direction, I think. Come on."

Ara thinks about Lily again. Her family was from Italy, and she'd always dreamed about coming here, to get acquainted with her roots, demigod and mortal. But Lily is stuck at camp fighting a war she didn't start and Ara's here, and if she fails, there might not be an Italy to visit in the future.

Now that she's as old as Mike was when he died, Ara wonders which friend is going to die this time, the one who's been forced to stay behind and grow older, or the one that's running forward and still playing pretend.

Next Chapter –>

Taglist.

@siriuslysirius1107 @ask-giggles1303 @asnyox-the-hoarder @im-planning-something-look @bandshirts-andbooks @coolninjapaper @thewaterlily @whenisthefall @1randomcomic @you-bloody-shank @sunflowergraves @owlalex44 @taylordaughter @typicalsolangelolover @writingmia @espressopatronum454 @slytherinnqueen @orbitingpolaris @obxstiles @ellipsisspelled @thepixiechicksh

#twoidiots writing #pjo fanfic #leo valdez fanfic #doo #leo valdez x oc #heroes of olympus #percy jackson and the olympians

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claire-elvisgirl · 4 months

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🎄 A CHRISTMAS PAINTING 🎄

Hi again. This was supposed to come out on Christmas day, but I've been sick and so it slipped away, but I think it's time to give it to you. I hope you like it!

Summary: Christmas time is near. You’re looking for inspirations to paint and Elvis needs some good feelings, since it’s the first Christmas without his mother

Warnings: Fluff, light smut

Word cunt: 3618

Memphis, December 1958

It was almost Christmas. The first Christmas without his mother. Elvis was struggling to feel some good vibes from the most joyful season of the year, but it was really hard. He often walked in her room and sat on her bed, then he would lay down there and cry in silence. He didn’t want anybody to see him so vulnerable. He wondered how could he go on with his life now that she was gone…the movies, the recordings…everything lost its meaning, but he knew that sooner or later he had to held his head high and try to be well again. And that’s when you came in help. You studied art and your biggest passion was painting. You painted practically everything, everywhere, and you always carried with you pencils and sheets. You were also a big Elvis fan and you never hid to anyone that your biggest dream was being able to paint a portrait of him…live. You already sketched him so many times on your book, but a live portrait would have been the cherry on the cake. So you took courage and you sent a letter asking to meet him. With your biggest surprise, he accepted and when you received the answer you almost passed out. He sent one of his friends to pick you up and he had you taken to Graceland. As you reached his house your jaw fell on the floor: even if his sadness still hit him hard, the yard was full of lights and many Christmas trees surrounded the house. A big nativity scene was placed on the side of the road and as you passed by your eyes widened, like a child under the Christmas tree. The guy who picked you up took you inside, he had you sit on the long white couch and asked you to wait. You looked around yourself. Everything was shiny and at his right place. The house held a great sense of family, but you knew something had changed. You read on the newspaper about his mother’s passing and you still wondered how he felt. You didn’t even imagine he would have welcomed you in his house to fulfil one of your biggest dream. After a while, you heard voices coming from the upper floor and as you turned your head, you saw him entering the room. He was literally the most handsome man you ever laid your eyes on and as he approached you, you felt your legs trembling and your heart beating faster. He put on a little smile and held out his hand to you: “Hi, I’m Elvis Presley, ya must be y/n, right!?” he asked gently. You held his hand and you felt a huge sense of warmth spreading from it, almost like he just held something very hot, but he didn’t, it was his personal charm that hit you like a wave.

You tried to answer, but words were stuck in your troath: “Y-yes…it’s…a pleasure to meet you…”

He came closer to you: “Aw don’t be so nervous, I don’t bite and I’m always happy to meet my fans!” he answered with a sweet smile. Then he motioned you to sit down. “Ya wanna something to drink?” he asked. You shook your head with a smile. He sat down next to you crossing his legs: “So…y/n, right? I read your letter and…ya said you’re some kind of…artist!?”

You were trying to calm down as you answered: “Yes, actually I study art and I love to paint…that’s why I sent that letter, but…I never thought you…”

“You never thought I was interested?” he asked “I’m always interested in pretty things!”

You blushed and coughed: “Well…if you read my letter you know why I’m here…I suppose…”

“I did. Ya really want to paint a portrait of me!?” he asked with a smile.

“Why not? I won’t even make you pay…it would be a great promotion for me!” you answered gently.

He looked at you curiously: “But why me?”

“Oh please, you’re perfect, you would be the best subject in the whole world!”

He put on a big smile: “Ya truly think so?”

You smiled back and you felt a great sense of joy, because that was the first time you saw him really smiling: “I have no doubts, but if you don’t want to…that’s okay…”

“Oh no hun, I’m more than happy to help ya, I’ll be proud to be your model!” he replied holding out his hand and grabbing your sketchbook “May I?”

You tried to stop him, but he was already peeking into it. He turned page after page and he found many pictures of him: “Why y/n, it seems ya already practiced on me!”

You took the book back embarrassed: “Well, you weren’t supposed to see them…”

“Ya kiddin’? Now that I saw how good ya are I’ll be even happier to pose for ya!”

You felt your heart full of joy: “Really? Oh my God, I’m so happy I could kiss you!” and as you said those words, you blushed even more and stuttered: “Oh dear…I-I’m sorry…I…”

He giggled at your embarrassment: “Aw, that’s okay, there’s no need to apologize. Would ya like to know something?”

“What?”

“You’re adorable when ya get embarrassed!” he pinched your nose with a warm smile on his face and he laughed a little bit. You headed for the door: “I have to go now, when could we start the painting?” you asked.

“Tomorrow night…is it okay for ya?” he asked.

“Perfect…see you tomorrow then!”

As you walked home, he watched at you from his doorstep. He felt a strange sensation into his heart, something like a sweet feeling blowing through his body. He closed the door and he went to his parents’ room. He picked up a photo of his mother and smiled at it…and for a little while she seemed to smile back too.

The following day…

You spent the whole night daydreaming and it was about time to get dressed for meeting him. You picked out your favourite dress and you put on some make-up, in hopes to be as beautiful as ever for him. After you dressed, you fixed a bag with all your painting stuff and then you got out of your house. The same car that picked you up the day before, was already waiting for you. The car drove slowly towards Graceland and your heart beat faster as you got closer to the house. You got off the car and you saw him on the stairs of the front door waiting for you. He wore a black two-pieces suit that left his chest in sight, a detail that you could not avoid to see. He ran to you and he gave you a big hug, taking your hand and leading you to the house.

“Hi darlin’!” he whispered to you with his beautiful voice. You looked around nervously and followed him with a blush on your face.

“Ya have no reason to be nervous!” he said smiling. Then he took your hand and grabbed it tight, making sure not to let go. His presence had a sort of effect on you, making you nervous and happy at the same time. You smiled and walked towards the doorway, Elvis following close behind you. He walked over to a beautiful piano in the corner and he sat down gently. As he tapped his fingers on it, he spoke to you: “Would ya like to see upstairs as well?! Or would ya like to start the painting now?” his voice still calm.

You looked at him and you noticed a sweet ray of sunlight kissing his hair. It was perfect: “I was thinking that maybe that would be the right place for the painting…there at the piano I mean…unless you don’t have a better idea!”

He glanced at the piano and then back at you: “I would love to have ya paint me at the piano, it’s one of my favourite spots in the house. I often play this piano actually…” he answered playing a sweet melody “So it’s done…I’ll pose here, just lemme know what ya want me to do!”

“Well…just be yourself!” you answered with a smile as you took out your pencils and brushes.

“Alright then, I’ll be myself just for ya baby!” he answered sitting on the bench. He placed his hands on the piano and his knees bent a little bit. He took a deep breath and looked at you: “Alright, go ahead…don’t stop until it’s finished!” he said in a genuine and serious tone.

“Alright then…here we go!” you took a deep breath and posed gently the pencil on the paper, starting to sketch his beautiful face. “Oh my God, I’m so nervous…”

He chuckled again: “Ya don’t have to, hun…I’m just here to sit and look pretty for your painting!”

“Thanks…” you answered “Look at me please”

His eyes darted back to you and he smiled, finding your nervousness adorable: “Ya want me to look at ya?”

“Well…I have to decide if it’s better for you to look at the piano or at me!”

He stayed silent for a while before speaking again: “I would say…it depends on what ya want to try to capture…do ya want to show how I look when I play the piano…” he smiled “…or maybe when I look at ya?”

You felt a strange warmth raising to your cheeks and you blushed: “Okay, look at the piano…”

He nodded and turned his eyes back to the piano, making it easy for you to paint. You kept sketching quickly and rough, before starting to give your draw a precise shape. He tried to talk again, but you hushed him.

“Oh okay…but I just have to say one thing…ya don’t know how beautiful ya are when ya paint. It makes me wonder what will come out once you’re done!”

He looked back at the piano as you kept sketching and your emotion grew bigger. As you kept drawing, he sat there and watched at you, fascinating with your artwork and his face showed all his emotions. He kept smiling, but tis time he seemed to be getting lost in his thoughts.

“You feel okay?” you asked him suddenly.

“I feel…like I’m fallin’ in love!” he answered, making you almost falling from the couch. He stared at you speaking with a calm and gentle tone. Your hands trembled a little. He noticed it immediately: “Hey baby, don’t shake too much or I’ll look like a clown!” he laughed.

You took a deep breath: “Try not to embarrass me!”

“Embarrass ya? Why would I do that to someone I’m fallin’ in love with? Let’s get this painting right baby…I think we’re almost done, aren’t we?”

After a while you took a breath: “Okay, let’s stop for a sec…I need to rest for a while…”

He nodded once again and walked close to you: “Take all the time ya need…ya know what? This is the most I’ve sat still since…”

“Since…?” you asked him.

“He stayed silent before speaking again: “Never mind y/n…anyway…make yourself comfortable and take a break!” he paused and waited for you “I’ll be right here hun, the entire time I’m waiting for ya to finish!” he said rubbing gently your shoulders.

“You seem sad…is everything okay?” you asked.

“Sad? Oh it’s nothing baby…nothing at all. It’s just thoughts passin’ through my mind, don’t worry!” he smiled and kept rubbing your shoulders while speaking. “I know I said that, but it’s not like I’m sad, I’m just a little nostalgic…that’s all, I’ll be fine!”

His hands stopped and he looked at you: “Can I ask ya a question?”

“Sure!” you answered as you adjusted the sketch.

“Why do ya like painting so much?” he kept looking at you “Is it the way ya feel free? The way ya can create whatever ya want?”

You looked up: “Well…my grandpa was a painter too…and when I was little I loved watching him painting…”

He seemed surprised: “Ah, so that’s who influenced ya? And do ya do it just for fun or is this something that ya do to make money?”

“Well, I don’t know if it can someday bring me money…but it’s not the main thing…”

He smiled: “I’m pretty sure there’s someone out there that will gladly buy your artworks y/n, ya just have to find the right person!” he stayed silent for a while, making sure his words reached your heart and soul. Then his eyes fell on your drawing: “This is amazing…”

His voice still remained calm as he kept talking: “Remember, ya only need to paint whatever ya want. Don’t let other people pressure ya into what they want ya to paint…just stick to your heart…” he smiled sweetly “You’re doin’ a great job!”

You moved your hands on the paper again, but his voice and his presence made you tremble so many times that you felt you couldn’t keep going on with your work. He notices it: “Baby ya seem so nervous and uncomfortable…”

“N-no, I’m fine…don’t worry…”

“Da ya mind if I ask ya something?” he asked gently.

“What is it?”

“What are ya gonna do with this painting?” he asked curiously.

“I was thinking of gifting it to you…so you can do what you want with it…”

He seemed completely surprised: “Baby ya don’t have to gift anything to me…ya can keep it for yourself if ya want!”

“Don’t worry…it would be a pleasure!” you replied.

“Well, I…if ya insist on givin’ it to me, I’ll gladly take it, but…I-I wanna giva ya something in return!”

He looked at you with his twinkling eyes: “I never thought I’d find a person like ya…I think I…”

You saw him getting closer and closer: “Elvis, I…”

After a while, your lips met in a tender kiss. He rubbed your hair without breaking the kiss. His lips pressed harder on yours and he kept kissing you, while his hands caressed you from head to toes. Suddenly he pulled away: “Y/n…” he looked at you and kissed you again with more passion. You felt overwhelmed, but you didn’t find the strength to stop him. You leaned closer and kissed him again. He moved closer again, trying to get the most pleasure out of that kiss. After a while, he stopped: “God baby…I could kiss ya for hours…”

You threw away your pencil and your sketchbook and held him back, feeling your emotions growing bigger: “Please…kiss me again!” you begged. He chuckled and smiled, before pulling you towards him once again, pressing his lips on yours. His kiss was soft at first, but then he moved his hands slowly to your waist. He pulled you close and placed his hands around your hips, still kissing you with a sensual, soft and passionate kiss. Then he looked at you: “How do ya like that kiss, my lil’ artist?”

You were speechless: “You’re literally my best model…I usually paint apples and oranges…and they don’t get up and kiss me like that…” you laughed.

He laughed back: “Ah yeah…I do seem to look much better than a piece of fruit, don’t I?”

You looked at him, thinking you would have gladly tasted that piece of fruit, but your eyes fell on your watch: “Oh my God…it’s late…I have to go!”

He nodded and spoke to you in a flirty tone: “One last kiss…pretty please…I’ll make it quick, I promise!?”

You couldn’t say no and your lips met again, even if for a shorter time.

You looked at him: “Could…could you take me home?” you asked.

“Of course hun…it’s the least I can do to thank you for the wonderful painting…and for those kisses!”

He took your hand and walked to the door, opening it for you. Before stepping outside, you asked him: “It’ll be possible that we see each other again?”

He smiled: “I think we definitely will see each other again…I don’t think I can’t be too far from ya anymore! And I don’t mean just kissin ya…I wanna take care of ya in ev’ry possible way…I wanna love ya…”

You stopped and looked at him: “What?”

He watched you raising an eyebrow: “What’s wrong? I’m just being honest with ya…and I’m tellin’ ya how I really feel about ya!”

“You mean…”

“I’m tellin’ that I love ya! It took me a while to understand it, but…I love ya, so…I really wanna see ya again soon…can I?”

You were shocked hearing his words: “Well…why not? I mean…there would be nothing wrong…”

“What about this weekend?” he asked.

“I…I’d love to!” you replied.

He grabbed your hands: “I-I feel this sudden happiness…a-and I think…I truly wanna spend ev’ry single day of my life with ya!” he looked at you waiting for an answer.

“Oh Elvis…” your eyes filled with tears.

“What…is it too soon to say these things?” he asked “Am I being too honest?”

“I think…maybe it’s too early…” you replied, not being able to leave the hold of his hands.

“I’m sorry baby, but when it comes to ya, I can’t lie…”

You felt scared, but at the same time you felt the same things for him, you were just too nervous to tell him. You answered him with a kiss, but suddenly something happened. The passion hit both of you and you found yourselves on the couch, kissing and caressing each other. His eyes widened as soon as you pulled him closer and he took a moment to realize what was happening. He closes his eyes and put his hands behind your head, wanting to keep that kiss going for as long as he could. He moved his hands along your body, until he found himself caressing you all over. He smiled and his voices sounded softer, just to make you feel more comfortable. Then he leaned closer and whispered in your ear: “Y/n, I can’t wait for the weekend…it’s almost Christmas, would ya mind stayin’ tonight? I don’t wanna walk ya home now!”

You looked at him shocked: “Elvis, I…” he held you so tight that you could feel his heart beating hard in his chest “I feel the same…I don’t wanna go home…I wanna stay here with you!”

He pulled you closer to him and he kissed you again, deeper and more passionately. He wrapped his arms around your body and he moved his hands down to your hips: “I feel I can be completely myself with ya...and I like that feeling!”

You enjoyed his hug and your mind started to race…would have he really keep you for himself? Would have he marry you? You thought it was better not to have any expectations with him…you decided to just enjoy things while they lasted. It was Christmas’ Eve and instead of being with your family, you were in Elvis’ arms, enjoying probably the best night of your life. He looked sweetly at you: “Baby…I wanna spend all my Christmases with ya…” he said holding you. As he looked at his watch, he looked right into your eyes: “I just can’t go to sleep without my gift…”

You perfectly knew what he was talking about and without saying a word you followed him into his bedroom. Your heart kept beating faster as you got closer and closer to spend the night with him. Once you got inside the bedroom, he closed the door and he turned to you speaking gently to you: “Baby…I want ya to know…I’m not gonna force ya to do anything ya don’t wanna do, okay?”

You looked at him and nodded: “Okay!”

He kept kissing you in a loving and romantic way, talking to you in a soft and gentle tone: “Baby, ya can’t even imagine how much I want ya right now…” he smiled and for once in a long time he felt really happy. You looked at him and caressed him gently: “I…I want you too!”

He pushed you gently on his bed and he started to touch you with a gentle touch, full of all his love. As he caressed you, he asked you in a whisper: “Baby…can I…?”

He didn’t finish his sentence, but you perfectly knew what he was asking for. You looked at him and murmured a soft yes, as you let him taking off your clothes. After a while, both of you were completely naked, wrapped around each other, while your bodies warmed one on the other. You found yourself pinned down on the bed, with him covering you completely. You could feel the warmth of his body spreading towards you and after a while, he climbed on top of you, making you feel his hardness, pointing right at your core. As he moved gently, you felt his hard member pushing slowly inside you, making you gasp from the sudden pleasure. He moved up and down, making you feel the best pleasure of your life. It was the first time for you, but you didn’t tell him; you just enjoyed that incredible wave of pleasure that hit you with his every movement. Suddenly you felt his cock getting even harder and with a loud moan he came inside you, filling you with his hot juice. That feeling sent you over the moon. He didn’t even asked you, but you couldn’t be angry with him. You loved him so much that you let him have his way with you without stopping him. He gently pulled out and looked sweetly at you: “’M sorry baby…I-I…”

“You don’t have to be sorry…” you replied “…everything’s alright!”

Suddenly, a distant clock rang twelve times and he hugged you tighter than ever: “Happy Christmas baby!”

#elvis presley #elvis the king #this man will be the death of me #elvis smut #50s elvis #elvis fanfiction #elvis fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #elvis at christmas #christmas #obsessed with elvis

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i-did-not-mean-to · 5 months

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Mind Control

Let's kick the darker part of December off with Námo having an idea, Irmo enabling his brother, and Fëanor having a very bad time because of it...

Please be advised that this story, as all stories, are on the fringe of consent and good taste at times.

Please proceed warily! Take care of yourselves, loves!

Prompt: Mind Control

Characters: Námo, Irmo, Fëanor x Nerdanel

Words: 2 210

Warnings: Minor Manipulation, confusion -> dubcon, NSFW, nudity, reference to potential incest, vaginal sex

“Brother!”

Irmo looked up in surprise—it was rare that Námo came to see him at work for the eminently dignified Lord was usually entirely absorbed by his own tasks.

Curiosity and earnest affection gave the Ruler of Reveries wings as he rushed over to the dark shadow’s side, basking in the air of cool efficiency emanating from his older sibling.

Where Nienna was warm and soothing, Námo was the blessed, fresh breeze on a sweltering day, and Irmo loved them both more than words could describe.

“What can I do for you, oh Lord of the Dead?” he asked teasingly—he was too attuned to the desires and impulses of those around him not to notice the discreet thrum of unspoken wishes in his brother’s soul.

“Punishment,” Námo replied calmly.

Sucking his teeth, the Lord of Dreams and Desires shook his head. “That is not my purview, as you well know, and I am sure that my wife would not approve.”

The heavy cowl dissimulating a pale face of heart-wrenching, soul-destroying beauty shifted as Námo cocked his head in disbelief.

“I am the judge of all things—I am the law and the right—and you think that I’d come to you behind Estë’s back?”

It was now the older one’s turn to cluck reprovingly.

“Your wife has given me quite an interesting lecture on the bodies of incarnates—she agrees that, once an impasse such as the one I am facing is reached, one must consider more drastic therapeutic measures.”

“Very well then,” Irmo gave in. “Am I right in surmising that it is one of those pesky Ñoldorin kings of yore who is to suffer terrible nightmares?”

Pride and affection shone in tangible waves from the deep, dark recesses of Námo’s obscuring cloak as he nodded slowly. “Curufinwë Fëanáro himself,” he admitted. “And—ah! Come and see for yourself.”

Irmo followed that exhortation obediently even though he was already perfectly aware of the confused and torturous labyrinth of half-formed wishes and reluctant desires smouldering in the Elf’s soul as embers in a neglected forge.

“Methinks, he doesn’t need any of us to make himself laughably miserable,” he remarked upon sliding up beside his impassive, motionless brother when they finally reached the cell of one of the most notorious of the Children.

“He needs guidance,” Námo started decisively.

“He’s always refused it,” Irmo reminded him gently.

“Yes.” A hint of supercilious humour tinged the Judge’s voice now. “That is why we won’t give him any choice this time.”

Fëanor stared despondently at the wavering nothingness surrounding him when he was quite overcome by a sudden wave of fatigue—he instinctively knew that there was nothing natural about it, but he could not shake off the blinding mist obdurately flooding his leaden mind.

Everything around him seemed to blur into a maelstrom of melting time and swirling events, and he could do nought but bear it, in hopes that sooner or later the sickening vertigo would subside.

When he finally managed to blink and clear his sight, he was standing in a bedroom he had not seen in an eternity. In front of him, stood a young maiden with whom he had once exchanged a few flirty, inconsequential quips in the halls of his father.

“’Náro,” she sighed, undoing the laces of her tunic and laying bare beautifully youthful, pert breasts that were screaming for his attention and tenderness.

“No,” Fëanor muttered. “This is not what happened—we have never…”

He could feel strange, inquisitive eyes burning into the back of his neck, and he rolled his shoulders uncomfortably to brace against the pervasive influx of corrupting madness some evil power was pouring into his befuddled mind.

He had always known, he reminded himself adamantly. Even in the most foolish years of his unsullied youth, he had been painfully aware of his duties, and she had been but the daughter of a minor courtier. He would never have risked her reputation and his hand for a fleeting tryst.

Before his very eyes, however, she now undressed further and extended her pale, soft arms to him, and he found himself unable to withstand the alluring call of her self-forgotten willingness. Too long had he abided in solitude and darkness, condemned to mull over his crimes in utter isolation, and so he could not forego the chance to feel another body’s heat chase the ubiquitous chill that had crept into his immaterial bones.

At the very moment that his body was about to collide with her firm, nubile flesh, though, the whole scene shifted once more.

“Brother,” Ñolo, his half-brother, turned around and gave him one of those tender, slightly awkward smiles that did nothing to distract from the impressive shapeliness of his bare chest. “Have you come to reprimand me for being late? Which one do you like better?”

Fëanor shrank back as the old-familiar burn of illicit, morally abhorrent desire made his thighs clench and his mouth go dry.

Indis’s first-born had ever been as compellingly gorgeous as infuriatingly oblivious of that fact, and he had hated him with a fervent passion for fear of what other feelings and yearnings might be hidden just underneath the thin veneer of his hurt pride.

While Fëanor was battling his baser instincts, Fingolfin was holding up two shirts—one of a subdued eggshell colour and the other one a mesmerizingly deep blue—as if he was truly expecting his seemingly not-all-too-surprising visitor to help him choose between them.

“What do I care?” Fëanor barked so he would not pounce upon that naked flesh and sink his teeth into the bulging muscles to make the other squirm and squeal with pain and rapture alike.

The disappointed, injured look spreading across Fingolfin’s soft, sweet face made Fëanor’s heart clench, but his involuntary reaction of relenting tenderness only gave rise to another slew of all the more vicious snarls and aggressive gestures.

This was just a dream, he tried to tell himself—none of this was real, but when his half-brother’s mouth, soft and desperate, was pressed against his own taut lips, he could not suppress the very real shivering sigh that escaped him.

Endless training sessions in the study as well as in the courtyard had left the younger one’s sensuous fingers strong and unexpectedly calloused, a hidden feature of which Fëanor had not been aware until slightly rough palms slid under his tunic to trace the outline of his well-honed, frantically clenching muscles in a caress so corruptingly naïve and eager that he had to force himself to stay still lest he do something unforgivable like succumbing to the torturous onslaught of shameless seduction.

“This didn’t happen,” he whispered. “I would never have dishonoured our father and his house so.”

“But you wanted to,” an insidious voice, incorporeal and wavering, susurrated, telling Fëanor that he was definitely not alone. He bristled—he had never allowed anyone to know about the strange tension between his half-brother and him, and he was loath to let down his walls even in death and desolation.

“That is of no consequence—what is this? A compilation of all the opportunities I’ve missed? It was a conscious decision, and it does me credit,” Fëanor spat resolutely even as the hands of one who had no reason or right to be here moved in tantalising circles across his trembling skin. “Leave me be! I shan’t submit to your ludicrous corruption!”

Irmo cocked his head at his brother. “He certainly is a fiery one,” he commented, a hint of amused fondness in his voice. “He knows that you are toying with him.”

Nodding, Námo pointed at the edges of the vacillating soul—they could see the ignominious former King of the Ñoldor such as he truly was through the sheer veil of a body his memory had merely conjured up, and it now became evident that Fëanor’s essence had grown more solid already. “Naturally, he persistently misunderstands my purpose, cursed be his defiance, but it’s working.”

“Love does that,” Irmo agreed pleasantly. “That is your design, isn’t it? After neither friends nor family could move him sufficiently, you thought to skirt the brittle, dangerous boundaries of modesty by digging into his more depraved memories? Devious, but effective!”

There was no judgment or reprimand in those words; Irmo was veritably impressed by how ruthless and determined his brother was in the pursuit of the questionable goal of getting Fëanor ready to be returned to those who awaited him most patiently.

“Shall we get on with it? Maybe we should let him…consume the act this time? He seems to grow rather…impatient,” the Lord of Dreams then remarked lightly, nodding at the flickering cluster of bright, pulsating light radiating from the core of Fëanor’s quickly firming silhouette.

“Her then,” Námo relented immediately and smiled when the scene shifted yet again.

“Nerdë!” Half-scream, half-sob, the name of his lost wife sprang from Fëanor’s tingling lips.

“Hush, I’ve only just gotten Káno to stop yowling,” she chided him softly as she sat up in a bed he remembered all too well.

Her smell—clay dust and wildflowers—filled the room, and this time, he did not hesitate to hasten over to let himself be embraced by those impossibly strong and yet incomparably soft arms.

A remnant of doubt lingered in his mind, but he could not say whether this torturously tender scene was a fabrication or a bona fide memory; there had been so many evenings just like this, sitting in bed and talking, while their sons slept down the hallway.

Nevertheless, Nerdanel, the Wise, seemed to have different plans for she pulled him closer to her alluringly freckled chest and sighed when his lips closed around her right nipple through the thin chemise she was wearing. He had married her out of love and folly, and he was sure that none of the chronicles of his terrible crimes would even bother to mention how unconditionally and desperately he had wanted her.

Of course, the staggering number of sons as well as their relative youth on their wedding day were clear signs, but he still hoped that these scheming ink-smeared liars would have the decency to pay homage to Nerdanel’s beauty and his devotion to her appropriately.

“We have to be quiet,” she whispered again, and now, he thought that he recognised her conspiratorial, youthful tone.

As her thighs fell open around him and her broad, nimble fingers tangled in his unbound hair, a surge of compounded darkness made his head spin and his blood boil. Here she was, his one true love, opening up beneath the unyielding pressure of his heated flesh like a blossom in spring, and he might have wept for joy and relief.

Mouthing the name of a child not yet conceived, he closed his eyes as she shifted ever so slightly to steer him resolutely towards the voracious heat of her desire—everything about her touch, her almost mocking smile, and her tiny gasp as he slid into her was so painfully familiar that—for a single, precious moment—Fëanor entirely forgot that none of it was genuine.

How could he have thought of the Valar and their senseless games when Nerdanel’s flesh was writhing—warm and tight—around his cock? Could anyone have faulted him for losing sight of the unfathomably convoluted games of destiny and retribution when he was losing his mind, his heart, his whole self in the velvet abyss of her burning gaze as she met his every thrust halfway?

Her body was strong and glorious, and he worshipped at the altar of her lust as the inexorably increasing pace made his hips stutter against her—Nerdanel laughed breathlessly and surged up to capture his lips in a searing kiss, greedily drinking every tiny moan as she had once lapped dew off green leaves at sunrise.

Nothing mattered besides her—the softness of her breasts against his heaving chest, the clenching ripples of her cunt as her own climax threatened to overwhelm her, and her throaty moans that spurred him ever on—and Fëanor, ever a slave to the fatal flaw of impatience, grabbed her waist possessively to lift her just a fraction before bearing down in frantic movements of unbridled rapture.

Teeth clenching mercilessly around her slender wrist to keep from waking her precious babies, Nerdanel arched into his punishing thrusts one last time; seeing her come undone once again was an image so exquisite that it burned itself through Fëanor’s eyes straight into what was left of his soul.

Throwing his head back in a soundless scream of deliverance, he exploded within her.

Just as he was about to bend down to kiss Nerdanel’s sweat-sheened brow, though, he was whisked back to his cell, alone and shivering. “Come back, you coward!” he bellowed, blind anger and devastating loss ravaging his tortured soul. “Take me back.”

“It actually worked,” Irmo muttered as if he was surprised himself by how successful his brother’s hare-brained plan had turned out to be. “I shall come back soon then?”

“Thank you,” Námo said, bowed, and retreated.

Had he not known better, Irmo would have sworn that the Lord Judge, ever serious, was skipping merrily down the wavering halls of Mandos.

-> Masterlist (by @tolkienpinupcalendar)

Lots of love from me, please take care of yourselves!

#og post #Dead Dove December #Dead dove #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #Námo #Irmo #Fëanor #Nerdanel #Fëanor x Nerdanel #Fëanor x Fingolfin #Mind Control #dubcon #manipulation

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bf-skz · 1 year

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24 to 25 days of SKZMAS | December 20th - Hyunjin

pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x Reader

genre: fake dating

synopsis: Hyunjin is one of the best writers at JY Publishing. As the end of the year comes, he is one article short for a raise. The chief editor gives him the task of writing date ideas till Christmas which is also coincidentally his most hated holiday. Luckily, he does have a roommate with a great Christmas spirit.

warnings: -

words: 1085

20th day of SKZMAS

December 20th

Tomorrow is Hyunjin’s deadline. For the past two weeks, you have been going on dates every single day. Most of the time he complained about it, but you’d liked to believe that he secretly enjoyed it. What you didn’t know, however, was that he was fuming, having realized that he has feelings for you.

Hyunjin wasn’t the type of guy to fell in love easily. He always told you that he would never settle, that he will stay single cause no one can treat him the way he treats himself. He acted tough, like someone who is not interested in romance, but every once in a while you caught him shedding a couple of tears on romantic movies, or reading romance novels in the bookstore only for him to wave it off and flatout deny his interest. Hyunjin was romantic, hopelessly at that but it took him years to realize it’s all because of you.

You were there for him at his lowest, supported him through thick and thin and he molded his expectations around you to the point where if it weren’t you, he wasn’t interested. You were slowly engulfing him, fogging up his mind, made him completely blind to anyone else’s advances. He absolutely hated it. It was killing him to know that he had the potential to ruin the trust and love that the of you built through the years.

His mind kept racing alongside his heart when he looked at you. You were so effortlessly beautiful and perfect in his mind, he scolded himself for not realising sooner. It was just another “date”, the two of you were sitting at home, Christmas music blasting from the TV as the two of you idly wrapped gifts. Well, mainly you were wrapping gifts as he was too busy staring at you, memorising all your little details, like how your eyelashes kissed your cheeks when you looked down, or how you pursed your lips when you were concentrating…

“Finger, please.”

“What?” Hyunjin shakes awake from his trans, watching you with shocked eyes.

“Can you lend me a finger?” you ask with a giggle, glancing down at the little box that you're currently trying to tie a bow on. “To hold down the ribbon.”

“Uh, sure.” Hyunjin snickers, placing his index finger on said ribbon. “You should be more specific, you know. Someone might take it the wrong way.”

“Good thing that someone could never be you.” you tell him with a roll of your eyes. “You daydream even more than usual these days.” you say, nodding thank you once the bow is done.

“Look who’s talking.” he scoffs. “Clearly, you rubbed off on me.”

“Oh, you flatter me.” you bat your eyelashes at him before you hand him the present. “This one is for your mom. I hope they can make it over on Christmas Day!” you say, but then you remember something. “Or, oh, wait. You have the company party that day, right?” you ask, trying to hide your disappointment. You probably won't spend the day together…

“Oh, that's right. I completely forgot about it.” Hyunjin lies through his teeth. He has been thinking about the company party more these days because he… “We could go together. If you want.” he plays it off, not so coolly. “It’s glitchy, Christmassy and very elegant. Everything you like.”

“Hmm… as tempting as it is, I'm not sure I have a place there.” you say with a little grimace. “I'd love to be your bumper for unwanted flirting, but… you wouldn't want your coworkers to- speculate about us.” you say pointedly. You can't deny how much you enjoy the times when people mistake you for a couple… but not in front of the people he works with day by day. It would make it even more complicated…

“Are you seriously rejecting me right now?” Hyunjin asks, clearly not expecting this answer from you. “After all these dates… you really don't want me?” he questions again, a little quieter, hurt by his own words.

Oh.

“I- of course I do.” you say, trying to look him in the eye, but he turns away. You have to take his chin between two fingers to make him look at you. “Hyune… do you… want me?”

“Yes!” Hyunjin exclaims in frustration. “You are driving me mad! You are the sole reason I can't even begin to look at anyone else but you…” he whines. “And it took me so long to realize… heh, so embarrassing.” he says, tearing at the tinsel to distract himself.

“Hyune.” you call his name, and as he reluctantly glances up, you scoot closer and take his hands. He squeezes them and your heart leaps but you decide to be brave. “Are you going to kiss me finally?”

Hyunjin thinks he is hallucinating. “You want me to kiss you?” he asks and you nod. His heart sinks suddenly and his stomach turns into the size of a pea. “Oh.” he mutters, scooting closer too and taking your cheek in his palm. He carefully swipes a finger across your cheekbone before leaning in to plant a soft kiss on your lips.

Your stomach is filled with butterflies at his gentle kiss, and you reach up to hold the back of his head, fingers tangling with his soft hair. You lean in to kiss him again, a little braver this time and he seems to enjoy it a lot too because he melts into the kiss, into your hold.

Hyunjin finally relaxes upon realizing that this is not a dream. He pulls you onto his lap as you makeout, a slow Christmas song starts playing in the background and it really makes him re-evaluate Christmas.

“Will you date me?” he asks in a quiet and nervous whisper, butterflies erupting in his stomach. “For real this time.”

“I thought you'd never ask, pretty boy.” you giggle and kiss his forehead.

“How was I supposed to know?” he whines, tickling you.

“You just were! I'm crazy about you, doofus.”

“You could have said that before, you know.” he huffs.

“But where's the fun in that?” you ask with a giggle before pressing one last kiss on his cheek. “Now let's finish your article together. I am in grave need of a cuddle session with my new boyfriend.”

“It will be some time for me to adjust to that name.” he chuckles with deep red cheeks and you have to kiss him again. You simply cannot resist him.

to be continued...

#hyunjin #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin au #stray kids #stray kids au #stray kids fic #skz #skz au #skz fic #hyunjin fic #24 to 25 days of skzmas #skzmas #mymercury #yourandromeda #bf-skz #hyunjin x reader

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thebigshotman · 6 months

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Hello everyone! My Spamton fixation has returned in full force for no reason at all lol, but I’m not complaining, cause that means I have the urge to come back here and reply to things! If life doesn’t get in the way I will be on in a couple of days to get to everything, or maybe even later on tonight when I get home from college if I’m not too tired 😁

I’ve been thinking about doing a small little event here lately. Nothing huge again just yet like with NEO, I’m not going to tempt the fates again 😂 But I would like to do something a little different for a couple days! I have two ideas, and if you’d like you can either reply to this post or IM me which one you prefer:

This one would be sooner, lining up with Halloween and only lasting a day or two (relatively lol). It would involve interacting, both in threads and asks, with a world where a different Addison got swayed in by Gaster/Mike and puppet-fied, whereas Spam/White stayed a normal Addison who runs an odds and ends shop. Leaning towards it being Clem/Orange cause I feel like that reversed dynamic between them would be interesting!

The other one would happen for about a week or two in early November, and it would be a look into the past at Celebrity/Big Shot Spam! My version of him, at least. Muses both new to my blog and old would be free to start up threads to interact with him, and of course asks would definitely be welcome. This one is one I’ve wanted to do for a little while now, and now seems like a good time, but don’t let that sway your opinion!

So yeah! Those are my ideas. I know I could just start a poll but I’m a little afraid to for some reason lol. So please let me know what you think whichever way you’d prefer! Needless to say, hopefully college will be nice and allow me to balance these little events with life and wrap them up in a timely matter *cough TheNEOEventLasting6Months cough*

Thank you all for welcoming me back (??) about a week ago, too! I appreciate it a lot. Hopefully this fixation sticks around and there won’t be any more long waits…or December doldrums like last year.

I’m off to go do some work now but I will see you guys again soon! Bye for now!

#(we are SO BACK everyone 😁 or at least im hoping and praying lol)#(I just gone done with a marathon week of assignments so we’ll see what life deals (lol) me)#(but for now im hoping to continue to be here in some capacity for a little while!)#(please let me know what you guys think about my ideas 😊)#STRING PULLER-out of character

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im-clapped-af · 1 year

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In the shadow of the past Chapter 1

13th December 1874

“Avada Kedavra!”

A luminescent green shot through the room at the dark wizard cradling his dead wife. His body went limp and slumped over her. It marked an end to the terror they had caused to the wizarding world.

The Auror sighed, exhausted by the fight. They had journeyed all over the world trying to capture the two dark wizards, travelling and failing to bring justice to those they had harmed. And now, after all these years, the fight had ended after declaring two words.

It was not a spell the young Auror was comfortable with. It was a death sentence to those it was aimed at, its power instant and fatal immediately. No matter how determined they had been to end these two lives, they said a silent prayer asking for forgiveness for what they had done.

They could already imagine the Daily Prophet reporting the victory. Breaking news: reign of terror comes to an end. The wizarding world would celebrate eagerly. People no longer living in fear; they could leave their homes and do as they pleased. The Auror smiled to themselves. Yes. What they did was a good thing. This wasn’t murder, it was justice.

A small cry distracted them from their thoughts.

The Auror peered around the room. It was difficult to see where the cry was coming from.

“Lumos.”

The bright light revealed the truth of the fight. The room was a mess. Dark oak was splintered across the floor from blasting curses hitting it. Shards of glasses was littered around the fireplace from another spell had landed against the mirror. Books on the dark arts that were piled up on every surface had been destroyed and ripped pages decorated the floor. The Auror glanced towards the two bodies. Blood was seeping into the carpet from where they had been cut by flying debris. They looked so much younger than the Auror had remembered. It was difficult to forget that they were only twenty-four years old. Posters and descriptions of them had made them out to have been as disgusting looking as their actions. It was rumoured that engagement in the dark arts did not act favourably on the appearance of those wizards. Clearly the rumours weren’t true. They were once a young witch and wizard, misguided by those around them who then ended up corrupted by what they deemed to be the most desirable magic.

The auror brought their attention back to the crying. It was coming from near the bookcase. They hurried over to it, hoping that it was the cry from a woman that was reported to have been captured by the couple. Everyone knew that if you were captured by the two, there was no possibility your body would ever return or be found.

The auror held up their wand and pointed it at the bookshelf. After a few spoken words it slid to the side revealing an opening in the wall. They peered in, holding their wand up high still to illuminate the dark room. In the corner stood a dark oak bassinet. The auror walked over tentatively. Peering in, they saw a baby no older than 2 weeks it seemed.

“Fuck.”

Surprisingly, this was the scariest part of the night. A new-born was the last of what they expected to come across tonight. Instantly, they knew what it meant. They reached over to pick the young one up. Their eyes were puffy from crying and their face was splotchy red. They couldn’t believe they didn’t hear the crying sooner. The fight was not quiet, which explained how the new-borns cried were concealed.

The Auror looked at the new-born. Tufts of wispy black hair and dark eyes stared back at them. They rocked the new-born, trying to settle them while the Auror reflected on what this meant now. It was undeniable that this baby belonged to the couple. The child’s fate was sealed the moment they had been born. They would be scrutinised and ostracised by those who would never move on from what their parents had done. They would be blamed for someone else’s actions and treated as those they had committed them themselves. It was no way for anyone to live. In fear that the child would grow up to learn what their parents had done and become like them, the wizarding world would want the child to be killed.

The Auror cradled the child as if it was their own. Already they had not been dealt a fair life. It was another life their parents had caused harm. They thought about what they could do to protect it. The child calmed and glanced at the Auror. They locked eyes with each other and in that instant, they knew what they had to do.

The pair apparated in front of the ornate doors of a large manor. It had belonged to a muggle friend of the Aurors’ whose assistance was vital for the plan to work. They knocked on the door three times and quickly and older gentleman had appeared.

“Excuse me Sir, I need to speak with Lord Thornhill. It is an emergency.” The Auror informed the servant. He looked at them questionably, confused as to why this person with a baby was calling on them at such a late hour.

“Unfortunately, Lord Thornhill is not available at this hour. You may call again tomorrow at an earlier time. May I take a message?”

“Thank you, Lionel, but I can assist our guests,” a young man appeared behind him, “Please can you fetch us tea? I will handle the rest from here.” The servant held the door open and ushered the pair in. Quickly, he rushed off to fetch the tea that had been requested.

Sighing at finally alone, the young man gave a slight small and beckoned them over to sit in the living room.

“Now, why are you calling on me so late friend? And is that a baby with you?” The Lord questioned them. He sat back in the leather armchair. He dragged a hand across his face. Time had not been kind to him recently. His eyes were solemn, and he didn’t appear to have been taking care of his appearance.

“I’m sorry for calling on you so late Elijah, but this is an urgent matter.” Elijah sat forward in his chair puzzled. “This is the child of two of the most powerful dark wizards in my world. No one was aware they were expecting and if people found out, thy will never live a normal happy life.”

The Auror was clearly desperate. Elijah had never seen them become so emotional.

“I understand that with the loss of your wife and baby three weeks ago that what I’m going to ask you is an incredible favour,” Elijah knew instantly where this was going, “but I cannot allow this child to grow up in my world. They could be killed.” The Auror tried to speak again but Elijah raised a hand to quiet them.

“I understand what you are saying friend. If I do this, how will I raise them in my world? They will possess magic will they not? How am I to explain to society that I suddenly have a child when I …” He didn’t finish his sentence, emotions still raw from the recent losses.

“I can cast a memory spell. Everyone will only know of the passing of your wife but not your child. Their birth would not have been registered with the Ministry of Magic. As long as they do not discover magic and it is not uttered to them, they will never know of the world they was born into”

Elijah reached out his hands towards the child. The Auror, understanding what was being asked, passed the child over to him. Elijah held the child delicately, as if they were made of porcelain. His eyes grew watery as he looked at the child. The dark eyes stared back at him.

“My Lord, your tea.” Lionel appeared at the doorway holding a silver tray with two teacups and a teapot.

He smiled down at the child, “My daughter, Audrey Thornhill”

In an instant, the Auror held up their wand towards the servant knowing what they now needed to do.

“Obliviate!”

#hogwarts legacy #Hogwarts #sebastian sallow #sebastian x mc #sebastian x reader #ominis gaunt #gay ominis #anne sallow #sebastian sallow x reader

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a-student-out-of-time · 1 year

Text

Yeah, I don’t mean to sound unsympathetic to all this, but what’s this got to do with the people we’re asking about?

__________________________________________________

That's just what I was getting to.

It was a particularly cold day when it happened.

__________________________________________________

*December 17th, 2025, Nuuk, Greenland*

Guuh, I’m so sick of the snow...

You wouldn’t be so cold if you got up and moved around.

Says the guy wearing a coat. Lemme borrow it, you can take my spot.

You’re the one who volunteered to be the lookout!

Guugh, Missy, when’s the boat supposed to get here?

Please stop bickering and I’ll tell you.

The captain said they’d be arriving with an hour. From there, they’ll take us to Newfoundland, and we can take a plane back to the United States.

Assuming the sea ice doesn’t keep us boxed in until the spring.

Echo? What do you make of all this?

Huh?

Yeah, can you see anything?

Hmmm...lemme think...

I...I don’t really know...

Your powers worked before, didn’t they?

Because we were in danger. It’s how I managed to keep us on a safe route up to here, but...I don’t really know if I can force it.

Don’t pressure yourself, Echo. You’ve done well up to now.

Yeah, but if I could give us an advantage over them, maybe make sure we all get home, I should keep trying to figure this out, shouldn’t I?

I don’t wanna feel useless...

You’re not useless, Echo.

That’s right. Your power is so knew, it’s not fair to punish yourself about not knowing to use it.

I know, I’m just gonna try and focus...maybe I can get-

GAGH!

Echo? What’s wrong?

Echo?

...I saw them.

Them? The boat, or the Project?!

Th-The-The Project! They’re coming!

Again?! Why can’t they just leave us alone?!

Stay calm, everyone! Remember our plan! We’ll head for the docks, and if necessary, confront them there!

_________________________________________________

We’d been preparing for this for several days now, coming up with plans in the event they came for us.

But we weren’t expecting what happened.

_________________________________________________

There they are!

*In the distance, a group of snowsuit-wearing men with guns converge on the edge of town*

Oh no...

Sei, you head to the docks. I’ll find a way to draw their attention and meet you guys there.

Lyle, no! I’m not leaving you behind!

Don’t argue with me! Someone has to-

*BOOSH!*

*A huge burst of white light and snow flurries erupts in front of the PP personnel, sending them flying back*

Gaah!

Whoa...what the hell was that?

???: That, buddy, was a flashbang arrow!

Who’s there?

Up here!

My name’s Tamon Mayumi, and I’m here to get you guys home.

You...y-you are? Oh my god, yes, please!

And why should we trust you?

You did just see me take out that whole group of guys with an arrow, right?

We can’t wait though, they’ll probably be back up soon!

We’re not going anywhere until you prove this wasn’t a ruse to get us on your side.

Lyle! Sei!

Guys! There’s a helicopter here!

A what?!

Help has arrived! Let’s get out of here!

Told you! Now c’mon, let’s go!

_______________________________________________________

Phew...I can’t believe we got out of there.

You guys were in a tight spot back there. Glad we managed to find you in time.

Yes, and we greatly appreciate the rescue, but who exactly are you?

I’m Esumi Masa, and this is my colleague Tamon Mayumi.

I’ve been investigating your disappearances.

Ah yeah...we’ve been away from home longer than we realized...

I’m sorry we couldn’t find you all sooner. The Kisaragi Foundation only picked up your ship as it past near Japan, and then Ota-san and Konno-san disappeared not too long afterward.

We tracked you all to the arctic, and so I called up Mayumi-chan.

I live in Amsterdam, so when I heard about the situation, I came to help.

So, the signal was picked up by more than just the Project?

Yep, we’re gonna make sure you all are safe from now on.

_________________________________________________

Returning home proved...difficult, I’m afraid.

At the very least, they were able to provide a proper funeral and some closure for the families of those affected. We’ve had to remain in Japan for the time being.

#danganronpa #drlapse #danganronpa lapse #nwpm #neo world program monitor #sdra2 #super danganronpa another 2 #gaea espère #kanon ota #lyle termina #echo pine #missy vesper #sei konno #nikei yomiuri #Mayumi Tamon #Masa Esumi #a student out of time #DR #The Price of Fate arc

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hwashotcheeto · 3 months

Text

𝑩𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑭𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅'𝒔 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 (7)

Best Friend's Mother Masterlist

Chapter: Seven

Milf!Park Seonghwa X gn!reader

Summary: Seonghwa's been planning a Christmas party for the family. So of course, you and Wooyoung are going to help him with it.

WC: 2.8k

CW: Very emotional, little bit of angst, painful memories, little bit of crying, fluff, hugs, cuddles

AN: No I didn't cry while writing this, you can't prove it, hush.

Anyways, surprise! I know, I posted chapter six yesterday, but I couldn't help it! I wanted to write this so badly! So I did, and got it done in one day. 🥰 I hope you all enjoy, as always, please tell me if you do (or don't, constructive criticism is also welcome). 💜

Tag List: @hyunjinsjeans @malldreamprincess @unlikelysublimekryptonite @becauseilovedyou @kittkat44 @babyxhoiz @asleepylilcat @mxnsxngie @rxnexxi @mommahwa1117 @acciocriativity @anxiousskylar @h3arteyes4mingi @jus2passtime

Another morning with Seonghwa.

This was the third time now. And since the first time, you already knew this wanted to be every morning for years to come.

To wake up beside Seonghwa. To either meet his big, warm eyes, or admire him until he woke up.

This morning, you woke up first. You didn’t have your phone with you, and there was no clock on the nightstand closest to you, so you didn’t know what time it was.

But judging by the limited light coming in through the windows, it was early. Shortly after dawn.

A peaceful time of day. When things are still and silent. When the sun is stretching after it’s sleep and laying it’s arms across the world.

Giving you just enough light to lay beside Seonghwa and look at him. Him, and everything he was. No one else you’d met could compare to his beauty.

But was it too early to say that? To say that no one else would ever compare to him? That he was everything you needed and more? That your heart ached at the thought of never being with him again? That your vision grew blurry as you remembered that you and Wooyoung would have to go back to college at the end of December?

You rubbed the tears out of your eyes and blinked the rest away. You really didn’t want to confront all of this. What it could all mean, why you felt the way you did. In the back of your head, you knew exactly why. But you refused to let it be known.

Because it was too early, wasn’t it? Everyone says it takes time, that you can’t figure that out after only a week and a half.

(It had only been a week and a half?)

But all the movies and books told you that it could happen sooner. That you’d just know when you met them. That you didn’t need time, you didn’t need to think. You just knew.

Did you know? Did you know anything? Was this right? Is this what you needed?

You sighed and nuzzled back into Seonghwa’s chest. It was too much. It was too early for this.

As you did, Seonghwa was pulled from his sleep, and he smiled warmly as he looked down at you. His arms tightened around you as he held you close, like a stuffed animal, closing his eyes again.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he mumbled against your hair, his voice a low rumble in his chest. Your heart swelled as you relaxed back into his arms, closing your eyes again, listening to his soothing heart.

“Good morning, Hwa,” you whispered back.

“Did you sleep well?” You nodded. “That’s good.” He yawned and hummed before he curled up, holding you even tighter. “I don’t think I’m ready to get up yet, however.”

“Me neither.”

“Then let's stay here.”

You nodded again, your eyelids growing heavy again.

You were powerless when it came to Seonghwa. How could you ever leave him?

“Wooyoung!” Seonghwa called as he came inside the house. He’d left a couple hours earlier to run some errands like he’d done the previous day.

This time, however, he had tons of bags hanging off his arms that he set on the coffee table in the living room.

You and Wooyoung had been getting a snack in the kitchen. You both peeked your heads around the corner to see what Seonghwa was calling for, and your eyes went as wide as dinner plates at all the bags.

Wooyoung snapped out of it and finished his snack before he went over to Seonghwa? “Yeah?”

“I need you to help me bring the Christmas tree inside.”

“You got a Christmas tree without me?” Wooyoung pouted, faking hurt. Seonghwa turned to him and fake pouted too before he ruffled Wooyoung’s hair.

“I wanted to surprise you, nae sarang. Now will you help me?”

“Why would I not?”

Seonghwa smiled and turned to you. “In the coat closet, there’s a tree stand. Could you please get it out and ready for us?”

“Of course,” you said as you nodded. Seonghwa smiled at you, a big warm smile, before he led Wooyoung out of the house.

You excitedly went to the coat closet and found a box, with a big label reading “CHRISTMAS TREE STAND” on the front of it. You pulled it out and quickly got it set up, putting it to the right side of the front door, beside a decorative table Seonghwa had in the empty space.

Seonghwa and Wooyoung brought the tree in, and with your help, you got the tree in the stand and secured it. All three of you stood back to look at your work, and you all nodded in approval.

“Wait,” Seonghwa piped up, and went back into the Christmas tree box to grab out a large, white and silver tree skirt. You got on your knees beside the tree to help him put it around the stand, making sure it fit and laid flat.

And then it was perfect.

“We’ll decorate it tonight, after the tree’s had a chance to settle,” Seonghwa said approvingly, beginning to finally pull his coat off.

“Aww, I don’t wanna wait,” Wooyoung whined, this time in an actual pout. Seonghwa just smiled and rubbed his son’s cheek.

“It’ll happen before you know it.” He patted his cheek and went to put his coat away. Wooyoung still pouted, and you couldn’t help but giggle. Wooyoung scowled at you and turned away, still pouting. You giggled again.

“What did you all buy today?” You asked, changing the subject as you walked over to the coffee table in the living room.

Seonghwa made a noise of protest as you looked over the bags, which made you yank your hands back. “They’re for the party,” he said simply, grabbing some of the bags. Wooyoung’s eyes lit up as he looked at the bags.

“You’re hosting this year?” Wooyoung’s eyes had gone so big and lit up with stars in them. Seonghwa nodded as he continued collecting the bags, finally grabbing them all. Wooyoung’s face lit up with a big, gorgeous smile. “Oh, finally! It’s been years!”

“I know, it’s finally my turn,” Seonghwa said, slightly exasperated. “I’m going to put these in my room. Don’t touch them.” He added the last sentence as he looked at Wooyoung, who feigned confusion as Seonghwa went for the stairs.

“I’m not a child,” he grumbled. You just laughed.

A family Christmas. You hadn’t had one in years. Sure, you’d visit some of your cousins for the holidays, but not a proper Christmas get together, with food, family, and a tree.

Now here you were, in the house it’d be hosted in, with the people who’d be running it.

Christmas had come back to you. And you couldn’t be happier.

You and Wooyoung left the Lego store with four brand new (expensive) Lego sets.

While Seonghwa was at home sorting and wrapping some of his presents, Wooyoung took you with him to buy Seonghwa some presents.

“But I don't have any money,” you tried to argue, but Wooyoung brushed you off.

“I do, it can be from both of us.”

You still wanted to buy Seonghwa a present on your own, but you didn’t have a job, so you didn’t have money.

That is, unless your student loan payment came in before Christmas.

You were hoping and praying that it would come in before then.

When you and Wooyoung got home, you rushed to hide the presents in his room, in his closet, until you were ready to wrap the presents. You’d wait until Seonghwa was out of the house before you thought about doing that so he wouldn’t see.

He probably had a good idea of what the presents were, but he wasn’t going to spoil the surprise.

As you two left the room, Seonghwa also left his, and he smiled brightly.

“Will you help me decorate the house?”

“Of course!” You both said in unison.

And you three spent hours decorating the house.

You and Wooyoung worked together to hang garlands on the archways and doorways of the house, hanging little glass ornaments from it and putting plastic holly berries in the leaves.

While you were doing that, Seonghwa was setting up little candle clusters on the tables in the house. He put a couple on the kitchen counters, on the dining table, on the coffee table, and on the fireplace.

It hadn’t crossed your mind until then that Seonghwa had a huge fireplace. Well, here it was.

The little candles had holly branches wrapped around them, with little berries tucked into them. They weren’t real candles, but they still looked pretty.

After you and Wooyoung had finished with the garlands, you grabbed a few strings of lights, and decided to wrap them around the stairs handrail.

Seonghwa didn’t notice until you were done. At first, he didn’t think he’d like it. But when he saw you and Wooyoung come back down the stairs, all giggly and excited, he knew he couldn’t tell you no.

You three took a break from decorating for dinner, and afterwards, Seonghwa and Wooyoung pulled out the decorations for the tree. Boxes and boxes of ornaments and lights, more than the tree could possibly hold.

“We can do the lights!” Wooyoung volunteered, going to the light box and looking through it. You looked with him, and you found a few strings of rainbow lights.

After you tested the lights to be sure they worked, the process of you and Wooyoung weaving the lights into the tree while Seonghwa watched began.

“No, I can do it!” You protested, climbing up a ladder that Seonghwa had grabbed out for you two. Wooyoung whined, trying to pull the lights away from you.

“No, I’m taller, I should do it!”

“We have a ladder, your height doesn’t matter!”

“It matters to me!” Wooyoung declared dramatically, holding his chest in fake pain. Seonghwa was laughing to himself, leaning on the couch as he watched you two.

“Great, I don’t care!” You spat back as you started weaving the lights into the branches. Wooyoung fake pouted, but resigned, and stood unwinding the lights for you.

That lasted all of one minute before he said something.

“You’re not doing it right.”

“It's fine!”

“No it’s not, it doesn’t look right!”

You groaned and whipped your head to Wooyoung, who was looking up at you with disapproval. Behind him, Seonghwa was laughing with his hand covering his mouth.

“It looks fine, you drama queen. I’m not giving this up.”

Wooyoung huffed as you went back to making your way around the tree with the lights.

Seonghwa’s stomach hurt from laughing by the time you two were done.

When you and Wooyoung stepped back to look at the completed result, you felt the warmth in your heart spill over. It was beautiful.

It brought back memories of your childhood. Sitting in the dark living room, with just the lights of the tree, and the warmth they gave off. You were here again. And it felt like Christmas in your heart.

“It looks good, I guess.” Wooyoung shrugged. “It would’ve looked better if I did it.”

“If you don’t shut up, Woo, I’m gonna shove the lights up your ass,”

You both glared at each other, staring with murderous intent. Seonghwa took a step towards you two, but the next second, you both burst into laughter and fell over while holding your stomachs.

Seonghwa smiled warmly at the two of you. The ache spread all over his body again. But it was different for the two of you. Familiar, but different. He felt it when he looked at his son, but it wasn’t the same as when he looked at you.

But the ache was there.

After you both recovered, you began to hang ornaments on the tree. Of course, there were the regular ornaments, with different colored spheres and Christmas themed decorations.

But as you began looking through the boxes, you began finding more sentimental ones.

“Wooyoung, is this you?” You asked, pulling out an ornament of a picture frame, with a photo of an infant with the year 1999 on the bottom. Wooyoung looked up from the box he was looking in, then came to your side to look.

“Oh, yeah, this was the year I was born. My first Christmas.” He smiled as he looked at it. “I was a cute baby, wasn’t I?”

You looked at the picture for a few seconds before you shrugged. “A little.”

Wooyoung’s face dropped, and he yanked the ornament out of your hand. You giggled as you looked back through the box.

The next one you found was similar to the first one, dated 2000, but Wooyoung wasn’t alone this time. There was a woman holding him. They were both smiling into the camera. Wooyoung looked like her.

Wooyoung came back over to you and looked at it over your shoulder. Even without seeing him, you knew his face dropped. You could feel him grow uneasy.

“That’s my bio mom,” he said softly. You’d guessed that, so you just nodded. Seonghwa looked over at the two of you, and he realized the ornament you were holding. His eyes flicked up to Wooyoung, then back down to you.

After a few seconds of silence, you put it back into the box. Wooyoung sighed and walked back to another box to find another ornament. Seonghwa went back to doing the same.

A sharp twinge of guilt twisted your heart in a knot. You debated on leaving the box alone, since it wasn’t your memories to go through.

But then you spied another photo. This time, it was Seonghwa and Wooyoung. Dated 2001. Your heart shattered. You put the ornament back into the box and closed it.

Seonghwa looked up and frowned when he saw your face. Your eyes flicked up to his for a moment, and you forced a smile. It didn’t meet your eyes.

You went over to Wooyoung and looked through the box he was in, talking brightly to cover up what you just found. Wooyoung wasn’t stupid, he knew what you’d found, but he smiled back at you, and you both started talking about the other ornaments you were finding.

Seonghwa looked at the both of you, and it hurt him to see the fake smiles and tone you both used. But he knew it was better to not talk about it now. Today was supposed to be a good day. Christmas was supposed to be happy.

So the three of you continued decorating, pretending none of you knew what you were hiding.

When you three were done, you turned off the lights and let the tree glow on it’s own.

And it was perfect. A mix of the warm rainbow lights, pretty perfect ornaments, sentimental moments, and homemade ones, it’s what Christmas always was.

About family. Love. Togetherness.

The sight brings tears to your eyes and you quickly try to blink them away. But Seonghwa and Wooyoung saw it, and they both instantly hugged you.

The dam broke, and you burst into sobs.

Wooyoung laid his head on your shoulder, rubbing your back. Seonghwa rested his head on yours, his arm around your waist.

But why were you crying? Because you saw something you didn’t need to see and brought back unfortunate memories for Wooyoung? Because you hadn’t had a family Christmas in years?

Because you were overcome with joy that you found a family?

Maybe it was all of them.

You wiped your tears and sighed, pulling away from the boys. The three of you stayed silent for a few moments before Wooyoung spoke up.

“So, I guess it means we did good?”

Both you and Seounghwa laughed. Wooyoung smiled proudly.

Yes. It was wonderful.

You helped Seonghwa and Wooyoung clean up the boxes and put them away. You admired the tree for a few more moments before you three decided to get some popcorn and watch some Christmas movies to end off the night.

Seonghwa was seated between you and Wooyoung. You were leaning on his shoulder with his arm around you, and Wooyoung was leaning against the arm of the couch on the opposite side.

Wooyoung looked over at Seonghwa. “When is the party happening?”

“The twenty-third.” Seonghwa grabbed some popcorn and ate it after he spoke. Wooyoung thought for a moment before he continued.

“So, that’s about two weeks away, right?”

“Yes.”

“How are we gonna fill those weeks?” You asked, looking at the both of them.

Wooyoung smirked, and you were simultaneously filled with both fear and excitement.

“With whatever we want. Trust me, it’ll be fun.”

You probably shouldn’t, but you trusted Wooyoung with your life.

Whatever these two weeks held, you knew they’d be amazing. How could they be anything but?

Thank you for reading! Please reblog if you enjoyed! 💜

This is a work of fiction written by me. This does not represent the idol(s) in any way. Any re-upload is not allowed and will be reported.

#ateez #ateez fanfiction #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez ff #ateez x reader #ateez seonghwa #park seonghwa #seonghwa #seonghwa fanfiction #seonghwa fanfic #seonghwa fic #seonghwa ff #seonghwa x reader #best friend's mother

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ghostbustersreborn · 1 year

Text

Chapter 6

december 7th, 1984

tara woke up, her ears were ringing and her head was throbbing.

she sat up, realizing she was on the rooftop from last night.

tara looked to her left, finding her camera destroyed along side it were pictures.

she scrambled to pick them all up.

her heart felt like it stopped when looking over all of them.

in every one of them she was naked, with who looked to be tate straddling her.

tears welled up in her eyes. she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

she had to get home. fast.

tara jumped up, fixing her clothes that were half undone.

she grabbed the pictures, stuffing them all in her pockets and ran.

ran all the way to the firehouse.

tara stormed through the firehouse doors, running inside startling a barely awake janine.

a look of worry now plastered on janine's face as she looked at the very disheveled tara standing before her.

"hunny, what's the matter?" she asked standing up.

"egon?! egon?!" she yelled.

all she wanted right now was him.

no one else.

"egon!" she screamed.

when he came out from his lab, she ran towards him embracing him almost immediately.

she caught him off guard.

she began sobbing.

"don't let go, don't let go." she repeated.

"tara, what's wrong?" egon asked, concern mixed with confusion laced in his voice.

she looked up at him, tear stained and red puffy eyed.

"i-i need to show you something." she sniffled.

"okay." he nodded.

they went into his lab, so no one else expect him could see this.

tara locked the door.

"tara, what's wrong?" he asked her.

she let out a sob, as she took the photos out from her pocket.

"here." she handed them all over to him. "just-just look at them. please?" she begged.

egon nodded. he took a look at all of them, each one he crinkled up.

tara broke down crying when he looked up at her.

"tara." he started, going over to her.

"it wasn't a sleepover." she confessed.

egon looked at her confused.

"it-it was a party." she clarified. "i'm sorry." she wept.

he pulled her into his arms, consoling the girl.

a minute later, they heard a knock at the door.

"don't open it. don't open it." she begged.

"stay right here." he told her, pulling away from the hug.

he went over and unlocked the door.

ray was on the other side.

"is everything okay?" ray asked, coming in.

egon locked the door again.

"no." he shook his head.

he picked one of the pictures up from the floor, handing it over to ray.

tara covered her face with her hands, crying into them.

"why? why?" was all ray could say.

egon didn't have the answers. all he knew was that he was scared for tara. why would somebody do this? why would they think doing this was okay?

no sooner than a minute goes by. someone was knocking at the door again.

egon wrapped his arms around tara, embracing her again.

ray went and opened the door.

this time it was peter.

she was so scared to tell him. she was absolutely terrified for him to know.

"what's going on?" peter asked looking between egon and tara.

tara sniffled, burying her face into egon's side.

"what's wrong?" he asked, moving further inside the room.

"peter." egon started.

peter crouched down and picked up a bunch of the photos that were left crumpled on the floor.

"what is this?" he asked, standing back up.

he then looked over all of them, he shook. he was pissed. enraged. he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

he started tearing up each of the photographs.

tara pulled out from egon's embrace, she couldn't handle it anymore.

she was too overwhelmed. she needed to get away.

"tara!" egon called for her when she ran out.

peter ran after her.

tara wanted to escape. leave. leave this world, for as long as she could.

she made it out into the garage before peter stopped her.

"tara." he said, his voice soft.

she turned to him.

the second she locked eyes with him, she broke down.

she fell to her knees, sobbing.

she tugged at her hair, screaming in pain.

peter dropped to his knees, pulling her into his arms. embracing her.

"shh i'm here, i've got you." he gently cradled her.

he stroked her hair, assuring her he was here and he wasn't leaving.

soon, tara fell quiet.

he lifted her chin up, seeing she asleep.

tears dripped down her face, to which he gently wiped them away with his thumb.

he couldn't believe this happened.

why would such a thing like this happen?

later that day. tara had clung to peter. usually, she was like this with egon or ray. but now, all she wanted was peter and if he were to let go of her for just a minute, she'd cry.

peter had her sat on his lap with him out on the couch in the firehouse. he wanted to go back to his apartment, but egon thought it was best if they stayed the night here. just so he could keep an eye on tara.

tara had her face buried in peter's chest, along with her hand clenching the sleeve of his shirt.

god that was going to leave a mark..

he had to go to the bathroom for the last ten minutes, but he knew if he put her down she would burst into tears.

tara was so scared, so confused. that the only person she felt safe with was her father. she went completely mute as of that evening.

peter sighed, standing up from the couch.

he went over to the table in the back where egon was sat at.

"here. hold her for me?" he asked of him.

egon nodded, holding his hands out for her.

tara whimpered, when peter handed her over to egon.

"it's okay. i'll be back." he told her before leaving the room.

now, on egon's lap. tara held onto him for dear life, anxiously waiting for her father's return.

her breathing was heavy and her heart raced.

sounds of the machine egon was working on buzzed, bringing tara anxiety.

little noises now scared her. she was on high alert for every little thing. everything seemed to scare her. what happened, made her so frightened. her maturity level went down to one of a two - three year old that quick.

when peter came back, tara held her arms out for him like she used to when she was a toddler.

he took her into his arms again. he exchanged a worry look over to egon before going back to the couch.

for the rest of the night, egon, ray, winston or janine would continuously check on tara.

when it was almost midnight, egon came up checking on a now barely awake tara.

"peter. she should get to bed." he stated.

peter had been watching SNL.

she was so quiet, he had forgotten she was even in his arms.

he looked down at her. "yeah, she should." he agreed.

after taking her up to her room. he laid her down in bed, expecting to kiss her goodnight and to leave so he could continue watching SNL.

but.

tara grabbed his hand just as he went to go leave her bedside.

surely, he would have known she would have done this considering how clingy she had been to him all day.

"yes, sweetheart?" he said, turning to her.

she pointed to the end of the bed.

clearly, she wanted him to sit with her until she fell asleep.

peter sighed. he went and sat down.

instead this time, tara moved herself over to him and laid her head on his lap.

which was new.

he ran his fingers through her hair, lulling her to sleep.

his mind went back to the photos as he sat there stroking his daughter's hair.

the boy straddling her. her being completely naked. why would somebody do such a thing?

he wanted to find whoever did that to her and beat the shit out of them.

he wasn't going to let whoever did this to his little girl get away with this, not at all.

#fanfic #fanfiction #ghostbusters #ghostbusters fanfiction #ghostbusters reborn #egon spengler #peter venkman #ray stantz #winston zeddemore

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ahundredtimesover · 3 years

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Inevitable (02) | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader (ft. ot6)

Genre/Tags: exes au, parents au, baseball player!JK; angst, fluff, smut (18+)

Series Warnings: foul language, alcohol consumption, minor character death, explicit sexual content in future chapters (oral, unprotected sex but be safe please!)

Chapter Word count: 7.2k

Summary: You convinced Jungkook to break up years ago so he could pursue his lifelong baseball dream. Now he’s back home, staring at you, and the little boy next to you who looks unmistakably like him.

A/N: So appreciative of your love for this story! I’m quite nervous with this one because I had to make changes last minute so I hope you still enjoy it. Also, you can message me if you want to be part of the taglist (or if I missed tagging you)!

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“Thank you again, Mr. Jeon. Quite frankly, this still feels surreal but we’re so glad you’re back.”

Jungkook bows at the man, one of the executives of the Doosan Bears, one he’d just had a meeting with, which followed an interview with a sports writer.

For the past week, Jungkook’s days have been filled with meeting and talking to many people, forcing smiles and making conversations that quite frankly tire him but he welcomes this, knowing that any beat of silence will just force his mind to settle on you. And his pain. And his anger.

The man stops him in the hallway to point at a frame of the elder Jeon holding up the team’s 1999 championship trophy.

“Hopefully you’ll have one, too, and we’ll place it right next to this,” he says, a statement that Jungkook’s been hearing in a variety of forms the past few days of interviews and appearances.

It’s different this time because his father had achieved so many things back here, a national hero if people wanted to stretch it. Here, Jungkook has to live up to expectations, which many people believe he’ll exceed. His father, a good player and an even better leader, had been loved by many in the sports world, and it’s an honor they get to watch Jungkook play in the flesh, reminiscent of the man that many adored.

In the US, they didn’t know his father, so Jungkook was able to pave his own path there, make a name for himself guided only by the thought and dream of his hero, and not living in his shadow. It’s a dream they shared and one he’d achieved.

But for the first time, it doesn’t comfort Jungkook. For the first time, it angers him. It’s that dream that took you away from him, that took Jungwon away from him. It’s this dream that essentially broke his heart in ways he never imagined.

Everyone is quiet as they absorb everything that Jungkook has said. Since that day at your apartment, he’d been radio silent when it came to his friends, but he’s here at Jin’s loft now, with Jimin whom he’s still cold towards, and Yoongi and Hoseok who complete the group, as they’re Jin’s and Namjoon’s friends from college who’d gotten close to the young ones, too.

They’re glad they finally have the time to just be together after a crazy week. Ironically, it’s a somber event. This isn’t how they imagined welcoming the young one home.

They’re incomplete though. By nature of the concern at hand, Taehyung isn’t around; he’d left the group chat anyway so he wouldn’t have known that Jungkook messaged - finally, after a week of bombarding everyone with messages about you only to stop after he stormed out of your apartment. Namjoon is also not here, still not checking their group chat.

“Wow, I can’t believe ___ was pregnant all that time and had been able to keep the kid from us for years,” Hoseok finally speaks up, shock still evident in his voice. He’d been the one most vocal in stating what everyone else was thinking, the rest opting to just shut up and leave the talking to Jungkook, who’s now allowed himself to once again feel all the emotions in the presence of his friends.

They know that very little things get to him - whether they’re external stressors, outside pressure, naysayers, envious people, or school, he’d always been able to manage them.

He rarely gets angry, too, and doesn’t really let negative feelings fester, so Jungkook with a piercing gaze, pursed lips, flared nostrils, and clenched fists, as he is right now, is an unfamiliar sight to them.

And it’s all because of you.

Jungkook never took the very few relationships he had before you seriously; he’d been too focused on the sport ever since he was a kid.

But you captured him immediately and since that day at the field when he’d thrown a baseball and almost hit Taehyung on the arm and you’d shouted at Jungkook relentlessly for being a careless jerk, he knew that he’d want to shut you up with kisses just so you could get mad at him again.

He’d been a cheeky sophomore then, enjoying the bit of popularity he was gaining in Seoul for being an immediate standout of their university’s baseball team - the Pride of Busan, he’d been called - and he hadn’t expected this beautiful woman to almost knock him out for almost hitting her friend, even if Taehyung had been adamant that the hit was several centimeters off.

“I have better aim than that,” Jungkook had told you smugly, and his heart fluttered at the gagging face you made.

He wasn’t usually that bold but he felt it was worth it, especially if it was to see you scowl then try to hide a smile after. It took a few days until you’d given him more than 5 minutes of your time, then another few weeks before you finally agreed to a date, and then just two months to convince you that he was definitely worthy to be something more.

You both knew you’d fallen in love with each other even before either of you said it, the words always catching in your throats whenever you tried, but then he finally did, and he was over the moon when you’d said it back and he’d never been happier.

Even when you walked out that door and out of his life that December evening, he’d held onto you, your lingering presence enough for you to still be his anchor, his love, his guiding light.

He never thought that at one point, he’d beg for that to not be you. Just the thought of you sends him into a spiral, not of heartbreak or despair like before, he reckons that was even better; but of the feeling of resentment and betrayal.

Everyone’s chatter faints into background noise for a while, with Jungkook’s friends saying maybe you’d come back to Seoul only recently, hearing from Namjoon that you stayed in Daejeon with your cousin to work at a tech company. It had been a mystery how none of them caught up sooner, having only seen you twice a year at most and not knowing anything else.

“Ask Jimin,” Jungkook chimes in bitterly. “He was in on it anyway.”

The three older men turn to the man in question, Jimin meeting their curious gazes with a guilty look, knowing at some point Jungkook would grill him.

“Remember that woman I dated two years ago, the teacher?” He sighs.

Everyone nods.

“I surprised her one time at the daycare center where she was working. That’s how I bumped into ___. It was pretty obvious at first glance that Jungwon is Kook’s kid. I mean,” Jimin smiles, thinking about the little boy who’s taken his heart as well, reminding him of the best parts of Jungkook that's laid dormant for years. “Wide eyes, shy smile, puffy cheeks and soft features. It was unmistakable.”

Jimin remembers that day well, how flustered you’d been, arriving at the daycare an hour late and profusely apologizing to the staff. He’d stopped you then, his shocked face enough to let you know what he was thinking as you held the boy in your arms. It didn’t take long for you to tell him the truth, begging him not to tell his best friend.

“He’s finally playing in the major league, Jimin. There are too many good things going on for him there. I mean he— he’s happy. It won’t do good for me to tell him now,” you’d told him.

Jimin could’ve pressed more, should’ve gone to the root of your decision to hide it in the first place, or maybe even convinced you to tell Jungkook the truth, but you looked too stressed, a permanent fixture on your face, he thought, and he didn’t want to push it.

So he left it at that, knowing as well that between the pressure to do well and the rumors going around, this type of news would be a big hit to Jungkook. Ultimately, Jimin didn’t think it was his place to meddle; the most he could do was support you any way he could.

“How is he, the kid?” Jin questions, knowing his cousin would want to know but is too stubborn and angry to ask.

“The sweetest,” Jimin beams. “He’s pretty shy but becomes playful once he’s warmed up to you. He’s smart, just like ___, and is so caring, he's very affectionate and even talks to insects and—“ he pauses, as Yoongi nudges his knee and motions for him to stop.

Jungkook is still, jaws clenched again at the thought that these are things he doesn’t know and for obvious reasons. Thinking about how Taehyung and Jimin have done so much more for and with his own kid hurts him.

He loves his friends, knows he should be thankful that they’d been there for you and Jungwon but he can’t shake off the frustration, the jealousy. He wonders if any other man had the privilege of getting to know his son that way, of getting close to him.

He wonders, too, if any other man had gotten close to you. That’s a pang in his chest he doesn’t want to dwell on.

“Look, I’m really sorry, Kook. But a lot of things were happening with you then, too and I didn’t want to just drop that news to you. It would have been too much and—“

“You too?” Jungkook huffs. “I fucking hate it when people think they can just decide on such things about my life without me having a say. Wouldn't that piss you off if it happened to you?”

He’s met with silence.

It’s what gets him, really, the fact that people he trusted couldn’t afford him the decency of letting him decide, of trusting him that whatever happens, he was gonna figure it out.

“Wanna know what I think?” Yoongi speaks up.

“No,” Jungkook responds.

“That was hypothetical,” Yoongi says and shifts in his seat. “We all know ___. She’s very self-assured, sometimes to a fault, but she’s not rash, she’s not selfish. She might have decided on her own but it doesn’t mean she didn’t consider you.”

“She still should’ve talked to me about it. It was too big of a decision to not include me in it,” Jungkook retorts.

“But she was right, wasn’t she? You would have stayed. She knows you too well that you would’ve given up everything.”

“Why does everyone make it sound so bad? Of course I would’ve. That’s my son! I’m not the kind of person who would turn his back on that responsibility,” Jungkook bites back.

“It isn’t bad, but that’s precisely the point. Did you ask yourself why she thought it was worth it? Why she believed that the better option was to not be truthful for as long as you got to live out your dream? For as long as you got to reap the benefits of what you’ve worked so hard for?” Yoongi posits.

Jungkook stills, lips starting to quiver as he processes his friend’s questions.

“Baseball has always been your whole world, Jungkook. She shared you with it. It was all you talked about - the dream, what it meant to you, the connection with your father, the joy you’d feel when playing and hearing the cheers… We knew that, she knew that,” Yoongi continues.

“Your dream made you, Kook. It was all you knew, and she never complained. She loved you the same. And even with all your anger towards her right now, you know she wouldn’t try to take that dream away from you. Even if it means hurting both of you in the process.”

“But she meant so much to me, too. I would’ve done anything for her, and I thought she knew that,” Jungkook whimpers. He’d never once doubted what he felt for you and he always thought it was enough.

“Yeah, but do you think that was her first thought when she found out she was pregnant? That you’d give up your dream for her without any consequences down the line? She knew you would’ve stayed because you’re the kind of person to do that, but she also knew what that would mean, what that would do to you, and what that would do to them.”

Yoongi, ever the wise one of the group, makes everyone think.

The silence is deafening, but Jungkook doesn’t miss the way the guys have taken to slight nods and furrowed brows.

“Baseball was too important to you. She probably believed you’d lose more if you didn’t take the opportunity then. Not being there for her and your son was something she maybe thought you could always make up for,” Yoongi states.

Of your brother’s friends, Yoongi had always been the one you were closest to, spent the most nights at parties with, talking and agreeing on things. This is probably why he gets it, gets why you felt like you had to do what you did.

“Kook, don’t think she never planned on telling you. She never meant to keep it a secret forever,” Jimin says, recalling your claims that you just needed the right time to eventually tell Jungkook. “Maybe that’s why you’re even more frustrated; maybe you think she never wanted to involve you. Of course she does. You were her whole world and—“

“Baseball was mine,” Jungkook finishes, resigning to the idea that that's what you always thought, and you weren’t wrong. “She thinks I’d resent them down the road if I stayed and gave up on my dream.”

“I love you, Kook, but that fear is valid,” Jin says. “I’m not saying I agree with her decision but I think I get where she’s coming from.”

“But hey, you have all the right to be angry,” Hoseok says, disrupting the silence that’s enveloped everyone again. “Just don’t be so consumed by it, okay? You’re back, you have more of a reason to stay, so just think of where you need to go from here. You have all of us, you and ___ and Jungwon have all of us.”

Jungkook wipes off the tears that have silently fallen down his cheeks, the most he’s cried in front of his friends in years. It had been a change on his end after the break up - the walls he put up, the control he had over his emotions, the once soft heart hardening in places to make sure he wouldn’t hurt as much again. He hates to admit that it had all been because of you.

Jin’s phone rings and cuts through the silence that’s tainted with short sniffles.

“Namjoon saw the chat, wonders if he could come,” Jin asks.

“No need, I’m gonna leave soon,” Jungkook responds.

Jin relays the message to Namjoon who sends his own, then finishes the call.

“He said he wants to check up on you, too. You should meet up with him, I think it’d be good. It’s Namjoon, Kook. He loves his sister to death but you know he’ll be objective about it, too. Think about it, okay?”

Jungkook nods then lets some time pass before he leaves.

He thinks about it that night until the wee hours of the morning. For the first time, he thinks about what you felt the moment you found out, about what you were feeling and thinking that led you to decide to break up, and if you really planned on making him believe that you didn’t think it’d work out to cover up the truth.

Everything the guys said tonight rings in his head. What made you think this was the better option? What made you think he’d lose more if he gave up on the dream instead of being in your and Jungwon’s life? Why did you think his dream was more important than his life with you? Why did you think he’d resent you down the road?

It’s not lost on him that his dream seemed to trump everything else. It would always go back to that, it would always be about that, how even during that life-changing moment of you finding out you were carrying his child, what you considered was him and baseball.

He recalls the days leading up to the break up, how your conversations had been about his move, but never about the two of you. He chalked it up to thinking it was a given, that of course you’d stay together. He never realized that it wasn’t actually clear to you; it had been a given to him but not to you.

Jungkook doesn’t remember fights about lack of time because of training, or him not being in the mood after a bad game. Everything you’ve ever been to him was patient, understanding, and accepting of the sport he’d dedicated his whole life to, like it was a given, like it was the most important thing, like it was the third party in your relationship. And you never complained.

He loved you for that and more, for the fighter that you were, for the strong and goal-oriented woman that you were, for the thoughtful and warm-hearted person you’ve always been. He loved you so much. He’d fallen so hard that he willingly gave you his heart and let you do whatever you wanted with it, as long you had it. Because of that, you hurt him so terribly, he didn’t know how he could recover.

He thinks now that maybe it was on him, too. Maybe he didn’t tell you enough just how much you meant to him. Maybe he could’ve done more, appreciated you more, or at least let you know that you were just as much a part of his plan the way baseball was.

Maybe then you would’ve trusted him that you two would work it out, that it would be okay if he had to let go of his dream to be the partner that you needed, to be the father you needed him to be for your child.

But maybe you both didn’t know any better, he also thinks. You were so young, maybe it was too much to ask you to trust him, maybe you were also right not to. He’d definitely grown up the past years, and maybe he wouldn’t have if you didn’t break his heart the way you did.

He thinks about how you’d been the past years, too, how you took care of Jungwon on your own, how hard it must’ve been for you. But any more and he knows he’ll break down, and he doesn’t trust himself doing that alone.

He sighs at all the thoughts in his head and his mixed emotions. But his friends are right. He’s home now - he has all the resources, the time - what matters is what happens next.

He wants to understand better, and to know what you went through but he can’t bring himself to ask you. He knows you’ll brush off the sacrifices, the struggles; you never wanted to make others see your vulnerability, know of your weakest moments. So he decides to ask someone else. It’s 4AM but he doesn’t care.

[To: Namjoon]: Can we meet up? Jin’s bar at 7pm. See you.

“Uncle Tete, I choose this one!” Jungwon excitedly says, pointing at a toy submarine on the shelf. Taehyung is quick to retrieve the item then puts it in the cart.

“Okay, what else does this muffin want?”

“Tae, I said one thing,” you sigh. “Also, can you make sure that toy doesn’t have removable parts so he doesn’t attract kind strangers to help him?”

Your best friend rolls his eyes but Jimin chuckles next to you. “___, that broken airplane brought you to Jungkook. Plus, Jungwon wandered away; imagine if some other stranger found him,” he says.

“Shut up, I’m traumatized. That wasn’t the best way to let Jungkook know. Plus, I was so flustered that I lied and said I was babysitting,” you groan to yourself. You always knew how to carry yourself but it was really only Jungkook who ever made you feel nervous.

“I made it seem like I really meant to lie and you know that’s not true. I just didn’t know he was gonna be back. And you didn’t tell me,” you glare at Jimin.

“You think I didn’t give him shit for not telling me?” He replies. “Only Jin knew. Even I didn’t think he’d actually sign with the Bears. Everything was so fast. Before I knew it, he was already boarding a plane back home.”

“Well, he did say he didn’t wanna bug you since you’ve been so busy with your show,” Tae says from the shelf next to you. “Jungwon wants this puppy towel, by the way. Can I buy it for him?”

“Tae, I said just one thing. Stop spoiling him. We’re supposed to buy his school supplies,” you whine.

“Right, his father’s gonna hate me even more,” he mumbles.

“Okay, muffin. Mama said just one thing. Let’s go look at crayons now,” Tae tells Jungwon who smiles back at him and agrees.

“How’s rehearsal by the way?” You ask Jimin.

“Good. Just a few more weeks and we’re ready to go,” he says, excited over the Swan Lake show that his company is putting on. You’re excited, too, certain he’s going to do well. Being a professional ballerina is so much work but he’s always exceeded expectations. You know it can get stressful so maybe that’s why Jungkook didn’t bother informing him earlier.

“You’re watching, okay? The first show and the last, it’s when everyone is watching, too,” he says.

“You don’t have to ask, Jimin. Of course, I’ll be there. Sucks that Jungwon won’t get to see his uncle perform though.”

“Okay, just making sure, since Jungkook is here and all.”

“You should ask him, then. He’s the one who detests me,” you sigh.

“He doesn’t detest you, ___. He’s just angry, and with reason.”

You don’t miss the stern tone of his voice. You always felt the disappointment that Jimin felt towards you with what happened, even stayed away for a while after the breakup. Moving back to your parents’ home had been a good escape, seeing as how you didn’t know how to face your friends after everything.

It wasn’t until 2 years ago when Jimin bumped into you at the daycare that you two got to talking again. You know he decided to stick around for Jungwon, but it always worried you that he’d eventually tell Jungkook but he never did, which you were thankful for.

“I never said it wasn’t justified. I mean, after last week, I hope he stays angry at me, you know? And for a long time. I deserve that.”

“Hey, don’t talk that way.”

“You think I’m wrong? That I don’t deserve his anger?”

Jimin sighs. The department store really isn’t the best place for this but he proceeds anyway.

“It’s not that. I mean, it’s one thing to hurt him by suddenly breaking up with. And I won’t lie to you, ___, you broke him. That night, I found him curled in a ball by the door, unmoving, kind of like how I used to find him when we were younger… after his dad died.”

You release a long breath, not even wanting to imagine a balled-up Jungkook, sobbing. You heard him that night, how he begged for you to please don’t go. You walked away from the closed door then, as any moment longer would’ve just made you take it back.

“But it’s also another thing to lie about his son,” Jimin continues.

“You know I had to do it; he wouldn’t have agreed to break up if I didn’t make him believe that I didn’t want him anymore. And I had to keep Jungwon from him because I couldn’t let him stay. I mean, Jungkook and I just couldn’t be together, it wasn’t that easy.“

“Weren’t there other options?” Jimin wonders. “Maybe like, I don’t know, going with him?”

He’d heard Jungkook mention in passing before about possibly asking you to go with him but he doesn’t know if his best friend ever got to ask.

No one really knows what happened that night; Jungkook never said anything more than it’s over. No explanations, no follow-ups. Three days later, he talked to the school administration and requested for an early completion of his requirements so he could leave for the US as soon as possible.

“It never really entered my mind… I mean, I got pregnant after the deal was finalized and that was not an option at all,” you explain. “It would’ve been too hard, too scary. I mean, we were still so young and to be in a foreign place, by ourselves, with a child? And we were just together for 2 years, that would’ve been a huge step and—“

“Did you doubt what he felt?”

“What do you mean?”

“You talk as if you didn’t think you were ready as a couple for that step. You two loved each other so much. He loved you so, so much, ___. Doesn’t matter how hard things would’ve been, he would’ve done everything he could to make sure you two would make it, he would’ve done whatever he needed to make you happy.”

“It’s not that simple, Jimin. He needed support there, needed someone to help him and make things easier, not someone - more like two people - to take care of and what would have I done for him? What would have I offered?”

“That wouldn’t have mattered though, right? He always wanted to make you happy, being with you would’ve been enough, I mean, he loved you that much.”

Jimin is met with silence, and it hits him what Yoongi was pointing out the night before, and it crushes him. Maybe if you knew just how much you mattered to Jungkook, maybe you would’ve trusted him, maybe you would’ve trusted the both of you.

You let out a deep sigh instead. You never doubted Jungkook’s love for you; you just knew there were other more important things, things he‘s dedicated much more time on, unlike you.

You shake the thoughts away. You know that dwelling on the what if’s won’t help your mind and your heart, especially now.

You and Jimin settle on watching Taehyung help Jungwon decide on which crayons and colored clay to choose for art class, smiling at the little boy who’s been nothing but the sweetest angel.

Your smile fades away though, at the thought of how it must be for him too, meeting all these men who always introduce themselves as his uncle, never his father.

Jungwon had asked you only twice - one time when he asked if he was made of magic because there was this older kid in the playground who said that her mommy and daddy made her but Jungwon didn’t have a daddy; the other time was more straightforward, just where is Papa.

That kind of pain is truly unmatched, you think, and you settle for telling the little kid that his Papa is somewhere doing good things but that Papa loves him even if he isn’t around. No promises, no false hope. You made the choice and your kid shouldn’t suffer too much for it - you know Jungkook would love him no matter what.

“How has Jungkook been, by the way? And I want the truth, Jimin,” you ask as you save your sad thoughts for another day.

Since you reconnected two years ago, you never really talked about Jungkook and Jimin had always made sure to only bring him up when you asked. Which was never.

Everything is now out in the open though so you think there’s no harm in asking.

“Like I said, you broke him,” he sighs. “He hasn’t really been the same. We were all so worried, that’s why Jin made sure to go with him when he left; it’s why I made sure to visit him twice a year. He just became different, you know? Like a light was put out.”

You let this process for a bit. It had been the same with you, only you had a child to remind you of Jungkook. It had been hard to get over him - you didn’t break up with him because you didn’t love him anymore, anyway; it was the opposite, in fact.

But you had to try to at least move on because at the back of your mind, you knew that things weren’t going to be the same after that. You knew Jungkook would never abandon your son, would never not love him; you are altogether a different story.

“He was doing pretty well though, wasn’t he?” You shift the discussion.

You recall having watched games for the first few years. He’d been signed to the affiliate team of the LA Dodgers and was playing in Oklahoma City. He was an immediate standout and was chosen by the major league team to play in the roster the year after. It was almost meteoric, considering that he was a foreigner and thus, largely unheard of, but he was in tip-top shape, eye-hand coordination impressive, batting skills a dream especially as a rookie, and ran like Flash that it was a nickname the locals used to call him.

“Oh, he was great. Even the man who scouted him didn’t think he would be that great. But that’s expected, I guess, if you spend every waking hour in the gym or in the batting cage, if you follow a strict and intense schedule even during the off-season, and if you have no distractions like friends or girlfriends,” Jimin explains, pointing out all the sacrifices behind the success.

“But Maia—”

“Was probably the first friend he made outside of his team. You’d expect her to be his girlfriend too, right?”

You pause at this. You knew that at some point, Jungkook would move on from you; you did make him believe you didn’t want to be with him anymore, anyway. Yet, it was still a bitter pill to swallow when you found out about his relationship. She was a model-actress, so her presence in the games would often cause a buzz.

“He just changed in a way. There were all these walls up, even from us. You took a very big piece of him, ___. I’m surprised he even got to recover. I was afraid he wasn’t gonna be able to move on from you.”

There’s a pang in your chest at the seeming finality of Jimin’s words. Of course Jungkook would move on from you, of course at one point he’d realize that things would be better without you. You just didn’t think it would hurt like this.

“That’s good for him, then.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, of course,” you say. You hope he doesn’t miss the uncertainty in your voice, that he doesn’t detect the lie.

Jungkook enters the venue and heads straight to the bar where Namjoon is already waiting.

“Scotch, please,” Jungkook calls to the bartender, earning him a remark from the older man about how even his alcoholic preference has upgraded.

“It’s smoother,” Jungkook says, fixing himself on the barstool.

There’s an air of silence between the two men that is almost uncomfortable.

It had never been like this. Namjoon is a protective brother but given that Jin is one of his good friends who’d vouched for the young man, it had been easy for Namjoon to go soft on Jungkook. He saw how much Jungkook cared for you, made you happy, and as your brother, he’ll always be grateful for that.

“How are you?” The older man asks, sipping on his Martini.

“Great. Just found out my ex-girlfriend was pregnant with our son whom I didn’t know existed until a week ago. You?”

“Not great. My parents have been calling me, asking how ___ is and how you are and if things are okay. Don’t exactly know how to break the news that things aren’t actually fine.”

“They must hate me, huh?”

“Nope. You know our parents always stayed out of our relationships. They always liked you, though. But is that what you really wanna know?”

Jungkook exhales, trying to calm himself. He had time to think things through, but facing the emotions had been difficult.

“I just wanna try to understand. I want so badly to justify what she did so I could stop being so angry. I just want to stop feeling… this,” he says, clutching his chest, lips quivering. “It hurts so bad, I just don’t want to feel this anymore.”

Namjoon weakens at the sight of Jungkook like this, desperate to feel something else other than pain, other than anger. He’d heard from Jin how it was so hard for the young man to accept losing you, and then all this? It’s a lot for one person to handle.

“She was so selfish, leaving me like that, thinking I would be okay on my own. And then I finally accepted what happened only to find out that we have a child all this time? Please, please make me understand,” he begs, eyes glassy now.

“Look,” Namjoon says, turning to Jungkook, who, even with his build, has never looked so small.

“I won’t defend her and say that I think she made the right decision. It’s just that she made the best decision she could make at that moment. She knew what was at stake and she felt that choice was the better one,” he explains, similar to what Yoongi had posited.

This is your brother who always had a good read of you and it’s the closest to your thoughts that Jungkook could get.

“She tried to comfort herself everyday by justifying what she did - that you did well, made it to the major league a year later. You did what you set out to do. And I’m sorry to bring this up but when your mother got sick, wasn’t it that you had enough to pay for it all? No debts, no added stress for her? Life was good for you and your mother. It wasn’t the best, but what if you had stayed?” He asks, the question ringing in his head.

How would things be if Jungkook stayed?

“Again, I’m not saying she was right, I’m just saying that things happened the way they did and she made a choice. Any other decision would’ve had other consequences and she made the one she could stand by, that she could live with. I mean, it was all she could do.”

Jungkook thinks about this, how he’d felt comforted, too that he was able to pay for all his mother’s medical bills when it got too much. But life wasn’t good; it was excruciating being away from you, thinking all that time that you really didn’t believe in the both of you, convinced that it wasn’t going to work out.

All he had was the love and joy he got from baseball; it had been enough for him that time. Of course, with what he knows now, it’s different.

Jungkook goes back to what Namjoon asked, about what he really wanted to know.

“Did… did she have a hard time?” Eyes pleading. “Tell me, please.”

Namjoon sighs at this, not knowing how to answer. “It wasn’t easy.”

“Don’t simplify it. I need… I need to know. I need to not feel this. I need to not be angry,” he says, voice strained.

“She won’t want your pity, Jungkook, you know her.”

“Please, Namjoon. You know she’ll never tell me. But I need to know.”

The older man lets out a deep breath, knowing that you indeed wouldn’t tell Jungkook any of this.

“She stayed with my parents in Ilsan after graduation. She was four months along then but was adamant about earning on her own so she took several jobs online. There was a lot of stress but that’s normal, I guess,” Namjoon narrates. “My parents, Taehyung, and our neighbor all took turns staying with her because she’s so stubborn, you know? Wouldn’t tell you if something’s wrong.”

Jungkook knows that all too well, that you really are like that.

“Knowing that, though, my parents had her checked every week. That’s how they determined fetal distress,” Namjoon slows down, tone more somber now. “It was early detection so they were able to perform a c-section right away.”

Jungkook turns to him, fear and worry etched on the younger man’s face. “She… she had surgery?”

“Yeah. It was pretty tough and Jungwon had to be monitored for any disabilities or delays. But yeah, he managed, she managed,” Namjoon recounts. The events are so far away but it’s like the worry and the relief still feel so real.

“The kid’s strong, Jungkook. He has a soft and sweet soul like you but he's definitely a fighter like his mother. Perfect mix, if I should say so myself,” the older man smiles, trying to turn the conversation to a lighter one.

He means it though, how Jungwon personifies the best parts of you and Jungkook.

“But they were okay after?”

“Somewhat. She was required to rest for several weeks so those two bonded like crazy,” Namjoon giggles. “Good thing that Jungwon was a quiet one, barely cried, didn’t give ___ too much of a hard time. It just… took time away from her earning, you know? So once she was capable, she took this job at a marketing firm that was way too hectic but paid well and it just… It was hard.”

“How hard?”

“Hard. Jungkook, she was a single parent. A stubborn and proud one at that. Worked over 12 hours a day, took online jobs during the weekend, took Jungwon to daycare everyday, taught him to do everything, made sure he got to play and all…” Namjoon narrates.

“It’s why my mom visited her every month for those first 2 years, why Ara and I would babysit often, why Taehyung set up a place for Jungwon at his apartment on days when ___ had an event until early morning. She only ever asked help if it was about Jungwon, never if it was about her,” Namjoon sighs, recalling how painful it had been for him as your brother to watch you do it all, never taking a break, never asking for help.

“Stubborn and proud, like you said,” Jungkook states.

“Yeah and well, she made a choice, Jungkook. She made a choice to leave you, to have this child on her own, and she made sure to give him everything while being the best parent she could be, taking on both roles for him and she never complained, not once. She just kept going, you know? Never made Jungwon feel any less or that he was a mistake or that he wasn’t loved enough. She made a decision and she stood by it. I’ll always admire her for that,” Namjoon states, holding his own emotions back.

Jungkook lets this all sink in, suddenly wishing that he was there for you, that you didn’t have to go through all that by yourself, that even with friends and family, he’s hoping you didn’t feel so alone.

He knows how you are, knows you’ll exhaust yourself before you even ask for help. That’s how he knew you truly loved him, when you would tell him you’re tired, or that you need help, whether it was something as simple as fixing your broken light bulb or using his charms to get the administration office to agree on this event proposal you had. Being open to him let him know you trusted him. Until you didn’t.

You never minded asking him, and Jungkook knows that if he’d been around, you wouldn’t have minded him helping you, making it easier for you. And it crushes him that he’d wanted to be everything you needed him to be for you and for your child but you didn’t even give him a chance.

He lets out a deep breath, the anger slowly dissipating and being replaced with longing, with a kind of sadness that he now doesn’t know how to deal with.

Namjoon picks up on this and pats him on the shoulder. “Look, I know that you’re still upset and you have the right to be. Just don’t be blinded by that. You’re home. You have a son that I’m sure you want to get to know. Four years is a lot but it’s also just 4 years. Don’t waste any more time that was already taken away from you.”

“Okay,” Jungkook says softly, knowing that it’s still going to take a lot of getting used to.

“So, what do you wanna do now?”

“Maybe meet up with her? I mean, I was yelling at her the last time we saw each other and I just want to ask to see our son.”

“Of course, Kook. I’m sure she’d want that, too.”

You’re sitting on one of the benches at the park the next day, watching Jungwon play with Namjoon and his wife, Ara, from afar. Even from here, you can make out the doe eyes of your son and his smile that reaches his eyes.

He likes the cold, just like you, and he’s been running about with his toy airplane and submarine, which he almost threw in the fountain. You’re smiling fondly, thinking of how the universe had been kind enough to bless you with the sweetest little angel that it could create.

You feel a figure settle next you, not too far away. Namjoon had told you late last night that Jungkook wanted to meet you, perhaps to ask for a workable schedule to spend time with Jungwon.

“Hey,” he says. You shiver, and you know it’s not because of the weather.

“I never got to tell you but I’m so, so sorry, Jungkook,” you say, turning to him, your eyes taking in the sight of him properly for the first time. “There’s so much I need to apologize for and I know it’s gonna take a long time for you to forgive me.”

You’re unable to rein in your feelings again, but after that first conversation with him and then the one you had with Jimin yesterday, you can’t help the guilt that you’ve been trying to temper bubble to the surface - for hurting him, for not trusting him, for not giving him a choice.

“There’s no point dwelling on what happened. It’s done. I’m here. I have time. And I’d like to spend it with Jungwon as much as possible,” he responds.

He doesn’t look at you; he just keeps his eyes out on the little boy still running about. His little boy, his son. And he can’t wait to finally hold him, get to know him, fall in love with him.

“Of course, but we need to take it slow. He’s a shy kid and it’ll take a while. Let’s follow his pace, okay?”

“Sure. We can grab lunch on Saturday, then?”

You can’t help the hope that bubbles in your chest. “That sounds good, Jungkook.”

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harley-sunday · 2 years

Text

North Star [03]

Summary: “We were never bad, Charles, we just lost each other somewhere along the way.” It’s been two years since you and Charles broke up and you have been trying to find your way ever since. Will seeing him again make you find your true north?

Pairings: Pierre Gasly x reader (best friends) | Charles Leclerc x reader

Warnings: Mentions death of a parent/parents. Mentions Anthoine Hubert. Please see masterlist for general warnings. Language.

Word count: 7.4k (idk what happened either...)

AN: Here we are, bb’s, part 3. Can you believe? We’re slowly getting there, I promise. And yeah, apparently I have a thing for beer pong now... Anyway, this one has been fun to write, so I hope you’ll enjoy!

[Flashbacks in italics]

Masterlist

Les Côtes, December 30, 2021

Sleep didn’t come easy last night, Charles’ parting words on an endless loop in your head which in turn made your heart race and your mind working in overdrive. After two hours of laying awake you debated getting up and finding Pierre so you could tell him what happened and have him try to make sense of it for you. You decided against it, not in the least because you doubt Katerina would have enjoyed you barging into their room in the early hours of the night only to have Pierre help you work through whatever it is you’re going through, even though that is pretty much the modus operandi of your friendship and has always worked both ways. Instead you tossed and turned for a long time before you finally drifted off into a restless sleep.

And now here you are, still in bed even though it’s already well after ten. Thank God breakfast is a much more relaxed affair now that there are so many people, because instead of setting the table and having everyone join at a set time there’s a buffet set up in the kitchen, and so you don’t feel as bad about hiding in your bedroom a little longer.

The muffled sounds coming from downstairs aren’t loud enough to keep you from replaying last night’s encounter with Charles in your mind though, his words stuck on repeat like a broken record. And not one you want to turn off necessarily. You keep trying to figure out what he meant when he said you would find your way back to each other. Keep trying to figure out if there was a promise hidden in his words somewhere, while at the same trying to not get your hopes up because you are certain that once you let your walls down again the inevitable heartbreak will undoubtedly follow sooner rather than later and God knows you’ve already had enough of that to last a lifetime.

Deep down inside you know you’re setting this up for failure before it has even started but the thing is, you’re not even sure what this is. Surely Charles doesn’t want to get back together? How could he? You were the one who ended things, with that monologue of you being lost and needing to find yourself, while at the same time telling him that even though you loved him it felt like it wasn’t enough, that you were holding yourself back. That you were holding him back.

How Charles even cares enough to still talk to you is beyond you, because how unfair of you to put those words in his mouth.

Something heavy settles deep inside you then and you bite your lip in a futile attempt to keep from crying but it isn’t long before you feel the first tear slide down your cheek. You wipe at it angrily because you still don’t feel this is something you’re allowed to cry over. After all, you were the one who took the easy way out. You were the one who didn’t even give him a chance to stop you from leaving because you had already left long before you told him you wanted to break up with him.

A knock on your door pulls you out of your thoughts but before you have time to tell whoever’s on the other side that now isn’t really a good time, the door opens and Pierre walks in. He’s holding two mugs of what you hope is coffee but what you think might be hot chocolate and tells you to make room for him by waving one of the mugs around.

You push yourself up and prop the pillow up against the wall and as you sit up against it Pierre sits down next to you and hands you one of the mugs. You can’t help but smile when you see it is hot chocolate he brought, “Thank you.”

He nods in reply and puts his arm around your shoulders then, pulling you closer to him as he leans his back against the wall, “Talk to me Flo.”

“How did you-”

He tuts and shakes his head, simply telling you, “It’s almost eleven,” as if that explains it all, but then again it kind of does because Pierre knows you hate sleeping in almost as much as he hates getting up early, another paradox in your friendship that’s not entirely lost on you.

You let out a heavy sigh but don’t say anything, mostly because you’re not even sure where to start.

“Is this about Charles?”

Another sigh then, but also a nod, “Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything and you know it’s his way of letting you know that while he’s there for you if you want to talk it’s also ok if you don’t.

“I don’t know though,” you start, but then you don’t really know how to continue from there and so the words sort of hang in the air without having too much meaning.

Pierre pulls you close and presses a kiss to your temple, “Are you scared?”

Honestly, you shouldn’t even be surprised anymore. Sometimes you really think Pierre knows you better than you know yourself, or maybe it’s just that sometimes he says out loud what you’re too afraid to. It’s one of the reasons why you’re always honest with him, not only because he would know if you weren’t but also because he deserves it, and so you quietly admit, “A little.”

“That’s ok.”

You scoff, “Is it though?”

“Stop blaming yourself for this breakup, Flo,” Pierre says, a warning to his voice that you know you should take seriously, because of course he reads you like the open book you always are to him. He gently flicks your cheek to let you know you need to pay attention to what he’s going to say next, “Both of you let it happen.” Another kiss to your temple then, “You might have pulled the trigger but both of you were loading bullets long before that.”

XXX

It’s a little after twelve when you finally make your way downstairs but, because Pierre promised you he would tell anyone who asked that you woke up with a headache and would be staying in bed a little longer, no one really pays attention to you in the way they might have if they had known the real reason for your absence this morning.

And even though you're not actively trying to avoid Charles, you are a little relieved when you only find Arthur in the kitchen on your quest for something to eat, “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says from over his shoulder, his smile growing a little wider when he sees it’s you.

You walk up to where he’s standing at the counter, trying to see what he’s doing, a little surprised to find him peeling potatoes for tonight’s dinner. “Trying to get a headstart?” You joke as you bump your shoulder against his.

“Sort of,” he admits with a smile. “We’re going karting this afternoon, remember? So I figured I better get these done before then.”

“Right,” you draw out, recalling the conversation the boys had about it during last night’s Monopoly game then, although you can’t remember if they actually decided to go. Or if you agreed to join them.

“You’re still coming right?” Arthur asks, dropping another peeled potato in the big pot that’s standing in the sink to his left before he looks at you expectantly.

Ah. So you did. Fuck.

XXX

Les Côtes, 1 January 2007

“Charles-” he gently pushes against the sleeping form of his older brother, “wake up.”

A mop of tousled hair appears from under the covers, eyes slowly opening and trying to find their point of focus, “What?”

“I can’t sleep anymore,” Arthur simply states, not bothering with an excuse or more profound reason why. He watches as his older brother untangles himself from the sheets and sits up on the edge of the bed, stretching and yawning as if to convey that it’s still way too early for him to get up but Arthur ignores him and whispers, “You wanna go watch a movie?”

“Now?”

“Yes,” he nods enthusiastically, hoping it will convince Charles to join him. Another whispered reason as to why this is a good idea then, “Remember maman said we could? Because we needed to let the grownups sleep a little longer today?” He glances up at the top bunk bed, a little relieved when he hears Lorenzo’s quiet snores, because unlike Charles Lorenzo doesn’t like early morning wake up calls and he knows there will be hell to pay if they accidentally do wake their oldest brother.

“Yeah, ok,” Charles agrees easily enough all of a sudden, gets up and gently pushes his brother out of their shared bedroom, “let’s go. We’ll ask Pierre too.”

Arthur follows his brother to the other side of the house, a little surprised at the way Charles seems to navigate the hallways with ease because even after two days of being here the house still feels like a maze to the younger Leclerc even though by now he at least knows where his bedroom is. He does like it here though, this big house, hidden away in the woods somewhere, where Maman said they would spend New Year’s Eve with the Gasly’s and the other family he’s not sure he remembers the last name of.

He’s seen them around of course, the girl and Pierre being best friends and always together on and off the race tracks. Her father joins them for most weekends and he decided early on that he really likes him because one time he helped fix Charles’ kart when it broke down during the middle of a race. From there on out he and Charles started calling the man ‘Tonton’, just like Pierre does.

Without knocking the boys walk into what Arthur hopes is Pierre’s bedroom, and not one of their parents’ of Pierre’s older brother’s bedrooms, a little relieved when it is. He watches as Charles gives his friend, who is still asleep on one of those inflatable mattresses tucked in the corner of the room, a push, “Pierre.”

There’s a grunt in reply as Pierre turns around and eyes the two intruders suspiciously, “What?”

“Wanna go watch a movie?” Charles asks in the sort of take it or leave it kind of way he always does.

“I was sleeping,” Pierre mumbles, rubbing his eyes as to prove his point, but then pushes the covers aside and gets up anyway. Without thinking he walks over to the bed in the other corner of the room and wakes his best friend with a gentle flick to her cheek and a simple, “Come on.”

She shakes her head, whispering a quiet, “No, I don’t wanna,” but Pierre is relentless and pulls the covers off her rather unceremoniously and Arthur is in awe at how brave his brother’s older friend is. He would never have dared to do that. Especially not to a girl. He’s always looked up to Pierre who, even though he’s only a year older than Charles, Arthur thinks is just about the coolest kid ever.

“We’re going to watch a movie,” Pierre simply states, apparently not caring if she even wants to or not. Then again, she and Pierre do everything together and so Arthur isn’t really surprised when she gets up shortly after and motions for them to get a move on.

All three of them follow Pierre, who leads them down the stairs and to the TV room, the house still dark and quiet, and it almost feels like what they’re doing isn’t allowed but he knows from the stories Pierre has told him that this is what they always do on New Year’s Day and so he’s sure they won’t get into too much trouble.

There’s a somewhat of a heated discussion between Pierre and Charles about which movie to watch before they ultimately settle on Cars. Again. Nobody seems to mind that they watched it yesterday as well and so Arthur doesn’t say anything either, too happy he gets to hang out with the older kids to make any sort of fuss. They end up huddled together on one of the big couches, Pierre and Charles almost laying down, their feet resting on the coffee table in front of them, while Arthur finds himself on the other side of Charles, tucked into the corner.

The movie is about halfway done when all of sudden Charles jumps up and looks at them like he just had the best idea ever, “You know how everyone in racing always has these nicknames?” He waits until at least Pierre nods before he continues, “Well next time we go karting we should use their names-” he points at the screen, “- as our nicknames! How cool would that be?”

“Yeah,” Pierre agrees, jumping up too then, looking equally as excited. “I wanna be Raoul ÇaRoule!”

“I wanna be Red,” Charles says, giving Pierre a high five as if this is the greatest thing they’ve ever come up with. Charles looks at Arthur then and for a moment he’s worried his older brother will give him the worst car, like Martin, but then Charles says, “You wanna be Flash McQueen, Thuri?” and he’s pretty pleased with that.

Before he has time to say anything Pierre’s already poking his best friend, widely grinning at her as he tells her, “You should be Flo!”

XXX

You and Pierre are the first to arrive at the karting track although the car of the three Leclerc brothers shouldn’t be too far behind. No one else wanted to join and so it’s just the five of you, like it has been so many times before. Pierre looks at you as he unbuckles his seat belt, a mischievous look in his eyes when he tells you, “Try to go easy on us, will you?”

You let out a laugh and shake your head, “Never.” When you make your way out of the car you see Lorenzo pull up in the parking space next to yours and so you wait until the three of them have stepped outside before you head to the entrance. It’s been three years since you’ve last been in a kart, and just as long since you’ve raced anyone, but you know you still have a good chance of beating the boys.

When Pierre first got into karting you wanted to give it a try as well, mostly because you wanted to do everything he did and then be better at it, and so for your ninth birthday your parents gifted you your own kart. You loved it. The speed, the racing, spending all your free time either at the karting track or in the garage together with your Dad as he tried to improve your kart so it would react better and go faster.

You raced competitively for almost four years and managed to beat both Pierre and Charles, and even Anthoine, quite a few times until a particularly nasty crash during the Tours race left you with a broken leg halfway through the 2009 season. By the time you’d fully recovered Pierre and Anthoine had left for boarding school in Le Mans and so all of a sudden you found yourself training at the Rouen track alone. Still, you stuck with the sport for a few more years but your heart wasn’t really in it anymore and so when you turned sixteen you decided to quit, your last race in Varennes having you end up in third place while a then fifteen-year old Max Verstappen took first and Charles came in second.

It’s been three years to the day since you last drove a kart, and it was at this track too because somehow this is what you always do on the day before New Year’s Eve, a tradition your Dad and Jean-Jacques started long before Pierre or you were even born. You were still together with Charles when you were here last and both of you were too distracted by the other to do well in the race, with Charles finishing third and you ending up in fourth place, which is why you’re secretly so determined to do better this time.

Once you’re geared up and ready to go you’re relieved to find the track empty except for the five of you although you suspect the owner, Thierry, might have had something to do with that because even though Pierre and Charles always make time for their fans it can get a bit hectic at times. You wouldn’t be surprised if he blocked out the rest of the afternoon for you just so you could race in peace and remind yourself to thank him for it later.

A quick round of rock, paper, scissors determines the starting order, with Arthur on pole and you on P2, in front of Charles, Pierre, and Lorenzo, and before you know it the lights go out and you find yourself in a heated battle with all the boys. You drop back a place in the first lap, Charles overtaking you in the second corner when you brake a bit too early, and then another place in the fourth lap when Pierre overtakes you on the straight. You give yourself a stern talking to during laps five and six and start pushing the kart, braking later and later into each turn.

It takes you another four laps but then you finally catch Charles, who by then has dropped behind Pierre, and so you set your sights on your best friend next. When you overtake him in the following lap you do so with a wicked grin even though he can’t see you, and now there’s only Arthur in front of you and three laps left. You try to block out everything else, try to get back into that zone where it’s just you and the kart and it must help because you manage to get closer and closer, finally overtaking him in the second-to-last corner before you gun it to the finish line.

“Fuckin’ hell, Flo,” Pierre curses when he parks his kart next to yours. He takes his helmet off and there’s a wild grin on his face when he says, “You sure you don’t want to get back into karting?”

“I had forgotten how good you are,” Lorenzo joins in, giving you a hug and tapping the top of your helmet for good measure.

You shrug as you take your helmet off even though you’re secretly very pleased with the result, “Thanks, Renzo.” Arthur's next to congratulate you, giving you a fist bump, and you wink at him in reply, letting him know he put up a good fight.

“Ok,” Pierre declares with a wicked grin, “I will go get us something to drink but after that we are definitely having a rematch.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Gas,” you tease, sticking your tongue out at him. You watch him as he shakes his head and starts walking to the cafeteria before you call out, “I am on fire today!”

Charles comes up to you then, his hair sticking up in every direction even though he’s already ran his hand through it a few times and a thin sheen of sweat covering his face. Like always, he looks absolutely gorgeous. He seems a little unsure of what to do but then holds out his arms to you anyway. Without thinking you step into his embrace and when he puts his arms and you catch a whiff of his cologne, the same one you found a bottle of in your bathroom two days ago, something flutters in your chest and even though it’s a little confusing it’s also a lot familiar.

“Congratulations, ma belle,” he whispers, pulling you even closer and your heart, oh your heart.

XXX

Even though you are sure Pierre must have seen the hugs Charles gave you after you won both the first and the second heat, he doesn’t comment on it on your drive home and so neither do you. You’re torn between wanting to over analyse every detail of what happened not only today but yesterday as well and wanting to let it simmer for a little longer. Let’s see what happens tonight first, you decide once Pierre pulls up to the house.

The minute you step inside it’s chaos, with four more adults and three more kids added to the mix. There are people walking from the kitchen to the dining room and back, carrying serving dishes and trays of food, and kids running around screaming and a few of them even bumping into Pascale at some point. The five of you observe the madness in front of you in silence, not one of you moving away from the safety of the hallway. One of Pierre’s sisters-in-law passes you then and shrugs apologetically, “It has been a long day, what with all the rain,” as if that explains it all, but then again it sort of does.

“Ok,” Pierre mutters under his breath, unzipping his jacket, “here we go.”

You follow him to the dining room because it’s a little before seven and so dinner must be almost ready and before you know it you are ambushed by two little girls who both ask you if they can sit next to you during dinner. It’s a trick question because there is a special kids table they’re supposed to sit at and so you shake your head apologetically, “No, mes poussins, but you can sit with me for dessert if you want?”

Both girls nod enthusiastically and you can’t help but smile when you see them run off to the other kids and tell them of the deal they’ve made with you.

You sit down on the far end of the table, your regular spot, with Pierre and Katerina opposite to you and Charles and then Arthur next to you. Throughout dinner the boys talk about some of the upcoming changes in Formula one while you and Katerina talk about everything from movies to books to the best places to travel during summer break.

By the time dessert is served the kids are getting rowdy again and there’s a small quarrel between Victoria and Léah over who gets to sit in your lap, but when Katerina offers to take Léah the issue is quickly resolved. When you ask Victoria what she has been up to she doesn’t hesitate and for the next ten minutes or so tells you all about the swimming lessons she has been taking. More and more kids gather around the table once they’ve finished their desserts and it gets loud again and there’s some screaming going on then that has Jean-Jacques slam his hand on the table, booming a loud, “That’s enough.”

The entire room goes silent and you can tell Pierre’s Dad is trying to keep a straight face at the sudden change of atmosphere but ultimately he fails and bursts out into laughter, throwing a wink at Pascale who’s sitting next to him, “I guess dinner is over, right Mamie?”

Pascale nods and tells the older kids to go upstairs and change into their pyjamas, while the younger ones are being taken upstairs by their parents. As is tradition Jean-Jacques will set up a board game in the living room, which the older kids will join him for after. All of a sudden the room erupts again with kids running upstairs and adults clearing away the dishes.

You’re not on the schedule for tonight but find yourself helping out anyway, trying to avoid being lured into joining a game of Jungle Speed because you’re not sure you’re up for it. You could do with some peace and quiet for a while, you decided during dinner.

And so, once you’ve cleared away the last of the plates, you head to the library where the kids aren’t allowed. You know from past experience it’s a perfect spot to hide in and one that’s often used by Jean-Jacques for his afternoon nap.

You’ve always liked the library, the shelves upon shelves of books holding almost no secrets for you after all these years even though there are still a few books left you haven’t read yet. Maybe now is as good a time as any to pick up a new one, you think, as you open the door. You’re a little lost in thoughts, trying to remember if there’s anything you wanted to read, and you don’t notice there’s already someone here until you hear the soft tune of a song you don’t recognize being played on the piano.

By then you’ve already closed the door behind you and there’s no chance of you leaving without him knowing you’re there and so you figure you might as well face the music, quite literally, and quietly greet him, “Hey.”

XXX

Versailles, December 9, 2017

“God, it’s beautiful here-”

He squeezes her hand to let her know he shares her sentiment which earns him a nervous smile from her, one that he’s sure mirrors his own. As they follow the usher to their assigned seats he tries to enjoy every moment, tries to really be present so that when this night becomes just a memory at least it will be the most vivid one he has.

The room they’re in, which must be the ballroom, is big, much bigger than he thought it would be, with still a lot of room even though there’s a podium set up on the far end. The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling cast a soft glow over the room, making the space feel more intimate than it is. When they reach their seats he allows her to pass in front of him, knowing they would want him close to the aisle.

Her dress is long and flowy, a dark green colour that compliments her in every way possible, the long sleeves adding modesty to no doubt compromise for the plunging neckline. When she brushes past him, one hand on his arm to keep herself steady in the high heels she’s wearing, he finds himself staring at her, like he has done so many times already ever since he picked her up from her hotel room earlier that night, his breath being taken away each and every time.

She smiles up at him but there’s something urgent in her voice when she tells him, “Sit down, Charles,” and it’s then he realises he’s still standing here looking like a fool. There are some unfamiliar faces in the seats next to her and so she turns to him a little, a smile playing on her lips when she sees him tugging on his bowtie, gently swatting his hand away, “Leave it.”

He rests his arm on the back of her chair instead and something that can only be described as butterflies appear in his stomach when she leans into him and lets out a content sigh. He feels grateful, grateful to be here in the Palace of Versailles, grateful that he’s nominated, grateful that he never gave up. Most of all he’s grateful for her. His friend, who agreed to come here with him tonight even though he knows she hates these kinds of things and would much rather stay out of the spotlight. Without thinking he presses a kiss to her temple and whispers, “Thank you for coming tonight, Flo.”

She shakes her head, “Le plaisir était pour moi, Charles, believe me.”

The lights are dimmed then and a hushed silence falls over the audience as the ceremony begins. He’s a little lost in thoughts, too distracted by the closeness of her to really be paying attention and so it isn’t until she nudges him that he realises his category is up next. He sits up, feeling a little nervous, and she must sense him tense up because she’s quick to pat his knee.

While the presenter explains how the choice of rookie of the year has been made he swallows hard a few times and tries to take a few deep breaths, because even though he doesn’t expect a win he knows he will be disappointed if he loses.

A voice comes over the speakers then and it’s almost as if time slows down when he hears, “Please welcome the FIA rookie of the year and the 2017 Formula Two champion, Charles Leclerc.”

He hears her let out a quiet, “Fuck, yes,” in excitement next to him and when he turns to her she is smiling so brightly it could light up the room. Maybe it does. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to go on stage, doesn’t want to collect his trophy, not if it means leaving her here because she’s the only one he wants to celebrate with, but before he has time to think about what it means she nudges him and nods towards the stage.

He thinks he does ok with his speech although he might have to rewatch it to make sure, his mind still too occupied with her to be a hundred percent present on stage. The music starts playing then and as he makes his way back to his seat he has to fight the urge to run back and instead tries to enjoy the moment, accepting the handshakes and nods from his colleagues in the audience with practised grace.

When he finally joins her again he’s surprised to see tears in her eyes but then he remembers he mentioned how the loss of his father affected his season and so he puts his trophy down and cups her cheek with his hand, “It’s ok, Flo.”

She leans into his touch and nods, a sad smile playing on her lips as she turns her head and kisses his palm before she takes his hand in hers and rests both of them in her lap.

A warmth spreads out from where their hands touch and he wishes he could stop time, wishes he could stay in this moment forever, and it’s then he realises he’s in love with her and has been for quite some time now.

The ceremony lasts another two hours or so, but not once does his hand leave hers, their fingers still intertwined when the house lights come on and people around them start to get up. He grabs his trophy and stands up, gently tugging on her hand to get her to follow him to the exit, hoping they can leave the afterparty sooner rather than later.

Still, it takes another hour and at least two glasses of champagne before the evening finally comes to an end and they find themselves in a cab back to the hotel they’re staying at. The cab driver is chatty, wanting to know everything about Formula One even though Charles repeatedly tells him he won’t drive in the elite series until next year, and he wants nothing more than to tell the man to shut it. When they reach the hotel he’s quick to exit the car, holding out his hand to her, that now familiar warmth spreading through him again when she takes it.

There’s a tension in the air that he’s sure is almost palpable but neither of them says anything and so it sort of just follows them as they make their way to the elevator bay and up to their floor. When they reach his room he squeezes her hand, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks when he asks, “Stay with me?”

She bites her lip and for a moment he’s afraid she’ll say no but then, like so many times before, she surprises him and says, “Always.”

XXX

“I didn’t know you started playing again,” you say as you walk over to him, not commenting on him being here because you figure, like you, he must have wanted an escape from the mayhem.

“Yes, I started taking lessons during the first lockdown,” Charles replies with a proud smile, “but only for three or four months. Just so I could read music, you know.”

“Hmm,” you agree, hesitating a little when you reach him, not sure if you should join him on the piano stool but then he pats on the leather next to him and so you sit down anyway. There’s still a little space between you but when he goes to put his hands on the keys again his arm brushes against yours and you could swear you could feel sparks flying. He must feel it too because his fingers hover over the keys, not quite settling down, and so you try to ease the tension with the first thing that comes to mind, “Will you play something for me?”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods, his fingers softly landing on the keys as he licks his lips. You watch him as his fingers start moving and you let out a quiet, “Oh,” when you hear the first notes of ‘La Valse d’Amélie’, a song you must have listened to a thousand times before but that somehow hits differently now.

You close your eyes for a second and allow the music take you back to the summer you turned fifteen, when your mom deemed you old enough to finally watch ‘Amélie’ with her, making you feel like she was seeing you more and more like a grownup and less like the little kid you still felt like at times. The memory brings a smile to your face and when the last notes fade away you let out a shaky breath and open your eyes again, not surprised to find Charles looking at you, “That was beautiful.”

“I remember you told me that was your favourite song of the soundtrack,” he says, looking down at his hands when he quietly adds, “so it was one of the first I learned to play once I could read the music.”

“Charles-” you start, but he stops you with a shake of his head.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I shouldn’t have said that.”

You hang your head, looking at your hands, the fingers of your left nervously playing with the ring on your right, trying to find the words for, what? You’re not exactly sure. It feels wrong to simply tell him ‘thank you’ and leave but you’re not sure what else to say. Maybe this, you think, you and him alone together, is the universe’s way to tell you that it’s time to move on, time to leave the past behind. Problem is, you don’t know if you want to. And even then you’re not sure if Charles can.

Taking a deep breath you decide to go for it, to at least try to take a step in the right direction, and so you look up at him and say, “I want you to know I’m sorry, Charles. For everything.”

“Ma belle, no-”

“You really should stop calling me that,” you tell him even though you hope he never will. It’s not just a nickname to you, you realise in that moment, it is the promise of something more, almost like a glimmer of hope you’re desperately holding onto, because as long as he still calls you that maybe, just maybe, it means he still cares for you.

“Why?”

“We’re not together anymore,” you simply reply, hoping he will accept your answer.

He doesn’t say anything for a while and just as you start to wonder if maybe you’ve upset him he takes your hand in his and gives it a squeeze, “What if I want us-”

“Charles!”

You jump up at the sound of Pierre’s voice and let go of Charles’ hand reflexively as you turn towards the door your best friend just entered through. Pierre narrows his eyes at you and you can just about see the gears in his head start turning at the scene in front of him but before he has the chance to make any of his smart remarks you tell him not to with a minituous shake of your head.

He seems to recover quickly and instead says, “Ah good, you are both here.” He motions for you to follow him with a wave of his hand, “Come on, Thuri and Renzo are setting up for some drinking games.”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Charles whispers as he gets up. He winks at you then, “Ma belle.”

XXX

“Yes! Suckers!” You throw your hands in the air and turn around to face Arthur and Katerina, your teammates in this game of beer pong, who both high five you after you’ve made yet another shot, the score now three drinks left for your team and only one left for Pierre, Charles, and Lorenzo.

You’re on round three of beer pong, or is it four? You’re not sure but it doesn’t matter because after losing the first couple of games, and shotting more beer than you’d like in just the forty minutes or so you have been playing, it finally looks like things are starting to turn around. Round three, you remember then, because you think you heard Lorenzo say something about best out of five and so if you don’t win this round you’re out of the game and team Alpha Ferrari, or whatever they’ve called themselves, will have won.

The game is being held in the garage with what used to be a ping pong table as your playing field. There’s a space heater in the corner somewhere that makes it somewhat bearable but still it’s cold here and so all of you are wearing either jackets or an extra sweater.

As you walk back to take your place in line behind Katerina you feel yourself start to sway a little and so you hold out your hands in an effort to keep your balance, earning you a worried look from Arthur. You dismiss him with a wave of your hand, “‘m fine.”

“Flo, you ok?” Pierre shouts from across the room, doubling over with laughter when you don’t say anything but just show him your middle finger instead.

“Get ‘em, Thuri,” you hiss at your teammate, letting out a frustrated groan then when he misses.

Charles is next and somehow manages to make his shot even though he’s standing a little too far to the right and you want to protest that it’s against the rules but by then Arthur has already downed his beer and so you keep quiet.

Katerina misses too and when Lorenzo makes his shot you let out a quiet, “Merde.”

You take a few deep breaths, trying to find your balance as you walk towards the table, trying not to look at Pierre, who’s taunting you on the other side, moving his cup around to distract you. Or to make you throw up. You’re not sure. “Stop it, Gas,” you call out before you point at Charles, “Get your boy away from there, Leclerc.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Charles laughs and tugs on Pierre’s arm to make him take a step back.

You mouth a quiet, “Merci,” before you try to line up your shot, closing one eye to get your aim absolutely perfect. You’re not sure what happens but the moment the ball leaves your hand you know it’s a miss and you watch in horror as it hits the table, grazing the side of the cup as it does, and then rolls onto the ground. So close. So fuckin’ close.

There’s no way Pierre’s going to miss his shot and so you await the inevitable, mentally preparing yourself for yet another shot of beer. There is a very real chance you’ll throw up after this, you realise, so you stare at your opponent, hoping it will throw him off in a last ditch effort to save yourself. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. And so you find yourself downing a beer not much later, pulling a face at the taste.

“I should go to bed,” you say to no one in particular as you put the now empty cup back on the table.

“You should,” Pierre agrees with a smile, already at your side, “I was just coming to get you.”

“Good boy,” you tell him as you pat his cheek. “You know me so well, Gas.”

He chuckles and takes you by the elbow, telling the rest he’ll be back in a second and to set up for another round, “We’ll make different teams, yeah?” He opens the garage door and gently helps you over the doorstep, “Come on.”

The cold air helps, a bit anyway, but you still struggle to walk in a straight line as you make your way to the house, not for the first time glad that Pierre always seems to know when you have reached your limit and then makes sure you don’t go over it. Once you’re inside he sits you down on the bench in the hallway and helps you out of your jacket, before pulling you back up again. The house is a lot more quiet now, the kids already in bed and only a few of the adults still talking in the living room.

You stop in front of the stairs Pierre has guided you to, not sure if you’re up for the task, and you’re just about to complain to him that you’ll never make it to the top when Jean-Jacques walks past you on his way to the kitchen.

He looks from you to Pierre and back and shakes his head, laughing, “You ok, ma petite?”

“Yup,” you nod, but not too fast because that hurts your head. You try to act, well, not drunk, because even though you are very much an adult and allowed to drink it still feels like you’ve done something Tonton wouldn’t necessarily agree with. So with your best reassuring smile you tell him, “Totally fine.”

“Hmm,” Jean-Jacques agrees, a mischievous look in his eyes. He nods towards the stairs then, “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Good night Tonton,” you tell him as you lean in and kiss his cheek, holding onto Pierre for balance. You turn back to your nemesis then, all fourteen steps of it, and decide you might as well go for it. Step by step, holding on to both Pierre and the railing, you make your way up, even though you insist on taking a breather on the halfway-landing.

“Come on,” Pierre says after a minute or so, gently tugging on your hand, “almost there.”

When you make it to the top of the stairs you let out a triumphant, “Fuck yeah,” that might have been a little too loud from the way Pierre is shushing you. Still, you’re proud of yourself so whatever. You follow Pierre towards your bedroom and wait until he’s pulled the covers back before you sit down on the bed.

He bends down on one knee and you put your hand on his shoulder for support even though he’s the one untying your shoelaces and taking your shoes off. “You want to change into your pyjamas?”

“Yes,” you reply, after a moment of clarity tells you it will be much more comfortable in the morning, and so you watch Pierre as he gestures for you to stick your arms in the air so he can take your hoodie off. Your jeans follow shortly after and he has you lift one foot and then the other so he can get your pyjama pants on. You let out a sigh, suddenly feeling very tired. Luckily Pierre is done and tells you you can lie down.

He disappears for a bit and when he comes back there’s a glass of water and a paracetamol in his hands, both of which he leaves on the nightstand for you, “You going to be ok?”

You nod, too tired to speak, your eyes growing heavier by the second.

He leans over you then and presses a kiss to your forehead, “Go get some sleep.”

All of a sudden you feel an immense love for him and so you tell him, your words a little slurred and your eyes already closed, “You really are my best friend, Gas. I love you.”

He chuckles but there’s a softness to his voice when he says, “Love you too.”

You giggle and motion for him to come closer as if you’re about to tell him a secret, “You know who else I love?”

“Oh Flo,” is all Pierre says, no doubt already one step ahead of you.

“Charles.”

=====

Notes: Mes poussins = my chickens Le plaisir était pour moi = my pleasure Merde = shit

#Charles Leclerc x reader #Pierre Gasly x reader #Charles Leclerc fanfic #F1 fanfic #Harley Sunday x Charles Leclerc #CL16

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