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#emerson writes sometimes
unmotivatedwrit3r · 5 months
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why do we go back?
damian wayne x reader
warnings: anxiety, kind of a panic attack?, implied past trauma/abuse
wc: 800
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“I went back.”
“Why? They—”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why. I—” 
“Damian, honey, breathe.” 
-
Damian’s brothers don’t text you that often. You don’t have their numbers saved in your phone. Or you didn’t. You have Tim’s now. 
come to the manor now. non-medical emergency 
oh and this is tim by the way 
You don’t even see the text until you’re done with your meeting, phone on do not disturb and notes document in fullscreen mode. It was sent at 1:30 in the afternoon. Bad things aren’t supposed to happen at 1:30 in the afternoon. 
I’m on my way, you text back at 3:00. Is he okay? The response comes as you’re setting up your gps. no. then, i mean he’s fine but no. You pull out of your parking spot a little faster than you should have. 
Once you get on the highway, you turn off the GPS. The number 21 exit towards Bristol and Wayne manor is nearly as familiar as your own. You’re thankful for the dozens of trips you’ve made because Tim calls you five minutes in. 
“What happened?” You can feel your heart pounding in your chest. The anxiety that had taken root when you saw the first text is morphing quickly into fear. 
“He disappeared.” 
“What?” 
“He’s not on manor grounds anymore. But he’s not in his suit.” 
On top of the phone call screen, a push notification lets you know that Damian's code was used to disarm your alarm system. You let out a short breath and switch lanes. Your exit is the next one. 
“I know where he is,” you tell Tim as you shift over into the right lane. It’s a little backed up, the way it always is this time of day, “I got him.”
“You sure?” 
“Yeah, thanks.” 
You take exit 24 towards the lower east side, then switch to an even more local highway and take exit 8 towards the residential district. When you pull into your parking spot in the cul-de-sac, your house looks empty. When you walk inside, Damian’s combat boots are sitting by the door, not unlaced all the way. One of them is sitting on its side. The other is askew. You let your bag slide off your shoulder to hit the ground next to your own shoes and venture further in. 
Damian’s sitting on the steps in dark casual clothes and white socks with a paint blob pattern. His knees are bent, legs pressed against his chest. Your steps aren’t steep and Damian is very tall. Hands clenched into fists rest on top of his knees. His neck is bent too, forehead pressed against his fists. 
You slide back on the wooden steps when you sit down. Damian doesn’t so much as twitch. You wait for him to come to you. He does. 
“I went back.” His voice is rough but not thick with tears. 
“Why?” You ask. The League leaves him with deep hurts every time he goes back to Nanda Parbat. And not the physical kind. “They—”
“I don’t know!” He exclaims like the words burst out of his chest. The energy propels him up, fingers digging into the arms of his sweatshirt as he rocks on his heels. “I don’t know why. I—” 
“Damian, honey,” You stand to meet him. The emotions in his green eyes are wild, untethered. “Breathe.” He shakes his head at you, fingers curling harder into his sleeves. “You can.” Damian scans your body language and you let him, relaxing the tension in your shoulders and leaving your hands open, arms angled to hold him if he wants it. 
“I’m here,” you say to the hesitation in his eyes. “You’re safe.”
You let out a grunt of air as Damian slams into you. His arms wrap around you tight enough that you think he’s afraid you’ll turn into smoke if he lets go. You raise your arms more slowly, one coming up to rub at his back and the other to cup the back of his neck.His knees buckle. You slow your descent to the ground only barely, saving your knees from catching the brunt of your weight. Your butt stings instead from how hard it hit the floor but it’s worth it when Damian buries his face into the junction between your neck and your collarbone and breathes. They’re choppy loud breaths that come with shoulders shuddering under the hand you have rubbing up and down his back, but no tears hit your neck. 
“I’ve got you,” you whisper to him, cheek pressed against the top of his head. “You’re safe here.” Damian’s arms only tighten further. In response, you hold him tighter too. 
Why do we go back, you wonder, when we know the only thing to come of it is more pain? 
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turmoilcity · 9 months
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fuck it, im just gonna release this in bits
“You made friends with Bella Jevasteen?” Emerson’s jaw was set for flies.
Aiden lifts said jaw with a gentle hand, “Behave yourself, but… she is pretty cool, right?” he allows himself a small grin.
Across the room is Bella Jevasteen, one of the most well known hero’s in Turmoil. Sure, she went to school with Emerson, but she never gave her the time of day, she was usually busy hanging around her other friends or being a class clown.
She wasn’t in her usual attire, instead she had on a beige women’s tuxedo, and there was this this guy beside her, all big with long black hair.
“I feel like we’re under dressed for this occasion,” Emerson stutterd, feeling her self lock up.
“Are you kidding me? You look way hotter than usual,” Aiden scoffed, and that statement probably would have flattered her if he didn’t have to just ruin it with his dumb mouth. 
His arm linked in hers, “Come on. There cool people.”
Emerson grunted but allowed Aiden to lead her. Walking closer made her stomach well with butterflies. She felt so small walking up to Bella, Why would she even attend an event like this? Seriously! It is was way out of her normal.
Upon coming closer, Bella turns, her face nonchalant, bored, but her brows firm when she spots the two, giving way to an expression of interest. Her eyes are notably on Emerson’s attire, and subconsciously Emerson hides a little behind Aiden.
“Bella, what’s up?” Aiden says. They dap each other.
“Dude. hot date! How’d you score a girl like this?” Bella grins eagerly. The boy beside her turns, intrigued.
“This is Emerson,” Aiden introduces, his arm untangling from her grasp. She had just realized how much she was using the guy for a shield.
Emerson huffed despite the obvious awkward blush adorning her cheeks, “I can introduce myself, thanks.”
“Then do it.”
“Aiden, please.”
“Well aren’t you two cute together?” Bella interjected, causing Emerson to whip too. She smirked. Her thumb hooked over her shoulder, “This is my beefy boy, Zach.” She turned, her smirk dropping,”zach, say hi,” she ordered.
He grinned and waved, grunting
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piratefishmama · 1 year
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Crashed the Wedding, Part1-3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6
Steve found himself tuning back into his forced nuptials at the sound of… what sounded like a gunshot, but then… surely not, right? Maybe he was imagining things, hoping for some kind of miracle to pop up and get him out of it, at least if something out of his control stepped in then maybe…
Maybe he’d be able to stall, maybe he’d be able to figure out a way to get around his father’s threats, but— no. Even he knew that was nothing but a pipe dream. His parents would get their way, regardless of random gunshots in Hawkins. He wouldn’t be able to run from it, wouldn’t be able to stall, they’d likely just reschedule for the next day, throw money at whoever had it booked up for the day to get them to move.
His parents were nothing if not resourceful.
Nobody else seemed too bothered by the sound, eyes on the reverend at the head of it all, currently blathering on about Corinthian’s 13 as if it had any right being part of the mockery of love that was that wedding, he almost laughed at the segment he’d tuned into.
“Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.”
Sure enough, it never ended, but… he let his eyes glance to his side, to the woman he didn’t know, or care for. Was its end relevant, if it’d never begun in the first place? How could love never ending be relevant to a loveless marriage? He had a love already, had let it slip through his fingers through some stupid self-appointed duty that was never his to carry.
Someone had to stay behind though. Who better than the one with no other path to take? The kids were all going somewhere all brilliant in their own fields, Nancy wanted Emerson, she wanted out of Hawkins, a life of journalism, seeking the truth of the world, Robin had followed her seeking her own love, promising to write, to call, she always fulfilled that promise.
He’d never been left completely alone, even if sometimes he felt like it.
And Eddie. God… Eddie. Where was he now? Probably writing some song in a tour bus or playing Dungeons and Dragons with the band in a hotel room during a rare moment of quiet, or hell, maybe he was just passed out in a bed somewhere, holding someone who wasn’t Steve. At least he’d be safe. His life, his career, everything Eddie had built for himself since leaving the hell hole that was Hawkins, would be safe.
If that meant he had to marry a woman he neither knew, nor loved, if that meant he had to live a life without love for himself, well… he’d take that sacrifice too. He just wished he could see him one more time, in person. Not on a TV screen, or in some magazine, although he’d collected each magazine Eddie had appeared in after leaving Hawkins for fame and fortune, nothing beat the real thing.
Nothing could beat that teasing smile in person, those chocolate Bambi eyes, the smell of leather, calloused, guitar string worn fingers skimming up and down his arm as he drifted off to sleep. Nothing on Earth or any other whacky dimension, could beat those simple things that only one person could give him.
“I now ask the Bride and Groom to stand facing one another with their hands intertwined.” He hadn’t bothered to write vows, he knew she hadn’t either, they’d gone with the simple, pre-written ones built into the ceremony. Facing her, seeing how much makeup she was wearing, her features manicured, not a hair out of place, sharp stormy eyes full of judgement and… boredom, she offered her hands; it took every ounce of his will power to take them. Too small, too dainty. He didn’t bother disguising the distain from his face. She paid no mind to it. “Steven Anthony Harrington, do you promise to love, honour, cherish, and respect Harriet Reid above all others, from this day forward until your very last day on Earth?”
“I—”
The doors swung open at the far end of the church, all eyes automatically turning toward the sound as it was followed by an amplified “I object” in a deep, familiar drawl that took Steve’s breath away close, but not nearly as much as the figure in that doorway. “Sorry m’late, sweetheart, traffic was a nightmare.”
Part 8
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buckys-little-belle · 11 months
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Oh my gosh I am OBSESSED with your new cg!Garret series! Can you please write a chapter where Joyce brings by cookies or something for a Hellfire meeting, and runs into little bunny, and El doesn’t understand that reader wants their regression to be a secret, and tells Joyce, and little bunny gets super embarrassed but then Joyce comforts them and tells them it’s okay🥺💛
Hellfire Babysitting Club : The Sequel (Part Three)
Pick-Up Problems
Gareth Emerson x Little!Reader (They/Them Pronouns used) / The Hellfire Club x Little!Reader (They/Them Pronouns used)
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Notes - THIS IDEA HAS BEEN IN MY HEAD FOR FOREVER, please know that this request really brought a spark back when it comes to writting <3. I really hope that you like it Bub!!!
Warnings - Little Bunny is "Outed" as a little by El, obviously that might be very touchy for some, please keep that in mind going forward. Very very brief mentions of not great home life, as well as possible Jim Hopper intervention. (It's very vague, and will not be talked about in detail. Please know that it isn't meant to be purposefully triggering, and is just a background theme) fluff, lotssssss of fluff
SFW - Please keep all interactions with this post, and this blog, SFW
. ☾ . ☆ . ☽ . ☆ . ☾ . ☆ . ☽ . ☆ . ☾ . ☆ . ☽ .
The first week of school had gone well, Y/n sticking by Gareth's side as the others learned more about them. Everyone realizing how shy, quiet, and weary their Little Bunny was, and how opposite they were from Little Terror.
The second week of school had been a bit all over the place. Everyone immediately signed up to babysit Little Bunny at school, some choices were easy for Gareth to make. Though El was new to everything she would take Y/n for the first period of the day because they shared an english class. Then Dustin would take over for the second period, his Tech Design class right next to Y/n's math class. Gareth selfishly didn't let anyone take anymore shifts off him, keep Little Bunny to himself for both lunch, and the rest of the day.
He kept telling himself he would give more people the opportunity to take care of Y/n, but he wanted to know Y/n better than everyone else. Hence the obnoxious amount of questions Little Bunny was asked at lunch, during Study Hall, and on the way to science.
"What's your favourite type of juice? Colour? Movie? Class subject? Food? Store? Do you have lot's of toys? Does anyone know you're a little? If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?
And even though he did a good job asking fun questions, plus a few insightful ones, he never asked how they would get home after a DnD meeting. The club met after school and Y/N took the bus.
Little Bunny also never asked, which they regretted as they stood outside the school, their sweater pulled close, backpack sagging, wondering how long it would take to walk.
"Hi there." A sweet voice called, Y/n's eyes meeting the voice's owner as they took a step back. "I'm Joyce, Will and El's mom." She explained after noticing Y/n's confusion.
"Mom!" El called out as she ran over to hug her. "You've met our baby." El beamed.
"Your baby?" Joyce's brow furrowed.
"Yes, Y/n sometimes feels like a baby, so we take care of them." El smiled as she walked to Y/n reaching to hold their hand. "I call them Little Cheese Fingers."
"Oh." Joyce's reaction worried Y/n, the look of confusion feeding into their fear of people finding out. Y/n was about to pull their hand out of El's before Joyce spoke again. "Did Eddie start the Babysitting club again?" She asked with a smile.
"No, but Gareth did." Y/n felt a weight rise of their shoulder as El spoke. "I get to watch Y/n during english." The way she spoke so happily about her duty made Y/n smile, the fear of being a burden dispersing.
"Well Y/n." Joyce began. "Are you waiting for a parent to pick you up?" She asked, as if she just knew Y/n was momentarily stranded.
"No." Little Bunny whispered, Y/n's hand slipping from El's as they suddenly felt alone again. "'m on my own." They held back their tears.
"They take the same bus as us." Will suddenly chimed in, Mike and Dustin following after.
"Okay then it's settled." Joyce wrapped an arm around her son. "You can get a ride home with El and Will." She smiled. "Me or their dad will pick you up, okay?" Y/n nodded their head quickly. "And you two." She pointed to her children. "Better make sure Y/n is safe on the bus." She pulled out her stern voice and it made everyone giggle.
"Yes, Mom." Will rolled his eyes. "They take turns sitting beside me and El." He assured her.
"Y/n likes me more, I give them candy." El accidently gave away her secret weapon, Mike scoffing.
"Really?" He looked at El, then Y/n. "All I have to do is give you candy? Then you'll like me?" His tone was goofy, his eyebrows raised.
"I like choc chips more." Y/n smiled shyly, still uneasy around all the new people, but trying hard to embrace the change.
"Cookies I can do." Mike crossed his arms and smiled, a silent promise to arrive the next day and earn Y/n's friendship.
"You know, Max has a really good cookie recipe." Dustin mumbled. "Maybe Lucas will let us crash his date." Before his sentence was even finished him and Mike began running over to where Lucas and Gareth were chatting.
"Is everyone ready to go?" Joyce laughed.
"Wait!" Gareth yelled out of breath. "I didn't get to say goodbye." He raised a fist for both El and Will to bump, but when he got to Y/n they ran into his arms instead. "Goodbye to you too." He laughed, his arms wrapping around his Little Bunny.
"Do you have everything you need for Y/n?" Joyce's stern tone rung out.
"Yes, Mrs H, we still have lots of stuff left over from Little Terror." Gareth looked down to Y/n who's head was still smushed against his shirt. "Actually does your store have sippy cups?"
"Sippy cups?"
"I know it sounds odd, but ever since Little Terror somehow got juice on the ceiling, handing this one a juice box freaks me out."
"The ceiling?" Will cut in.
"Dude Little Terror once got so much ketchup on Eddie's shirt he had to throw it out. And he wore stained shirts more than he wore clean ones." Gareth added, suddenly very thankful for Y/n's calm demeanor.
"Yes, we have sippy cups, and forks with soft ends, as well as baby wipes." Joyce listed out everything she thought might be useful.
"Great, I'll make sure to stop by." He went to take a step back and walk to his own car, but Y/n clung on. "I've got to go Bunny." He chuckled.
"Me too." The managed to say, their words muffled by Gareth's shirt.
"I have candy." El yelled from the car, Y/n's head suddenly lifted. "Told you it works." She said as Will rolled his eyes and Y/n ran towards them.
"They're very sweet." Joyce smiled as she watched her kids help Y/n get comfortable. "You should come over for dinner more often, and bring Y/n. They look like they could use some more company." she said solemnly.
"Yeah about that." Gareth scratched the back of his neck. "Could you ask Jim to swing by my house after his shift?"
"Sure, is everything okay?"
"Yeah, I just have a few questions, that's all."
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the-unforgivenn · 3 months
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part 2
CW: Alex Trebek as a bit of a trigger, still some grief, still some angst, some cold August rain but a LOT of good communication (and perhaps some witty banter) Oh - and a major green flag from Gareth Emerson and his grocery shopping
Word Count: 12.3K
Summary: So never mind the darkness We can still find a way Nothing lasts forever Even cold November rain
A/N: *Slides another spliced chapter across the table and then runs away* I'm sorry - I have absolutely no self-awareness when it comes to word counts. This Interlude chapter is really... well, there's a lot more in it than I thought. Oops! There's one final part to this chapter, and then the last three and WAAAHHHH we're done! So bittersweet as we're coming down the home stretch. Many of you know, but our family is in the process of moving - and it's a bitch (to say the very least) to do it in fucking January in the Midwest. I swear, I write every day. I won't be going anywhere, and this story WILL go to completion. I'll get it out to you just as soon as I can while juggling all other fun stuff in the life of this lil family. :)
Masterlist
The Beginning
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Day 103
He was never a  Jeopardy person, not until you came along.  It’s a nice routine he’s found himself in; one that you’re becoming more and more of a participant instead of a spectator.  Not like he’d ever blame you for that.  
But it is nice.
It’s like soothing background noise as he flips through his mom’s worn copy of Oliver Twist.  She fucking adored that story, and it aches him inside to know that it’s taken him this long to read it.  Though he’s nose deep in the book, he always keeps an ear open for you and the answers you sometimes murmur to yourself.  It’s no wonder he hardly hears the next question that the host provides to you and the contestants.
Carbon’s Golden Malted, the nation’s leading distributor of waffle mix and the brand well-known to several hotel chains, was invented in this Midwest city. 
None of the contestants know it. 
But you do.  
Your voice is impossibly soft, trailing into nothingness at the end as you answer, “What is Buchanan, Michigan…” 
Gareth’s ears perk up – he hears the telltale double-tone that indicates time has run out, and Alex Trebek sympathetically informs the contestants,
Ohhh sorry! The question is, what is Buchanan, Michigan? 
“What the shit!” Gareth jolts, losing his grip on the spine as pages flutter shut in his lap.  “How did you know th – Mayfield?”
Quick little bursts of air rush in and out of your nose as you fight it off, but even he knows it’s futile.  The color has already drained from your face, your lips are already a bluish shade of gray.  The hyperventilation sets in fast, and Gareth leaps off the recliner and kneels down in front of you, placing his broad palms on your thighs. 
“Hey. Hey, hun — look at me.”
Your gaze tears away from the TV, red rimmed and spouting hot trails of tears.  “I’m okay,” your lie is broken up by hiccupping gasps for air.  “It – it’s o-o-o-kay, G –”
“Oh, honey…”
He’s up on the couch, gathering you in his strong arms while the unrelenting wall of grief crashes through your body.  Through all the stifled sobs, every splintered word, the numerous wails and whimpers, Gareth holds tight and talks you right through it.  Soon, the trembling in your shoulders settles, allowing you to wrap your arms around his torso and resume staining the front of his shirt. 
“‘M sorry,” you mumble into the damp fabric adorning his chest.
“Stop,” he chides with an affectionate kiss to your hair.  “There’s absolutely no need to be sorry.”
Your sigh is wet, drenched in misery.  “I just miss them so much.”
“I know. I do, too.”  He shuffles so you can recline against him as you ride out the rest of this wave. “I got you.”
*
“Gareth?”
Your presence at his door startles him, has him sitting up and tossing the nearly-finished book on his end table.  “Hey – what’s up?”
Shifting from one foot to another, you can hardly get the words out for how nervous you feel.  “I um… I think I need, uh — think I need to n-not be alone.  Tonight.”  The fidgeting stops briefly as you meet his eyes.  “If that’s okay.”
He cocks his head to the side.  “You wanna stay in here?”
“Can I?”
Your request causes a myriad of emotions to fly over his face; his heart starts racing as his brain sifts through his memory for an estimation of the last time he changed his sheets.  
“Yeah, shit – yeah,” he stammers, scooting over to allow you room.  “You don’t even have to — yes. C’mere.”
You stay glued to the carpet at the threshold.  “I know I’m not having as many nightmares but I just… I feel like after… I think I’m gonna and maybe it won’t be so bad if –”
Gareth sweetly interrupts with a gentle murmur of your name.  “You don’t need a reason to come in here, okay?”  Lifting up the covers, he motions for you to get in. 
FInally, that unsticks your feet.  He’s still a little worried about how downcast you appear, especially after you ask, 
“You don’t mind?”
It almost hurts that you have to check, because of course he doesn’t mind.  “No. God, no.”  Gareth watches as your fingers wind from your spot at the edge of the bed.  “Hey,” he says as his hand finds your back, “talk to me.”
Sniffing away the threat of tears, you whisper thickly, “I feel like I’m using you.”
Well, that was definitely not what he was expecting.  “For what?”
“F-for comfort? Closeness?”  Your head falls into your hands as you admit, “I — I don’t know.”
“Oh.”
A long moment passes before you swipe your fingers under your eyes.  Despite your efforts, the tears aren’t deterred, and Gareth scoots to sit beside you, leaning in to wipe one away before it falls to your lap. 
He takes a deep breath.  “I don’t feel that way at all.”  Dipping his head to catch your gaze, he assures, “If anything, you’re helping me feel useful.” 
“Really?”
Gareth nods sincerely.  “Really.”  His tone is wary as he offers, “We can go to your room if you’re not comfortable in my bed –”
“No.  Not my room.”  The boy’s eyes narrow at how you delivered that, but he barely has time to dwell.  “It’s fine,” you say, “really.  I just don’t wanna… um…”
He’s afraid you’re gonna say something along the lines of lead him on and he’s not sure why it stings so much.
“Stop.”  He waves away your concern before the burn intensifies.  He maneuvers the blankets and offers the space next to him.  “Just get under here.”
Gareth reaches over and clicks off the lamp.  He’s on his back, debating whether he should just pull you from your side and into his arms like Nancy did.  While he’s lost in his conflicting thoughts, you turn and settle under his arm against his side. 
A shuddering breath fans warm across his chest.  “I'm sorry I need you like this.”
Gareth stifles a sound between a snort and a laugh.  He plants a kiss in your hair and squeezes you tight. 
“I’m not.”
He gets a heavy sigh, and a faint squeeze back. 
Sleep comes peacefully for both you and Gareth, passing into the morning without a nightmare to be found. 
Day 106
It’s been six days in a row, almost a whole week of time at the piano, of being outside, of walking to the Wheeler’s house and back.  It’s been great, incredible for you and how he thinks you’re feeling.  Gareth swears there’s more color in your face with each passing day.    
Tonight, Ted and Karen offer to have you both over for dinner, and though you’re gracious in how you accept, he wonders despite your countless assurances to the contrary.  He has a nagging feeling that this is too much, even if it is with some familiar faces.  The walk home is quiet, and Gareth lets it be.  
When the shower turns on and continues to run for well over fifteen minutes, he considers it a good sign.  The ensuite bath in his parent’s room has become his, and he quickly goes through his own routine before noticing that he’s not heard the water shut off from down the hall.
This he knows is not a good sign.
As he comes closer, he hates that he’s right – Gareth’s heart sinks like a stone when he hears your sobs, not even bothering to knock this time before he throws open the door and announces his presence by gently calling your name.  Efforts to calm you are in vain, and in a split second, he’s shutting off the water and handing you a towel past the curtain.  Once he’s sure you’re decent, he helps you up – and nearly tumbles to the ground as your legs wobble and buckle beneath you.
That triggers a new set of wails and hiccuping gasps between garbled apologies, all of which he waves off as he secures your body underneath your thighs and carries you the short distance across the hall to your room.
Not that he cares, or would ever notice something so trivial, but he can definitely see that one of your legs is clean shaven.  It’s not like he’s being a perv or anything – a generous portion of your thighs is definitely on display and he can just tell.  There’s enough skin to show that one is, and the other one isn’t, and it throws him.  
He’s suddenly teleported back several months – within the first few days after Max’s death when Robin brought over a box of girly things, as she so aptly put it.  The usual things that Gareth wasn’t used to getting yet, and one of those things was a Schick razor.  He’d pulled it from the rest with tears in his eyes, because he couldn’t handle the thought of you having one… having the capability… 
Robin had argued with him until she was blue in the face, until Steve stepped in and actually agreed with Gareth.  Your friend had been livid, stating that the three of them needed to trust you and Gareth assured her that he did – he absolutely trusted you, but at the time?  They weren’t dealing with the you they once knew so well.  This was a different you, a grieving you – you who was lost in some place so dark it seemed like you were tempted to stay and wither away.
With all this fresh in his mind, he blurts something he shouldn’t.  He really doesn’t mean to say it like it does, but he’s just so surprised you have the tools in which to shave in the first place that it comes out in a rush.
“Did – did you shave your legs?”
The blubbering restarts immediately.  You go red-faced at being called out, and he deposits you gently on the bed and wraps you with the quilt for good measure.  
Gareth’s hopelessly sorry, he didn’t mean to upset you and fuck, he’s so busy chastising himself that he stammers in spectacular fashion,  “Oh, hun – no, n-no, damn it – Christ – ”  He takes your hand and tries to pry it away from where it’s pressed over your eyes.  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No,” you cry on the end of a choked sob, “you’re o-okay, I’m being so stupid!”
“Why are you – Mayfield, no,” he coos, “you’re not being stupid.”  When you shake your head, he tries again.  “Talk to me.  Where did you get a razor?”
“Steve.  He got it for me on the last grocery run.”
“Really?!”
You wave him off as your lower lip wobbles, desperately trying to stem the flow of tears.  “Doesn’t matter.  I couldn’t even –”  Gesturing under the towel, you grouse, “I got done with one leg and I was too tired to do the other.”  Watery eyes meet his, pleading for sympathy.  “Too tired to shave, Gareth.  A goddamn leg!”  Your breath hitches over a sob as you ask your friend,  “How am I supposed to – be charming and social and be with people if I can’t even shave my goddamn legs?”  You belt a frustrated wail.  “Why is this upsetting me so much?!”
Gareth practically whimpers in relief, the ache in his chest lessens as he presses his lips together to stifle a laugh.  “Oh, honey, you don’t have to try to be charming.  You do that all on your own.”
An adorable scowl twists over your features.  “You don’t have to lie.”
“Okay,” he deadpans with a roll of his eyes.  “Why… why did you need to do that anyway?”
“I just… maybe I thought I’d feel more normal.  Like myself, if I did.”
“Do you?”
“No.”  You hug the quilt tightly around your shoulders.  “It does bug me that only one is done.”
Gareth balks at your grumble – he’s a fixer, he’s used to fixing things and – and, shit – there’s no fucking way he can be the one to fix this.  He grimaces as the tips of his ears sear a fiery red.
“Want me to call Nancy?” he stutters over his nerves, “o-or Rob?  See if they’ll… I’m sure they’d, uh…” the dry swallow he forces is painful, clicking over his Adam’s apple agonizingly slow.  “Or y-you can try again in like, ah – a few…” 
He trails off when he sees the bewildered look on your face.  “I think they’d be um, they could be better, f-for –”
You mercifully, finally, interrupt.  “Gareth, relax.  I’m not gonna ask you to shave my other leg.”
Well, Christ – now he feels the need to backtrack.  “Oh, no – hey, I – uh, I didn’t – I don’t –” 
He watches as a dubious eyebrow raises at his weak attempt to save face, and he relents with a groan.  “Fuck, okay.  I thought you were gonna ask me to and I kinda freaked out.  Sorry.”  He hoists himself off the bed.  “I’ll call the Wheelers and tell ‘em we’re not coming.”
“Thanks,” you sniff.
“We’ll get there.  Eventually.  There’s no rush.”  Your chin dips with the dryness in your glare, and he swiftly assures, “There isn’t!”
The grumbling that mumbles over your pout is unconvinced.  “Okay.”  
He sighs, knowing that he’s not gonna win this round.  “Want me to make some tacos or something?  I got the cheese you like.”
And just like that, he’s fixed it.  Sort of.  
“Pepperjack?” 
He inwardly preens at the hopeful lilt in your tone.  “Yep.”
That injects a little sunshine again in your features.  “Okay.”
“C’mon down after you get changed.”  He rolls his lips in, considers it for a moment before throwing caution to the wind.  “I can uh, cut a pair of sweats for you.  You know, one long, one short.  For the mismatched legs you got goin’ on there.”
That little v forms over your nose again as your eyebrows pinch together.  “That was so bad.”
“Whatever,” he flashes you a toothy grin.  “I’m funny.”
He knows he sees it this time – a subtle hint of a smile.  “You’re so not.”
Gareth barks a laugh, a pitchy ha! as he ambles down the hall and hollers, “Keep tellin’ yourself that, Mayfield!”
Day 107
Another movie night is suggested and accepted, this time with Steve and Robin.  Plans are solidified over another coffee-infused morning with Steve, and Gareth makes sure to mention that the only movies allowed are romantic comedies and animated Disney features.  Though it kills him to admit, he really likes the steady stream of cheesy shit that Harrington brings over – hell, even Nancy has an excellent library of the types of movies Gareth swore he’d always hate.
Funny how life has a way of changing things.  
Your head rests in Robin’s lap, feet propped against Steve’s legs on the other end of the couch, always seeking the close comfort of these friends.  Gareth hears it first from where he lies in the recliner – a subtle sniff, wet enough to be suspicious.
Robin hears the next, and it stills her fingers as they work in tender touches through your hair.
“‘M sorry,” you whisper, “I – I just…”
Robin bends at her waist to lean over your form, and stops when you shake your head.
“I used to play with Max’s hair all the time…”
Every person in that room can hear the emotion in your voice.  Steve and Robin pause, and at that moment, he’s already decided what he’s gonna do.
Gareth scoots off the recliner, taking a seat on the floor in your eyeline.  He wordlessly offers his hand, and you take it, letting his fingers slide between yours to hang loosely in front of Robin’s leg.  His thumb swipes gently back and forth over your knuckles, a soothing bit of skin on skin that slowly dries your tears.  As your shoulders relax, a significant look is shared between Robin and Steve.
Day 108
He rushes across the hall, flying into your room to gather you near while you scream through another nightmare, wailing for Max and Eddie.  
The linen curtains that line the window flutter in the breeze go unnoticed by the man that holds you fast and secure in his arms.
Day 110
“Quit starin’ at my legs.”
Gareth sputters on his beer.  “Hey, I’m not – I’m just – I’m n-not.”
Your lips twist around a subtle smirk, recrossing your freshly shaven legs where they’re propped against the patio chair.  
“You are kinda funny.”
“Oh yeah?”
Nodding as your lips press against the cool lip of the bottle, you reply, “Funny how easy it is to fluster you.”
“Oh, fuck off!” he guffaws, angling his body towards you with a lopsided grin.  “It was one goddamn time like, not even a week ago and I seriously thought you were gonna be all like, Gaaareth, go get the razor King Steeeve Harrington bought for me in secrecy and shave my other leg!”  
A breath blows through your nose, so close to a snort it makes his heart skip a beat.  “I might have to do it now just to get your reaction, G.  You blush like a dang girl.”
“Please don’t.”  He hesitates, but only for a moment.  “Good for you, though.  Feel better?”
You shrug.  “Kinda, yeah.”
“All that matters, hun.”
Day 112
“Hey!  Can you grab that?” Gareth’s holler from upstairs reaches you where you sit in the sunroom, reading through the latest tweaks to your lyrics.
“Yep!”  The mechanical, tinny clanging of the phone drones on until you snatch the receiver off the cradle.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Mrs. Emerson?”
You almost snort in surprise but realize that would be kinda impolite.  You settle for a slightly less rude clearing of your throat that sounds suspiciously like you’re choking.  
“Uh, no.  She’s not… she’s unable –” you stammer as you mutter an explicative under your breath, “uh, do you need Gareth?  That’s her son.”
“Oh, no – no, I’m afraid I know the situation of the late Laura Emerson.  I thought I was speaking to Gareth’s wife.”
“Uhh – he doesn’t, no, I’m not – not his…”
“Oh!  My apologies.  I had it here that he’s married.”
That he’s what?!  He’s fucking just turned eighteen – not that it’s wrong or anything to get married at eighteen but – but, holy Christ.  No.  Your stomach twists at the thought.
But you clarify, anyway.  “Yeah, no. Uhmm...he’s not, we’re just—yeah, he’s not.  Can I take a message?  He’s in the attic, bringing her things up there for storage.  His mom’s.  To store.  Y’know, because she – ah, yeah. Or I can go get him, whatever you need.  Or something.”  
You’re fully aware of your rambling, but your mouth is too busy bumbling around and ignoring the instruction from your brain to shut the hell up.
“No, that’s okay.  I can leave a message.  Please let him know this is Bart Sullinder from Legacy Monuments and we received his parents’ headstone this morning.  I can have it delivered to Rose Hill Cemetery this weekend.  Is that where Gareth still wishes to have the stone placed?”
Stunned silent – that’s the only way to describe how you stand at the counter, lids flared wide as you stare aimlessly across the room.  
It must have been several moments of an awkward lull before Bart asks, “Hello?  Miss –”
“Um, I’m –” you croak, wanting so badly to say you’ll call him back, but you know… this is one thing you can do for G.
“Can you give me a second?  I’ll confirm it for you, okay?”
“That sounds great.  I’ll wait.”
The phone clatters against the formica as you race to the antique desk in the office.  A quick rifle through the top drawer produces Gareth’s notebook with the ledger, and after flipping through several pages, you’ve found it.
“Hey,” you say a little breathlessly as you hurry back to the phone, “so it’s Roane Hill, not Rose.  There’s uh, there’s not a Rose Hill around here.”
“You’re right – that is what I have written.  Can’t read my own writing sometimes.” 
“Yeah,” your retort sounds suspiciously like you’ve just snarked obviously as your eyes roll at his genial chuckling.  “So, uh –”
“I appreciate you taking the time to confirm this for your boyfriend, Miss – 
Your eyes bug out of your head at his second assumption of the conversation, but it doesn’t stop you from stammering, 
“M-Mayfield.”
“Miss Mayfield.  Have Gareth give me a call if he has any questions.  You can contact the cemetery directly for installation details.”
“Yeah,” you croak, “sure.”
Gareth comes down the stairs right as you hang up the phone.  “Hey, who was it?” 
“Um, B-Bart?  Bart S-sull – uh, something, from –”
“Oh.  Oh, shit.”  Gareth rakes a hand through his curls.  “What did he say?”
Forcing yourself to meet his gaze, you shift nervously before answering.  “Your um, your parent’s headstone’ll be there Saturday.  At Roane Hill.”
He nods slowly, as if he was expecting this.  “Are you okay?”
Your face twists with incredulity.  “Am I okay?!  Yeah, I mean, are you?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s your parents’ –”
“No, I know.  I didn't want you to have to take a call like that.”
Blowing a heavy sigh through your nose, you’re suddenly hit with a wave of empathy for your friend.  A strong one, too.
“Gareth,” you intone softly, “you can tell me if you’re not okay.”
Now he’s the one to look at you like he’s been shocked.  “I –”
“You’re allowed to not be okay, too, you know.”
He appears supremely uncomfortable; baby blue eyes dart across the kitchen before he finally blurts, “You wanna watch Top Gun?”
He’s hedging around this, you can tell… but perhaps it’s what he needs.  You can put a pin in this, for now.
“Can we skip the part where Goose dies?”
“Obviously.”
“Yeah,” you breathe, “I’m in.”
*
Tom Cruise has just started to lose that lovin’ feeling when Gareth sighs like he wants to speak, angling his body towards you.
“Hey, uh… can I – um,” his voice is thick, despite his efforts to clear it.  “Mayfield, could you, I mean, could we –” 
“G.  Spit it out.”
“Oh, give me a break.  Can you come over here?”  He lifts up the arm closest to you.  “I know it’s hot as balls in this damn house, but I just…”
His bumbling is strangely endearing, but it doesn’t stop you from chiding him.  Just a little.  “It’s not hot as balls, G.”  Your form slides across the couch cushions to settle flush against his side.  “Don’t be afraid to ask.  Okay?”
“Sure…”
“Gareth.”
“Okay, okay.  Thank you.”  He pulls you closer and like a habit, his nose nuzzles the crown of your head.  Brows furrowing, he inhales deeply.  “Hey.”  Gareth sniffs again, arm flexing as realization dawns and you try to wiggle from his ever-tightening grasp.  “Hey!” he huffs, “did you… did you steal my shampoo?”
“No.”  
“Mayfield,” he drawls with a roll of his eyes, “you literally smell like me.”
Knowing you’ve been caught, you duck your head and mumble, “I might have run out last week, I don’t know.” 
Gareth barks a laugh.  “Okay, so you gotta tell me these things, you weirdo!  I could have got you more when I went to the Big Buy yesterday.”  His curls bounce with the shake of his head.  “‘S so weird.  I like the coconut smell better.”
That makes you scoff, and as his hold relaxes, you snuggle farther into his side.  Winding your fingers through a stray strand, you bring it to your nose and sniff.  “Smells fine.  Just watch the movie, G.”
*
The next afternoon, in the hall bath you find your shampoo and conditioner situated on the vanity…
Along with a bottle of his – complete with a small note underneath in Gareth’s tidy scrawl,
Just in case, weirdo
You can’t help how your heart flutters fondly, or how you chase it away with a roll of your eyes.
Day 115
The knock on his bathroom door is soft.  It’s telling.  He knows he’s been fiddling with this fucking tie for way too long, but there are some things that just can’t be helped.  
“Hey, we um… we better get going or else we’re going to be late.”
“I know,” he grouses as the two uneven ends flop against his dress shirt in defeat.  “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“G,” you remind him, softer this time, “it’s already been a minute.  Can I help?”
Crystal blue finds their counterpart in the mirror, scanning over a face drawn down with disappointment.  He hardly recognizes himself.  Especially today.
His body leans and opens the door, where you stand donned in black. It’s not typically a pretty color, but Gareth fleetingly considers it could be, seeing it on you.  Wordlessly, you step into his space, agile fingers winding a knot in the silk before pulling it snug at the base of his throat.  
There’s gratitude that shines in his eyes when you reach for his hand without a sound.  He’s not ready.  He’s never going to be ready – but that’s what being an adult is about, right?  Burying your parents when the time comes?
No.  Fuck that.  He’s not ready, not when he slumps into the driver’s seat, not when he drives to the south side of Hawkins, and definitely not when he lets you take his hand again and lead him through the headstones to where a bright and shiny one sits atop a subtle incline, the only thing left to remind the world of two fuckin’ phenomenal parents, if Gareth has anything to say about it.
He doesn’t.  Not yet.  
Steve and Robin are already there, standing in the shade of an old elm tree.  Pleasantries are exchanged and repeated when the Wheelers show up, and the same happens when Jeff and his family arrive.  Gareth is really touched at the small crowd – especially when the blended Byers-Hopper family and that weird bald dude from the Hideout start the short trek up the hill.
The grip on your hand tightens when Dustin and his mother arrive, even more so when Lucas and his family come to pay respects.  Tears are admittedly hard to keep at bay, but he does it, bolstered by your unwavering presence to his left.  
That is, until another car door slams and Grant waves from the bottom of the slope.  Hustling to the gravesite, he wraps Gareth in a bear hug, holding him tightly as the rhythm guitarist’s shoulders shudder with sobs. Grant’s whispers assure the younger boy that the drive from Terra Haute was nothing, and that he was more than happy to do it after you had called.  
As soon as Ted clears his throat to start the intimate service, a familiar Chevy pickup pulls behind Grant’s vehicle.  Necks crane to evaluate the newest attendant, though yours and Steve’s stay neutral.  You share a look, thrilled beyond words that Wayne Munson made the drive to be there for his son’s best friend.
He wraps Gareth in a fatherly embrace, muttering a demure sorry m’late into the young man’s curls.  
As the service starts, trembling fingers lace through yours and don’t leave the comfort of their touch; and this time, it’s you that comforts him as he cries.
Day 117
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
Gareth is flanked by Jeff and Mike, a typical sort of arrangement of Corroded Coffin men at the threshold of the sunroom.  You squirm against the cushions, placing your notebook in your lap and directing all of your attention towards the crew.
“Sure, G.”  You figure it can’t hurt.  “Shoot.”
He pushes a sharp exhale through his nose.  “Trust me when I say this, I don’t wanna ask, okay?  I fuckin’ know the answer, but Jeff thinks I’m wrong and Wheeler is his goddamn shadow and agrees with everything he –”
“Gareth,” your firm interjection is enough to stop him in his tracks.  “What is it?”
“What’s Eddie’s middle name?”
The question is perplexing.  You know the answer, and you’re more than certain Gareth does, too.  “Why?”
“Because we’re writing a song,” Mike blurts before either older boy has a chance.  “And I think it’s Randall –”
Gareth groans.  Loudly.  “No, you dipshit, Randall is my middle name!”
The youngest boy cocks his head to the side. “You guys have the same middle name?”
You can’t help but be amused at the way Gareth gets so fucking exasperated with Mike Wheeler.  “Oh, my fucking – you realize how lame you sound right now, right?  Like, a total and complete moron.”  Your roommate’s cheeks flush as he reiterates, “No, Wheeler.  His middle name is not Randall.”
Mike shrugs, largely unbothered by his elder’s caustic snark.  “Huh.  Coulda sworn you had the same middle name.”
Gareth groans again, and Jeff takes that as his cue to sling an arm over his shoulders as a warning.  “So, dearest Mayfield.  Can you settle this for us?”
Your eyes flick to Gareth and he schools his face from a scowl to a soft smile, like a subtle permission to tell them what he already knows.
“James,” you swallow hard over the frog in your throat.  “It’s James.”
A burst of staccato sounds echo off the vaulted ceiling of the sunroom.  Gareth, smothered in the glory of his victory over the egotistical little underclassman, claps in rapid succession, stopping only to point at you and shout,
“That’s my girl!”
He’s immediately flattened by his blunder, and nearly aspirates on his own spit to cover it up.  “I – ah, just mean that we’re on the same page, umm, the same wavelength thing.”  His finger oscillates between the two of you as proof.  “Y’know, cause we both knew.  And we were right.  Cause, ah –” he couldn’t clear his throat loud enough if he tried, “we knew it.”
Jeff gives that arm still draped over Gareth’s shoulders a cautionary tug while Mike tries very hard not to burst into a fit of overly-satisfied laughter.  
While your brain fights to catch up, Gareth thumbs over his shoulder.  “So, we’re just gonna go back to the garage and uh, keep writing.”
Your nod is as sluggish as your return to your senses.  “Yeah.  I’ll, uh, be right here.”
The whites of your eyes are scratchy and dry by the time you realize you’ve yet to blink since his outburst, which coincides with the moment the boys reach the mudroom. Mike Wheeler’s ribbing can be heard from the entry to the garage, clear as day –
“Who’s the dipshit, now?”
Day 118
This is absurd.  
He’s never done this – never gone this long in blatant avoidance of something that so very clearly does not need to be avoided.  Gareth needs to address it, talk through his stupid little slip of the tongue yesterday before it festers and infects the delicate relationship that’s been carefully built over the last several months, but fuck.
He really fucked up.  
It’s so much easier to knock this out with guys.  A regrettable thought, and one that’s a little unfair, but it doesn’t make it any less true.  If you were a dude, he could just stroll on up to you and say it.  
We need to talk.
But you are very much not a dude, and he has no idea how to handle this.  Granted, he knows he’s unfairly cornered you a time or two, but that was in regards to things completely different.  Not even on the same plane, really.  He’d wanted information, not necessarily forgiveness.  His track record of talking things through with you when he needs to fucking explain himself or beg for your mercy is pretty much shit.  
That’s what’s making this so goddamn hard.  But, he’s here, outside your door with a hot cup of fresh coffee in his hand, ready to spout the shit that he’s been practicing.  The same speech that’s been rattling around in his head since around three in the morning and preventing any sort of sound sleep.  He’d given up around six and just made the coffee that sloshes about their confines despite his stranglehold on the ceramic.
Willing his balls to drop and actually provide him with some courage, he knocks on your door, pushing it open only after he convinces himself he’s heard your voice welcome him inside.
Trying his damndest to sound casual, he leans up against the dresser near your bed to perhaps help quell the trembling in his limbs and his voice.  
“Hey, can I talk to you real quick?”
“Gareth,” you mumble into the pillows, “I really don’t feel like talking.”
Though he knew this would happen, his stomach still sinks like a stone.  He sets the mug down, and sitting on the edge of your bed, he asks,
“Please?  Can I just get this off my chest?”
“No.”  The pillows muffle your monotone response.  “Later.”
“Mayfield –”
“Later, G.  Please.”
He can feel how you’re slipping away.  Grappling at anything that could possibly help prevent what he fears is inevitable, he whispers, “I’m trying not to tiptoe, okay?”
Though you’ve heard him, you don’t offer an answer.  Gareth sighs to the ceiling.
“Fine.  I’m gonna go grab a few things off our list from Melvad’s.  I’ll be back soon.”  Going to stand on shaky knees, he palms the dresser to help steady him. “I made you coffee,” he mumbles to the blankets, dragging himself from your room when he’s met with silence.
The errands run takes a lot longer than expected.  Gareth can’t help how he moves at a snail's pace, or how he stares at the same packages of batteries for five minutes before an older lady taps him on the shoulder and asks if he’s okay.  He convinces her he is with the biggest, fakest smile to ever exist – because the truth is, he’s not.  Okay is so fucking far off from where he is he needs a goddamn map to try to find his way back.
Jesus.  He needs a manual, a how-to guide to stop him from fucking up so much with you.  Too bad Melvad’s doesn’t carry that.
The charcoal clouds that crowd the afternoon sky look menacing, like they could burst at any second.  Lucky for him, they do – right as he’s decided he can carry all six grocery bags across the parking lot.  It’s a downpour, but instead of rinsing him of his failures, it soaks him.  The rain offers nothing but a chilly, damp stain, bleeding into the cotton of his clothes and weighing him down.  
Gareth hardly remembers the drive home.  It’s dangerous to be this in your head, this spaced-out when driving, and he knows that, but damn.  He just wants things to go back to where they were.  You’re doing so well, and he’s so afraid he’s messed that up royally for you it’s physically making him sick.
He’s decided as soon as he throws the car in park, and the last of the rain is shoved off the windshield by the stuttering wipers – he’s hashing this out with you, whether you want to hear it or not.  
If he could find you, that is.  
The house is empty.  Initially, the search is relaxed if not a bit half-hearted, which is why he’s not surprised when he doesn’t find you after his first sweep of the place.  There’s more intention with the way he looks for you, calls your name as he peeks through doorways and listens for any sign that you’re here.  Gareth starts to get a little worried after thoroughly checking the upstairs, the pounding of his heart is barely heard through the incessant patter of the rain as it falls in sheets from the sky.  
Slipping on the second to last step, he grapples at the rail, steadying himself before tearing through the family room and back into the kitchen, frantically calling your name.  Terrified you’ve left, he scrambles around the counter to the phone before something catches his attention in his periphery.
You.
“What the fuck?!”
Gareth slams down the receiver, completely missing its cradle.  He ignores how it clatters uselessly against the countertop, he’s too wrapped up in how he streaks across the hardwood of the sunroom to throw open the door to the patio to get to you.  Granted, he’s relieved in the best way that you’re still here, at his house – but the way in which he’s found you?  Balled up like a child in one of those uncomfortable chairs outside while the rain tries to wash away your very existence isn’t ideal.
In fact, it scares him half to death.
The weather is typically warm in August, but not today.  The air’s been cooled by that front that blew in over an hour ago, bringing with it this chilly excuse for a summer rain.  At this point, it’s a downpour – and you’re soaked to the fucking bone.
He does a quick assessment of your shivering form – his Hellfire shirt clings to your skin that’s more sallow, prickled with an uncomfortable number of goosebumps over what’s exposed.  Empty eyes stare into the distance, and Gareth’s fairly sure you’ve not even registered his presence.  What really gets him is the color of your lips and your nails.
Blue.  That dangerous, dusky gray-blue that looks like it welcomes death itself.  
Acid splashes over his tone, unintentional and ultimately masking his growing concern for you.
“What in the fuck?  What in the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Gareth spits, almost having to shout over the roar of the rain as it slams against the ground.  “Mayfield.  Mayfield – hey!”  
He breathes a sigh of relief when your stare is ripped from far away to focus on him.  “C’mon, let’s go,” he gathers you in his arms and helps you out of the chair.  “Let’s get you inside.”
On wobbly legs, you let him lead through the house, all the way upstairs and down the hall into his parent’s stand-up shower, clothes and all.  Yelping as the hot spray hits your icy skin, Gareth blocks the stream with his body, turning the dial back to a more comfortable lukewarm.  Once he feels the temperature is better and not as harsh, he sits beside you on the floor, quiet as a whisper until you’ve warmed through.
He’s the first to leave, making sure he’s well out of the bathroom before shucking his sodden clothing and grabbing dry ones for you.  Though this should have been enough to stop your shivering, it doesn’t – not until he’s grabbed an extra comforter from the closet and wraps you both in it.  He’s positively baking with the extra body heat – but it’s worth it, especially when you finally stop shaking enough to rest your damp head on his shoulder.  
“Mayfield, what happened?”  Predictably, you bury your head into the crook of his arm to ward off his questioning.  “Hey, talk to me – what happened?”
“Don’t wanna talk, G.”
That earlier tenacity is back, the need to speak candidly is a fire that roars to life in his belly.  “Honey, I came home to you just sitting in the goddamn pouring rain.  That’s not – it’s not healthy, what you’re doing and I can’t shake the feeling it’s about what happened yesterday, okay?”  
He’s provided no response, just an angry huff of air into his faded tee.
Gareth grunts his own frustrated puff of air through his nose.  “You and I are gonna have to talk about this eventually.”  He tongues the inside of his cheek, deliberating over the best direction in which to take this.  He leans over, tone raspy in a jesting sort of way as he promises, “I will wrap you up in these blankets and roll you into a Mayfield burrito and just wait you out.”  
It’s automatic how you shoot him a prickly glare, though it does nothing to wither the younger boy’s resolve.  He raises a challenging eyebrow.  “Try me.”
“No, thanks.”
“Mayfield –”
“Not today, okay?  Just – stop.”
“Honey, please –”
You don’t raise your head, you don’t even give him a look  – fuck, you don’t have to.  The amount of venom in your tone is enough to melt the cotton of his shirt and singe the skin on his chest before you rear back, pushing his body away from yours as you spit,  
“Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to talk to you?”
Oh.  
Did he?  No?  Or maybe he did, deep down… so, yes?  Blinded by his own need to have this talked through, he knows he didn’t really consider what you wanted.  More or less, he’s decided it’s best for both of you… right?  Isn’t that what he did?
Shit.  He doesn’t know.  All he knows is the empty pit in his chest has gaped wide, painful and raw with everything that’s been left unsaid.
A deep awareness of his oversight sponsors the next question out of his mouth.  “Do you want to go stay with Steve?”
It’s quiet for a long moment, save for the pounding of his heart as he waits.  “No.”
Relief washes through his veins, but not enough to settle the uncertainty that still simmers beneath his skin.  “I can take you over there,” he offers once more, just in case.  “If – if you’d rather.”
“No,” you murmur softly, “I’m comfortable here.”
Gareth’s not sure if you mean it like you’re positionally comfortable or… actually inwardly comfortable.  The power behind the urge to ask is so consuming that he opens his mouth to say the words until he feels you snuggle up against his side.  The breath he exhales is quick, suspended in limbo with his thoughts, and when the peaceful stillness of sleep swiftly settles over your form, he desperately clings to the hope that it’s both.
Day 119
“Yeah, I think it says 102, 103 maybe?  If she fucking gave herself pneumonia, I swear to god…”  
Gareth places the mercury-filled tube on the table, listening intently to Steve and Robin chatter on the other end of the line, grateful that they’re both in agreement with his assessment of your situation.  For the most part, anyway.  You went downhill fast – illness relentlessly overtaking your body within twenty-four hours of him catching you in the rain.  Now, you shiver under your quilt on the couch, fighting the chills and body aches until this round of Tylenol kicks in.
Steve suggests tonight should be the night for an evaluation at the hospital, and Gareth grimaces, knowing you won’t be willing in the least.  “Nah, I’m not taking her there yet.  If she doesn’t turn a corner by tomorrow afternoon I’ll take her in.”
As if on cue, your head lifts from your pillow.  “I don't wanna go to the doctor.”  
Gareth crosses to where you lie, admonishing you with a look and a soft caress over the blazing skin of your forehead.  “Hang on, Steve.”  Your friend’s ice blue eyes are brimming with concern, but the smirk that graces his lips tells a little different story.  “You are going to the doctor if your fever doesn’t break by tomorrow,” he drops his tone, “I might not have Harrington’s biceps but I can absolutely haul you into the car and drag your ass there.”  
The throbbing in your head prevents any sort of intensity to radiate out of your attempt to stare him down, though you still give it a shot.  Gareth’s own gaze unfocuses as he listens, snorting into the receiver.  
“Dude, I’m not saying that.”  He groans, rolling his eyes before buckling to whatever Steve’s said.  “Fine, Harrington said he’d come over and use his muscly arms – man, I feel really weird saying – no, not a good weird, Robin, Christ…”
That’s enough to pull a weak chuckle out of you.  “They’re such dorks.”
Gareth covers the receiver.  “The dorkiest.”  He grins when he sees a small smile ghost over your lips.  “Yes, I told her you and your muscles will be here to drag her away to the doctor.  She knows.  Yeah man, thanks.  Bye, Robin.”
Frowning as you shiver, he hangs up the phone and is back in a flash.  Cradling the throw pillow in his lap, he guides your head to lie there again, worry lines on his brow deepening as your complexion grows more ashen.  He doesn’t leave your side, despite your numerous attempts to send him away in fear of him catching whatever it is that you have.  Gareth won’t hear of it, and the fatigue that creaks through your muscles and joints begs you to just let him help.
So, you do.
He’s there to make sure you’re sipping water, or tea, or that lemon-lime sports drink that was never really all that good until your fever decided it was.  He’s there to make sure you keep your strength up, even if it is taking a spoonful of soup every now and then.  Gareth is there to remind you to take a tylenol with a look that pleads for your compliance; there to hold you through the chills that chatter through every muscle fiber in your body; and there to tuck you in later that night with a cool washcloth plastered to the back of your neck.  
He’s there when you thrash about in bed an hour later, dazed and lost in the fog of a horrific fever dream, rummaging through his medicine cabinet for some near-expired aspirin to help slay the heat that addles your brain.  
And when you grab for his hand and ask him to stay, he doesn’t hesitate.
There’s an odd, sleepless stretch of time where you murmur to yourself, too low for him to decipher and quite frankly, he’s not sure he wants to.  There’s fear in your tone and in the way your breath catches raggedly on every exhale.  It sounds like you’re having a conversation without him, and not one he thinks you want to have.  A familiar worry returns, settling like a stone in his belly, one that makes him wonder what kinds of things you keep hidden in your heart.  It has him selfishly wishing, for once, you’d start the conversation with him.
Day 121
The ache has intensified in his chest.  It’s safe to say that you’re worse than yesterday; that nasty fever still hasn’t relented.  He was supposed to take you in, supposed to have you checked over because the way you cough and hack surely means pneumonia by now.  Gareth tried begging, pleading, being so sweet and soft and kind.  And when that didn’t work, he tried harder.  Tried to be stern, maybe even a little brash.
That didn’t work, either.
The only thing that keeps him from calling in backup in the form of Steve Harrington’s biceps is the fact that you’re still eating (a little) and drinking (fairly well).  Tylenol seems to give you some reprieve, and right now, you’re in a short spell where you’re energetic enough to sit and sip some tea.
“It’s honey and lemon,” Gareth explains as he nervously watches you take a cautious taste, “the lady at the drugstore told me it was good for colds and stuff.”
Your head bobs in an agreeable way.  “Yeah, it’s good.  Thanks.”
He pads back to the kitchen to unload the rest of his drugstore haul when he comes across an unintended purchase at the bottom of the bag.  Crystal blue eyes round in excitement.
“Oh, shit.  You’ll never guess what I found today!”
Grimacing through another swallow of tea, you hum softly, inviting him to continue.  Your lips part as he drops the all too familiar novel in your lap.
“Oh…”
The confidence that bolstered his grin falters when he sees your expression drop.  “That’s your favorite book, right?”  
“How did you know that?”
“Eddie said something once, and you were reading it the night I came over to the trailer park and showed you that notebook that those agents cooked.  Remember?”
Everything is slowed, sluggish reflexes and muddled thoughts are tough to wade through the muck of this illness.  But now?  For the first time in several days, the clouds part – the tattered copy of Dracula that you hold in your hands is cheap and close to withering away, but the sentiment is there.  Your eyes that are rounded in gratitude can see that, clear as anything.
Gareth takes your silence as indifference.  “Anyway,” he wipes his hands nervously on his jeans before joining you on the couch, “there was a little metal shelf just full of old books outside of Melvad’s.  Giving them away.  This one was kinda buried in there but I found it and yeah…,” he trails off uncertainly.  “Thought you might like it.”
“I really do.”  Your heart thumps heavily out of rhythm, his sincerity a warmth you haven’t felt in months.  “Can you read it to me?”
Gareth’s mouth gapes for a moment before he recovers.  “Y-yeah, of course,” he takes the book from your hands, “that sounds nice, actually.”
As he helps you settle your head to lie again on the pillow in his lap, taking care to tuck you and him inside your favorite quilt, Gareth finally allows himself to relax. To believe that it’s more than the fever, the fog in your brain that keeps you near.  That despite his idiotic slip of the tongue the other day, you actually do want his company. You want to be here, with him. Smiling to himself as he opens the cover to wrap it around the binding, a small gesture steals his breath away.  Gentle as a summer wind, your fingers intertwine with his. The arid heat from your skin scalds him, burns him up from the inside out.  
Gareth secures the weakness in your hold with a confidence he hardly feels, and when he feels you sink into the cushions, he begins. 
“Left Munich at 8:35 p.m., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late…”
Day 123
“Mayfield, hey, wake up.”
The pale yellow light of dawn filters in through the gauzy curtains in your room, its brightness causing you to blink through the sting.  A semi-irritated grunt trills in the back of your throat, tongue clicking as it dryly smacks the roof of your mouth in disgust.
Your morning voice is just as dry and tacky.  “What, G?” you ask as you’re gently jostled awake by an enthusiastic hand on your shoulder. 
“Hey,” Gareth breathes, the grin evident in his tone, “I think your fever broke.”
Still groggy from being pulled from the cradling hands of a dreamless sleep, you don’t quite comprehend.  He shakes you again, prompting a louder, more annoyed groan to burst through your chapped lips, and that’s when you feel it.
The sheets.
Your – well, okay, his – Led Zeppelin tee, your sports bra, your shorts – all of it.
Completely drenched in sweat.
“Oh, fuck!” Thrashing the damp coverings off your legs, you look at your friend in horror.  “Oh my god, I am so sorry –”  
Gareth snorts, his own bleary eyes blinking away the last remnants of rest.  “Sorry?”  Tawny curls stick up in all directions as he shuffles higher on the mattress.  “What on earth are you sorry for?”
The comforter falls from his torso, revealing a large damp patch across his chest, undoubtedly from you.  Your lips twist in mortification as your hands cover your face – that same face that’s caked in dried perspiration, though it’s notably cooler than it has been in days.  
That’s a plus, and even through your embarrassment, you can admit that.  What you can’t understand is how your roommate and recently appointed caretaker is grinning like a loon despite being covered in your – ughh.
“G, come on,” you whine, “don’t make me say it.”
The bed shakes as he barks a sympathetic laugh, his burly arms shooting forward and gathering you up to lie against that wet bit of heather gray cotton.  “Honey, it’s gonna take a bit more than you sweating out a fever to scare me off,” he snorts as he presses a dramatic smooch into your matted hair.  “God damn.  I’m so fucking happy your fever broke.”
“You must be to have me this close,” you quip with a sarcastic bite in your tone, “I’m smelly and completely disgusting.”
Gareth’s shoulder’s shake as he chuckles, you can feel his lips move against the crown of your head.  “No you’re not, you’re –”
His hold on your tightens for a fraction of a second as he stops the words mid-stride.  A cough poorly covers up the pause.  “Okay,” he agrees, “you are smelly.  I can get you a shower going.  C’mon, let’s get up.”
“Nah, I got it.”
“Mayfield, hey,” he presses, shuffling from under you before you can protest, “you’re still sick, even if your fever’s gone.  Let me do this for you?”
His eyes flick to the subtle pout you put on before he crosses his arms over his torso, tilting his head in a way that dares you to test him further.  The look that’s punctuated by that cocky little smirk tells you he thinks he’s won.  And shit, maybe he has.  You still don’t feel great, but definitely well enough to start back into some semblance of your normal routine.
“Fine,” you concede with a huff, “but I’m changing these sheets.”
A fluffy mop of messy ringlets shakes with vigor.  “Nope.  Go shower, I got the sheets.”
“Uh, no.  You already slept in my –” you shudder as you kick the remaining blankets away, “my nasty fever-sweat, you’re not cleaning it up!”
Gareth shrugs, unbothered.  Backing towards your door, he tosses you a cheeky grin.  “I absolutely am cleaning it up, my sweaty little friend,” you belt a loud ugh! and he cackles, “and I’m doing it while you’re showering.  Don’t argue.”  He juts out his bottom lip in his own attempt to pout.  “Please?”
An attempt at a staredown is unsuccessful, his baby blue eyes bore into yours with such conviction that you’re left with no choice but to give up.  
“Okaaay,” you grouse, shoulders slumping as you flop back against the pillows.  “You win.  You get to start the shower and strip the yucky sheets.”  A familiar fire flares behind your eyes that are still baggy with fatigue.  “You fuckin’ weirdo.”
That pulls a laugh straight from Gareth’s belly.  “Ah shit, hun.  You have no idea how happy I am that you're feeling better.”  
He gives you a little two-fingered wave before ambling out of your room.  The subtle squeak of the knobs in the tub are heard from where you lay, and you take this opportunity to leap out of bed, stopping only for a brief moment to right a headrush before ripping the coverings off the pillows as fast as you can.  
Your little burst of mutiny lasts but a minute before Gareth is quite literally chasing you out of the room, snapping a lighthearted version of your name that’s supposed to come out as stern, but misses the mark by a mile.  Your heart thunders in your chest as you lean against the closed bathroom door you’ve been banished behind, lips stretched over your teeth in something that very closely resembles a smile.  The unpracticed muscles in your cheeks burn with the unfamiliar strain, then quickly drop into softer lines as you spy the fragrant, frothy mountains of bubbles gliding over the surface of the bathwater.  
Tiny little wings beat a furious tempo deep in your belly, keeping time with the rhythm of your heart. It’s overwhelming in the best way, the authentic kindness of your housemate, your sweet friend – one that you remind yourself as you slip into the soothing, rippling warmth that you’re so fucking fortunate to have.
Day 124
You come across something the following afternoon that sparks careful curiosity.  It’s been needling at you, the desire to ask.  He’s about halfway through his reading of Dracula before you finally inquire,
“Do you have an acoustic guitar?”
“Woah,” Gareth marks his page with his thumb as he turns his attention to you.  “Where did that come from?”
You shift sheepishly against the cushions on the couch.  “Well, I may have wandered into your parents’ room and found one on its stand…”
“Ahh.”  He clicks his tongue in awareness.  “That’s my dad’s.”
“You play?”
“Yes…”  Gareth trails off, cocking his head when he sees you visibly perk up.  “You want me to go get it and play, huh?”  
Your eyebrows raise in a hopeful arch high on your forehead.  “Would you?”
At first, you’re a little worried about the guitar being his dad’s, and playing it being too much to ask.  Gareth doesn’t seem to share that concern, as evidenced by the way his mouth ticks up in a cocksure grin.
“What, the piano isn’t enough for you?”
“Be nice,” you grouse through a phony whine, “I’m still sick.” 
He rolls his eyes as you fake a cough into the crook of your elbow.  “Bullshit, you haven’t had a fever like, all day.”  Groaning when you just cough louder, he slaps his palms against his thighs and lugs himself off the couch.  “Oh, my fucking – fine, I’m going.”
He doesn’t see it happen, but a true, honest-to-God grin pulls at your lips the entire time he lumbers in dramatic fashion up the stairs.  An ache in your chest you didn’t even realize was there is soothed as soon as he comes back with the acoustic and all at once, you’re hit with a tidal wave of what if.
Excusing yourself to the kitchen while he tunes the instrument, you grab the thermometer; incredulous to these thoughts that aren’t exactly unwelcome but jarring just the same.  You’re surprised when the mercury line stops just before 99, and you know — it’s not a fever that’s allowing a slow swirl of affection to rise like a morning mist in your mind.   This is something genuine, and it’s also not at all what you’re looking for.   It’s not anything you could even fathom – now, or possibly ever.  It’s not at all what you want or what you’re used to.
Your eyes drift to Gareth on the couch, watching as he’s lost in his task and you swallow hard when you consider.
What if it was?
What if it could be?
Gareth interrupts your tangled mess that is your head at this moment, calling you back to the couch and back to the comfort of his company.  The next hour passes in pure platonic contentment as he challenges you to a version of Name that Tune that’s tailored to your own unique tastes.  The potential guilt for your very brief bit of wondering is smothered in song and sounds that could, maybe, be perceived as laughter.
Or something close to it, anyway.  
Day 127
It’s finally passed.  Whatever it was you had is gone, and Gareth is thrilled that things have gone back to normal.  
Well – maybe not thrilled; that’s a little too strong of a word.  Make no mistake, he’d love to be thrilled; he loves the fact you’re feeling well and that all the color has returned to your cheeks and you’re up and composing with him again in the sunroom on a daily basis, but…
The memory of finding you on the patio, pale and catatonic like he did… it haunts him.  It’s a sick feeling, this wondering and worrying that the cause for your illness in the first place was him.  But now, so many days later, how does he even begin bringing it up?  He needs to do it, needs to apologize for something that’s over a week old… stale but not forgotten and immensely important to smooth over – at least, for Gareth.  Words hardly came to him as it was the day after… and now?  Safe to say Gareth’s floundering.
Obviously floundering to the point where you’ve noticed.  “What’s got you all fidgety, Emerson?”
It’s said lightly, friendly in a way.  He could hug you for giving him an opening if he wasn’t so afraid his nerves are gonna make him yack up his breakfast.  
“Um…” he starts, willing himself to hold eye contact with a confidence he doesn’t feel, “can I talk to you about something?”
He can tell you’re hesitant by the way your chin dips and your brow creases.  There’s even a cautious way in which you ask him, “Yeah, what’s up?”
Gareth blows a shuddering breath through pursed lips.  His mouth is suddenly dry, stomach churning as he tries to arrive at his words.  The moment is here, this is what he’s wanted to do for days – now that he has it?  He’s gone completely dumb.
“M-mayfield, I…” the heaviness in his chest has him stammering, bringing his hand to wring the back of his neck.  “I just feel like I had something to do with why you got sick.  Why I found you outside.”
It’s off his chest, officially – and the relief he so desperately hoped for never comes.
All expression you had left falls flat.  “No.”  You shrug it off, so unconvincingly that his stomach drops.  “I just… had a bad day.”
“Why, though?”
Your gaze falters, dropping to your hands as you shrug again.  “I don’t know…just was.”
“Mayfield,” he sighs, pleading with you again to tell him the truth.  Tell him what’s going on in your mind, the one that he can just tell is going a thousand miles a minute.  
He’ll own it.  Gareth swears, he’ll own being a bigger dumbass than those goofball freshman trying to move Hellfire for the sake of a fucking basketball game if it means getting you to be honest.
It’s just gonna take a little more effort on his part.  “Honey, you can talk to me.  You can tell me anything.  Please?”
“It was just a bad day, G,” you mutter to the quilt that’s plucked and picked by your trembling fingers, “there’s nothing more to say.”
“Really?”  The fire’s been lit.  He knows you’re lying and fuck, he’s just gotta get it out there if he wants any of it resolved.  “I don’t think it was just a bad day,” his index and middle fingers curl around the air as he emphasizes the last two words.  
“Well, it was,” you snap, balling the well-worn fabric in your fists.  
“Oh.  So…” it physically hurts, the strength he has to muster to push the final words through his lips,  “it wasn’t because I was a dumbass and accidentally called you my girl?”
Blinking rapidly in your shock, your wide-eyed stare locks back with his.  “Wow, you’re just gonna come out and say it, huh?”
Gareth scoffs, angling his body to fully face you on the couch.  “Beats not talking about it!”
“No,” you growl through gritted teeth, “it really doesn’t.”
“Fuck, please – can you please talk to me about this?”
The abbreviated shake of your head makes his heart drop like a stone into his belly.  
“It’s fine,” you murmur in an unconvincing monotone that implies just the opposite. “It was an accident, right?  That’s what you said, hmm?”  You don’t give him a chance to respond before hissing under your breath, “Let’s just move on.”
“Is that really how you feel?”  Gareth’s thick eyebrows scrunch over his nose as he watches you chew the inside of your cheek.  “Mayfield, this is me.  Say what you mean, not what you think I wanna hear!”
“Y-yeah, I know it’s you!”  A frustrated groan tumbles from your lips.  “God damn it, Gareth, that scared the shit out of me.  Okay?  It did – and, I – the last thing I wanna do is hurt your feelings, but –”
Finally feeling like you’re getting somewhere, he stopped you mid-sentence to clarify his point.  “Mayfield, that’s what I’m saying.”   When you don’t protest, he inhales slowly and presses on.  “It scared the shit out of me, too, okay?  I – I totally meant it in a way that you’re like, my go-to.  My friend that I knew was gonna have my back.”
“You really needed me to have your back that badly?”
“Have you met Wheeler?” he practically shrieks, though the toothy grin that slips through lessens the sharpness in his tone.  “I mean, Christ, hun…”
His grin widens when he hears you snort through your nose.  Scooting closer to you on the couch, he takes a chance and waves his hand in yours.  
“I worded it wrong,” he promises with a firm squeeze.  “That’s all.  I want you to know that.  The last thing I wanna do is make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t.”
He pins you in a stare, holding it until that stubborn veneer cracks.  “Don’t look at me like that,” scowling hard, you jerk his hand in yours for emphasis.  “Don’t – you don’t know what I was thinking right then.”
“No, you’re right – I don’t,” he concedes, “but I know you.  Maybe not much, but I’m getting there and… I could tell it bothered you.”
“Bothered you, too,” your grumble slices deep through Gareth’s chest.
“No,” his retort is firm and quick as a whip, “it didn’t bother me.  It worried me that I overstepped and that you took it a different way than it was intended.”
“Well, how else was I supposed to take it?” you ask bitterly.  “I’m not anyone’s girl anymore, Gareth.”
“I’d argue that you are,” he replies softly as his thumb traces over the slope of your middle knuckle.  “You’re Steve’s and your Robin’s and you’re Jeff’s and you’re mine.”  
The band around his chest loosens fractionally when your body relaxes, softening the lines of your face in relief.   “Fuck,” he chuffs, “you’re Nancy’s and Karen’s and I’m pretty sure baby Wheeler looks at you like you’re a goddamn superhero.”  You’re pliant when he nudges your shoulder, torso wobbling before settling against his chest.  “We all care about you.  I care about you too much to… to have you slip backwards into that void you were in three months ago.”
The lull in the conversation is deathly quiet, save for the dull buzz in his ears from the adrenaline that’s thrumming through his veins.  He fights to keep his breath steady while you mull over his words, hoping with all his heart that you can feel how true they are.
He asks, just in case you need more.  “Do you get it?”
Mercifully, it really seems that you do.  Your nod is affirming, the faint half-smile even more so.  “That’s all it was?” 
Gareth breathes a sigh in sweet reprieve.  “Yes.  That’s all it was.”
“Okay,” your eyes narrow as that tiny smirk kicks up the corner of your mouth.  “Just maybe, don’t use those words.”
“That’s fair,” his hands come to his chest, happily surrendering fault here.  “I knew I fucked that up as soon as I said it.”
“Yeah.”  You flop back against the cushions, supplying your friend with one hell of a side-eye.  “Dipshit.”
Gareth scoffs a hard hey!, shoving your shoulder for good measure.  Satisfied only when you shove him back, he changes the subject.  “I’m hungry.  Are you gonna eat some soup if I make it?”
He thinks it’s so cute how your expression immediately brightens.  “You’re gonna make soup?”
“Yeah,” rising from the couch, he brings his arms over his head and stretches until his lower back cracks. “There's a recipe in that cookbook that’s easy as shit.  I’ll have it done in like, an hour.”
You’re up and following him into the kitchen.  “Um… would you mind if I wrote down a recipe for you to make, instead?”
Gareth chuffs genially.  “Of course you know a recipe by heart.”
Ducking your head, you attempt to explain the compliment away.  “It was my mom’s.”
“Well then, yeah.”  He grabs the cookbook from its perch near the stove and slides it across the counter to where you sit.  “Write that sucker down, hun.  I don’t wanna forget it, either.”
You’re about halfway done jotting down your notes in the margins when you murmur softly to the overglossed pages.  “Thank you.”
“This is nothing,” Gareth gestures to the cookbook.  “I’m pumped to try it.”
“No, I mean…” you trail off before setting the pen down.  “For talking to me about it.”
“Oh.”  His blue eyes round in awareness.  “I’ll always talk to you, okay?  But you’ve gotta meet me halfway.  You’ve gotta talk to me, too.  And… if not to me, then… maybe someone else.”
Your voice scratches at the back of your throat, raw from the emotion you try to hold at bay.  “I’m just not sure if I’m ready for that.”
He sighs, understanding better than most.  “I’m gonna say this, and then I’ll drop it to go make us dinner.”  Gareth’s palms rest on your shoulders, his touch squares you up with his stocky frame.  “You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit.  You’re ready.  You’re strong enough.”  He dips his head to catch your stare that’s fallen to the floor.  “You’re allowed good things despite all the mountains of shit you’ve been through.  You don’t have to feel like this forever, okay?”
Squeezing a grounding pressure against your upper arms, he pulls you closer when he hears you sniff.  His voice drops, gentle as it is sincere.  “I sure as shit don’t have all the answers but I know people who can help, and one in particular.  She’s helped me and I swear, if you just go talk to her, you’re gonna love her.”
“You mean that doctor you go see?”
“She’s a PA, but yeah.”  You nod once in recognition, he takes it as his cue to continue.  “If you’re not ready for her, that’s okay.  But hey.  Look at me, Mayfield.”
It’s easier now, to hold his gaze.  You can feel just how genuine he is, how sorry he feels.  It’s as striking as the blue in those crystalline irises.
“I’m right fucking here,” Gareth vows candidly.  “Always.  Okay?”
A sniffle and a nod is all the answer he gets, but it’s enough.  One day, there’ll be words to tell him exactly how much he means to you, how much he’s given you a reason to roll out of bed on the days you don’t want to.  One day, you’ll tell him.  The way he squeezes your form before releasing you, smiling sweetly as you resume writing the recipe from memory – well, it has you wondering if he already knows.
Day 130
Gareth’s unpacking the haul from Bradley’s with you in the kitchen.  He always offers to have you come with but the incident at the department store still has you gun-shy.  
He doesn’t blame you and so, he does his grocery trips alone.
Idle chatter fills the room as you reach into the paper sack and pull out a familiar pink box of tampons.  The nice kind, like the one you found in his mom’s cabinet and ran out of last month.  You’d asked Robin to grab you some, but she’d forgotten.
“G…”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
You hold the box so he can see.  “Did you,” the lump in your throat chokes you up and you have to take a moment to clear it, “did you get these for me?”
Gareth’s face lights with recognition, acknowledging the purchase with a lift of his chin before he rummages through the next paper sack.  “Well, yeah.  Pretty sure you ran out.”  
The fact that he noticed takes you by surprise.  “Yeah, I did.”
“Yeah.”  His face falls when he misinterprets your silence.  “Oh, crap.  Did I fuck up the brand – oof!”
Your body slams into his, prompting the harsh expulsion of air from his chest as your arms wrap around his torso.
“Thank you.”
“Mayfield,” he chuckles, “they’re just tampons.  It’s not like I got you a fuckin’ puppy.”
You sniffle through a groan, muttering under your breath into his chest.  “Shut up.”
“I gotcha, hun,” he says as he holds you at arm’s length.  “Okay?”  
“Okay.” 
Gareth snickers as he swipes a tear off your cheek.  “Christ.  Don’t fuckin’ get all teary over tampons.”
His hold falls from your upper arms as you pull your hands up defensively.  “Just surprised you’re cool about it and not all squirrely.”You don’t carefully consider the next statement before it’s out of your mouth, handing him a bag of grapes.  “Most dudes without sisters are pretty squirrely about it.”
“I have Heather,” he huffs genially, and then freezes once he realizes what he’s said.
It sews you to the floor, too – how easily he was able to mention her like she hasn’t been gone for over a year.  He’s reeling, you can tell.  Knowing there’s not a whole lot you can say at this moment to make it better, you decide to wait him out.  
He swallows hard.  “Had.  Uh, had – I guess.”
The very same words have spilled over your lips at one time not so long ago, and it tugs at your heart to remember.  
“I had someone tell me once that, um… that they can be present-tense for as long as you need them to be, G.”
Regarding you with a subtle tilt of his head, he absorbs this silently, sighing to the ceiling before snorting softly.  “S-she uh, never was shy about her period.  Ever.  Kinda desensitized me but in a good way, I guess.”
Your lips purse as you look upon your friend fondly.  “You’re full of surprises, Gareth Emerson.”
“I –” he pauses as he tips you a crooked grin, “– am gonna take that as a compliment.”  
“You should.”
That grin stays plastered to his face even after he clicks off his bedside lamp later that night.
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whatifitwasgttho · 5 months
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⪩ ﹒💋﹕ BLOG INTRO ﹒ @ whatifitwasgttho
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★﹚ florian/luka. 🥀
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1. ⌗ hihi !! im luka / florian , a g/t, fandom and character artist and occasional writer with a lot of ocs ! i love flirty giants , gentle giants .. yeah. not a lot of borrower stuff, sorry </3
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:: he / him pronouns .
:: i am sixteen ! no nsfw interaction AT ALL. if you have 18+ in your bio, im one of those eww minors and dont want to see fetish content.
:: my inbox is always open for any questions! (especially oc related ones)
:: no vore here , but blogs of said content can interact as long as they are completely and strictly SFW.
:: i enjoy a lot of various medias, so i may fandompost sometimes ! if anything, you’ll see genshin, project sekai, d4dj, revue starlight, reverse 1999 or honkai .
:: don’t be afraid to dm to talk! i don’t bite!
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1. ⌗ if you like my posts, here are some of my friends (that are amazing) to check out!! (and our server hehe)
@imvenusasaboy | elias !! his art is so good AND HIS WRITING?? one of the best blogs ever
@tinyinvadr | amazing writer?! chillest person ever they definitely r so cool
@insanit3a | my girlfriend that is amazing at writing IF SHE WERE ACTIVE ..
@rockification | the one and only cole
@aries1144 | one of my favourite writers ever emerson is the best and hes so sweet
@casualmonarch | the coolest ever go follow they get 10+ points for liking honkai impact
@cecilsbitingyou | mr sparkle vampire
@betrayerofyourownkind | COOLEST MUTUAL and good amazing friend that has amazing art and ocs
@goblinunderabridge | cool dude .. kind of a loser… very talented !?!
@echophobe | until this fucker makes a new account jojo will have to deal with this.. i love u man
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— FANDOM — OCS — DISCORD —
( this will be filled with links soon )
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tiredtxmblrvet · 21 days
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Fic Rec Friday #4
If y'all want more fic rec fridays, check out @mediumgayitalian
Below are 5 fics I've enjoyed this past week/recently.
(guess who learned how to indent on posts!)
oh, what a sin by @rosyredlipstick
https://archiveofourown.org/works/17194697
Summary:
For some reason, Nico thought convincing Fitzwilliam Emerson "Golden Boy" Solace to abandon his hosting duties, blow off his company’s gala entirely, and run off with him into the night would be much harder. Well, that’s what Jason gets for trying to force Nico into attending a party.
We're back with another Rosy fic! This is an awesome one-shot where Will and Nico are both rich little shits and sneak away from their big-shot families. I'd read an entire series of this! The way Nico and Will's chemistry shines in this one-shot is incredible. Plus the family relations of Nico's family is just *chef's kiss*.
talk your talk and go viral (i just need this love spiral) by wrongcaitlyn
https://archiveofourown.org/works/46368430
Summary:
“Keep telling yourself that,” Will says quietly, because even though the door is closed, speaking any louder would seem wrong. “You’re too harsh on yourself. If you wrote songs or something, you’d easily get on the Billboard Hot 100. Dad would help you. I would, too.” “Promote it to your seven followers?” “Yes!” Nico laughs, and then Will is joining him, and they’re closer than before, but it’s nothing unusual. It’s been this way since before stupid feelings and stupid crushes, and Nico would be damned if he let it change just because of that. or a celebrity au ft. childhood friends to lovers, a bit of trauma, and a famous friend group (plus leo).
--
I'm still in the beginning stages of reading this story, but I'm already obsessed with it! The author's writing style is interesting, and I just love a good celebrity AU.
we're not brave, we're not soldiers by Chriscrosswallflower
https://archiveofourown.org/works/39827199
Summary:
The battle of Manhattan was mostly a blood stained blur but Will would never forget the sight of his brother’s body falling along with that bridge. __ Follow along with this set of one shots as Percy and Will navigate the pain and trauma of being child soldiers and grow to form an unlikely friendship. Because I think these two could be great friends and two sides of the same coin, so I decided to put my plot bunnies to paper.
I just really love the way Percy and Will are portrayed in this collection of one-shots. Their trauma and emotions feel so raw and so well-written, and I'm personally a Will and Percy besties truther, so I honestly would have loved this fic anyways. The fact that it's so awesome is a bonus.
The Sum of Our Choices: The Titan's Curse by TheTimeTraveler24
https://archiveofourown.org/works/24637117
Summary:
Maybe it's not always about trying to fix something broken. Maybe it's about starting over and creating something better. A group of special individuals are drawn together for a reason. They might not see it yet, but they are the only ones who have the power to change their destiny. They'll face opposition from the gods along the way and sometimes things won't work out the way they want. But this group is special. Their choices just might be the key to everything. Something is happening. Percy Jackson, Annabeth Chase, and Thalia Grace are on their way to Westover Hall in response to a distress call from Grover Underwood. At the same time, Magnus Chase is wandering around in the woods. Under strange circumstances, the two groups meet and the course of history will never be the same.
This fic is actually a crossover AU with the Magnus Chase series, so if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to skip. However, this fic is a time travel "fix-it" fic of sorts where the trio are taken from their lives post the Hidden Oracle and have to relieve the events of the The Titan's Curse (and the rest of the series, this series is 800k words!) and I'm still on the first fic, but I am HOOKED already! So I figured I'd rec it here.
three-in-one soap by thelordofshrimp
https://archiveofourown.org/works/52887397
Summary:
Austin glared at his sister. “Will can’t lie, genius. He says that since he became head counselor, any shower that lasts more than three minutes gets interrupted by someone needing his help.” “That’s… crazy.” Nico considered the number of showers he’d taken even in his short time at camp and imagined if even half of them had been interrupted. “It is,” Jerry agreed. “Not like there’s much we can do about it, though.” “You can always do something about it.” Nico sat up. “There has to be something.” “Not unless you can somehow keep the whole camp safe at once.”
--
This is just a cute one-shot where Nico tries to make it so that Will can actually take a shower for once, but shenanigans ensue anyways. It made me smile, so I'm rec'ing it here.
--
Okay that's all! I'll probably keep doing this until I run out of fics to recommend. Have a good friday lovelies!
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bookshelf-dust · 1 year
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the ones in red are always the prettiest.
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gareth emerson x fem!henderson!reader.
word count: 4,215
warnings: swearing, pining, mentions of smoking, eddie playing matchmaker, the sweetest most disgustingly adorable fluff
a/n: i’m kind of in love with this, which doesn’t happen often. it felt easy to write too, if that makes sense. i hope you like it as much as i do!! <333
————
You don’t have friends. At least not really. Not anymore. You keep to yourself: go to class, study as best as you can, try and take care of yourself sometimes even. But you have got Dustin.
Dustin may be three years younger than you, but he’s remains your best friend. You tell him everything, and he knows you better than anyone. He is your one confidant.
Yeah, there may be some things that you don’t tell him, but he sort of knows, in a way. He’s always been smart as a whip. Like how lonely you are. How hard things can get. But he notices. Notices when you shy away from him, sink into yourself.
Yet he’s always there. Always. So when he started high school with you—his beginning, your ending—and found the Hellfire Club, it was like a dream come true. He’d found more kids like him to nerd out with, not that he didn’t nerd out with you, because he did. But he’d found his people. His own little group. And you were over the moon for him.
But that did take him away from you a bit. What with the initiations at the beginning of the year, new members and whatnot, the numerous and lengthy campaigns, Dustin simply making friends and having fun, you just didn’t see him as much. Didn’t have as much time to talk to him. But you were okay with that, because he was so happy.
————
Dustin was sitting at the Hellfire table, today sandwiched between Eddie and Lucas. You’d packed him a lunch this morning when you packed yours, because he’d said he was staying after school for a club meeting, and you wanted to make sure he had enough food, what with how late they could sometimes run.
The cafeteria food wasn’t always the best, and if he was going to be there extra long, he needed some snacks. Seeing Gareth and Mike sit down with trays full of whatever that was supposed to be, he was grateful for your gesture. Dustin dug around for the cookie he wanted, and snagged it, realizing you’d accidentally thrown two in there. So of course, being himself, he wanted to give it to you.
Dustin’s head shot up from where he’d been looking down, his eyes locating you sat at the table he’d been taken away from at the beginning of the year. Your neck was bent, nose buried in a book, and you were occasionally picking through your lunch pail. She needs this cookie, Dustin thought to himself. He hopped up, not thinking anything of it, ignoring the “Where’s he going?” and “Hey! You almost knocked my drink over!” that followed his change in seating.
You resisted the urge to flip your shit over the way Mr. Darcy was treating Elizabeth at the moment. Not that it was necessary, seeing as you'd read the book more than was healthy. Your page flipped with the gust of air that followed Dustin's aggressive flop as he sat down on the bench across from you. "How's Fitzwilliam today?"
"Prickish," you told him. "As al--" "As always," Dustin interrupted and finished for you. You grinned at him, closing the book, but keeping your thumb in to mark the page. "Need something, Dusty?"
He held out the cookie with both hands, bowing his head. "For you, my liege."
"Why, thank you kind sir." Dustin giggled at you, always willing to indulge him, and held his hand out for a high-five, which you reciprocated, before he scrambled back to his table.
"What was that all about?" Eddie inquired, shoving the last of a half-assed turkey sandwich in his mouth, wiping the crumbs on his knees before remembering that was where the holes in the denim were, making him steal Gareth's napkin. Gareth flipped him the bird.
"Just being a kind sibling. Figured she could use a nice gesture." Dustin adjusted the hat on his head. "I don't see how the two of you are related," Gareth started, "She's so quiet, and you're so—"
"Enthusiastic," Eddie finished.
"She's always been shy, but I think the quiet thing came after she got to high school."
"How's that?" Gareth popped the tab on his Dr. Pepper. "She had a pretty tight friend group in middle school, but they sort of grew apart. They got boyfriends, became cheerleaders, clones of one another. She didn't. She likes to read and doesn't give a shit about being popular—that's how we're related—and so I think the more independent she's become has made her eternally quiet. But she's kind of like us, actually, like when she gets excited about something. She's quite the nerd." Eddie smiled genuinely at Dustin, admiring the way he spoke about you, since most people didn't talk about their siblings like that. Mike certainly didn't.
Gareth glanced at you from where you finished off a bag of Ruffles, tipping the dregs into your mouth. Yeah, you were definitely related to Dustin. You dug around in your bookbag, pulling a red flannel on over your t-shirt. It was the same red as Gareth's vest. He pretended like that didn't affect him and went back to the Goldfish he'd gotten from the vending machine.
————
Dustin futzed with his hair in his bedroom mirror while you adjusted his makeshift 'X' belt buckle. He then tugged his hoodie down down, tucking the front into his yellow sweats to display the black emblem. "Here." You handed him his costume glasses.
You'd even sprayed a little blue in his hair for effect. He was the best Hank McCoy you'd ever seen. Dustin and his friend group had decided to go as assorted X-Men this Halloween, and the two of you had worked very hard on his costume. He'd begged you to join in, and you couldn't say no to him, so here you were with a huge white streak of hair on your head, attempting to be your very best Rogue.
You'd made your hair as big and curly as possible, and even spent a little extra on your temporary white hairspray so that it would last, a black headband pushed up your forehead to top it off. Your yellow top was tucked into green corduroy's, which matched the green bomber jacket you'd found at the thrift store. You'd dug out some worn in yellow converse, and Dustin had helped you make 'X' patches for your jacket and shirt.
Lucas and Max were supposed to be Scott and Jean, with Mike having chosen Sean Cassidy. You'd heard he'd been slaving over his Banshee 'wings.'
Some might think that all of you were too old for trick-or-treating, but none of you gave a shit. The plan was to hit the rich neighborhoods, traumatize tiny children, and then you were driving the group to Jeff's house for a Halloween party. Eddie had warned that if you didn't show up in costume, you weren't allowed in.
With a successful haul, you pulled into the driveway, nervous. "Are you sure it's okay for me to be here?" You looked at your brother in the passenger seat.
"Are you kidding? They invited you! They think it's cool that my sister likes Halloween as much as they do. You're gonna be great!" He smiled at you, adding an aggressive thumbs up for encouragement.
————
"Holy shit! You guys look great!" Jeff shouted as he opened the door, ushering all of you in. Jeff was covered in various makeshift nuts and bolts and stitches, opting for a very well albeit lazily crafted Frankenstein. When Eddie appeared, he was draped in a red and green sweater, and turning his cheek, he had some fake scar wax adorning the skin of his cheek. Although his knife fingers were only on his left hand as he waved at the lot of you. "Ladies first," he drawled.
"Thanks, Fred." You wandered into the kitchen in search of a drink as Dustin and his friends mingled. You didn't want to be the obnoxious older sister tonight, especially since he'd invited you to hang out with him and his friends.
You poured your drink, and were digging in the candy bowl when a voice interrupted you. "Wow, things must've really downhill with Xavier if Rogue is hangin' out with us." You looked up to find Gareth grinning at you.
You snorted. "I'm just here for the candy. Hank doesn't like to share." You let your eyes wander over his Dracula costume. His curls were extra defined tonight, and he'd clearly had the same idea as you, with a good bit of black spray weaved in with his natural brown. He was wearing all black under his cape, the red of the underside a stark contrast. Just looking at his cape, you could tell it was well-made and probably expensive. Given the boy, this probably wasn't the first time he'd used it.
He had rings on almost every finger, a dangly stake-like object hanging from one ear. But his fangs were the best part. They weren’t the plastic ones you bend and shove in your mouth, or comically oversized canines. They were small attachments on either of his own teeth, and were just big and sharp enough to be convincing. Honestly, he looked hot. You'd let him suck your blood.
Gareth laughed in response. It was hearty and sweet, and you hadn’t heard nearly enough of it. “Well, I like the costume. Looks good on you.” Oh shit. You were blushing now, weren’t you? You totally were.
“Thanks. I like yours too. The cape is very nice.” You popped a Dum-Dum into your mouth, and Gareth almost choked on his drink watching it move around in your mouth.
“Really? I’m glad you said so because I spent way too much money on it. I’ve been Dracula for the past like, four years, so I decided to at least make it look like I tried.”
“Well I think it’s very cute. It suits you,” you told him, popping candy in your pockets for later.
“Would you like to play a game? I think someone’s setting up Monopoly and you can see Eddie get mad when he loses.” Gareth grinned at you.
“Sure. I’d like that a lot.” He held out his hand, which you took, trying not to think about how nice the calluses felt against your skin, and lead you down to the basement, which you realized was where everyone else had gone off to.
————
The Monopoly game ended up being much shorter than intended because Eddie got pissed that he was broke ten minutes in and flipped the board with a “I hate this shit!” and laugh.
You were now playing Guess-Who? with Gareth, Max sitting beside you and Dustin sitting beside him, both of whom were finding great joy in the shitty descriptions either of you offered—you trying to make them as vague as possible.
“Do they have red hair?” Gareth asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe more of a chestnut.” You grinned at him and he slapped his hand to his forehead.
“You’re an asshole,” he told you, smiling whilst he did so.
“Yes, they have red hair Mr. Emerson.” You watched him flick down a couple of panels, eyes lingering on his fingers for probably too long. You heard a cough, and turned your head to see Max smirking at you, and then you were blushing again. “Fuck off,” you whispered to her. She shook her head at you.
It was your turn again. “Hmm. Is it Andrew?” You looked up from your board at Gareth, who was already looking at you. He had a look of betrayal on his face. “Yes, Y/N. It’s fucking Andrew.” You clapped your hands in triumph, sitting up on your knees to give Max a high-five.
“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” He flicked down all of the panels on both of your boards, putting them back in the box. “‘S not my fault you suck at this game.” He scoffed playfully at you.
“What do I win?” You inquired.
“What do you think? Jack shit.” You rolled your eyes and pulled a 3 Musketeers out of your pocket and tossed it at Dustin. He caught it, thanking you, and then he and Max went off elsewhere.
“I don’t get any candy?”
“Get your own, Emerson.”
“No, I don’t think I will. What’ve you got in there, huh?” You stood, trying to fend off the candy thief.
“Nothing. I ate it all.” You continued to back up as he stood. Nothing about this was serious, though, considering the shit-eating grins on either of your faces.
He was on you in a second, gently pushing you onto the couch, tickling your sides to coerce your hands from your pockets. It worked, and you raised your hands in surrender, ready to give up your candy stash to him. He tickled you for just a minute longer, realizing he’d never heard you laugh like this before, realizing how much he liked it.
He gave up, searching your pockets, pulling free a handful of Kit-Kats and peanut butter cups. “Thanks, princess.” He tickled your side again and planted a kiss on your forehead before plopping down beside you and throwing a leg over yours.
Across the room, Eddie looked at Jeff. “You seein’ this?” Jeff nodded.
“I think our boy’s in deep,” Eddie told him, snubbing out his cigarette.
————
You pulled into the Hawkins High parking lot driving around to park outside of the doors where Dustin usually came out. You pressed the light on above your head so you could see your book, considering Dustin was always late no matter what time he told you to pick him up. A little while later, you heard the doors open, but didn’t look up, knowing he’d find his ride eventually.
Turns out, that was everyone else leaving. Gareth and Dustin had stayed to clean up, and when they finally got outside Dustin followed Gareth to his car so he could pick up some extra dice from him.
Gareth hopped in the driver’s seat, leaning over to open the glove box, but he decided to turn the car on first and let it warm up. And nothing. It wouldn’t start. Dustin asked him if it was something or other, but Gareth stopped him. “No, man. I know exactly what it is. The fuckin’ battery has been on its last leg forever. I guess tonight it decided to depart for good.” Gareth mumbled a “Shit,” under his breath as he grabbed the dice, but when he turned around, Dustin was gone.
The thud of hands on the window startled you and made you jump. Dustin yanked the door open. “Gareth’s car won’t start! You’re the only one left. Think we can give him a ride home?” By that point, the boy in question had made his way over looking for Dustin.
“Dude! Don’t just offer that up to her! She’s probably got shit to do.” He stopped in front of the two of you. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to. I can call Eddie or my mom or something.”
You shook your head. “No, it’s totally fine. I’m right here and there’s no reason for you to do that. I can take you home.”
“You sure?” You told him you were, and told Dustin he had to sit in the back, ignoring his protests.
It really wasn’t a problem, he only lived a little past you and Dustin, and it didn’t bother you to drive an extra five minutes. Not for him. You were about halfway there when Dustin exclaimed, “That son of a bitch! Piece of shit!” from the backseat.
“What?” You asked, confused, but used to his antics.
“We have to stop at Mike’s. He’s got my folder! The one with all the character sheets! I think my math homework is in there too. Can we please? It’s on the way!” It wasn’t. You’d have to take a detour.
Eventually, you stopped the car outside of the Wheeler’s, Dustin hopping out and barreling towards the door, leaving you and Gareth alone in the car. You’d never been properly alone with him before.
When you turned your head to look at him, he was already looking at you. He really had to stop doing that. You grinned at him and he grinned right back, eyes creasing, cheeks reddening.
“Okay, I’m gonna tell you this now before he gets back. You’re so pretty. So pretty. I’ve been thinkin’ about you since Halloween.” He started messing with the rips in his jeans, obviously nervous.
“You think that? That’s really sweet. I think you’re pretty too, Gareth.” His head jerked up to you.
“You think I’m pretty?” You nodded at him.
“Prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.” He leaned over the center console and smacked a sweet and noisy kiss on your forehead, then another on your cheek.
“Sorry. You deserved that.” You burst out laughing, finding it hard to believe he could feel this way about you, but deciding to welcome it anyhow.
The two of you just looked at each other for a few minutes, and he went to say something, just as Dustin burst back into the car. “Alright! Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
————
Dustin was eating lunch a few days later when Eddie asked him, “Why don’t you invite your sister to sit with us? She hangs around enough, feels weird to have her sit alone.” He was kinda confused at the offer, even though it made sense. Dustin just guessed maybe you liked being alone during lunch, that you wouldn’t be able to concentrate on your book with them. But he took Eddie up on the offer, pattering over to you and presenting the situation at hand.
“Dustin, I’m not going to do that and interrupt you and your friends. You don’t need me in your life like that.” He quirked a brow, realizing that you thought he didn’t want you around like that.
“What? Come on, Y/N. I want you to sit with me and my friends. Let’s go. You can bring Mr. Bingley with you and everything.” He picked up your lunch box and book for you, leading the way.
When you made it to the designated Hellfire table, Eddie pulled out the seat between him and Gareth, bending at the waist. “M’lady.” You snorted and thanked him. Dustin set your lunch down in front of you and then your copy of Pride and Prejudice, fondly patting the cover, before plopping down across from you.
Eddie smirked at himself for getting you over here, having specifically chosen your seat. He was determined to help his boy out.
“What are we reading?” Eddie asked, leaning over to read the cover. He hummed in interest, but you were positive he was just humoring you. “Would you recommend it?” You laughed.
“Only if you’re willing to explore a period romance. But you might like it, you never know.” He grinned at you, smile lines appearing around his mouth. Eddie Munson was too charming for his own good.
“It’s actually pretty good,” the voice to your right said.
You turned to look at Gareth. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Gare, but why do you know that?” He laughed.
“My sister is fond of a bedtime story and wanted me to read it to her. But when I started she had all these questions and I couldn’t answer them, so we put it on pause and then I read it so she could have the full experience.” He shook his hands for emphasis. That was so sweet you felt like you could throw up.
“What?” He was looking at you and you were looking right back, but you realized you must’ve looked how you felt: practically fucking in love.
You straightened. “Nothing. That’s just kind of lovely?” His knee bumped yours under the table, his cheeks getting increasingly more rosy by the minute. You felt like reaching out and brushing your thumb along the spattering of freckles on his nose.
“Okay, now I’m feeling left out. Would you lend it to me?” Eddie asked you, feeling properly scandalized.
“Sure, Edward. You can have it in a few days. I’m almost done anyways, but I’ve read it a hundred times. If there are crumbs in the pages, no there aren’t.”
“I don’t mind. My copy of The Hobbit is missing half of the back cover.”
For the remainder of lunch, you gladly put Jane aside to indulge the boys in all their queries addressing the so-called interests you shared with Dustin.
“Daredevil? Really?” Gareth and you had started to slip into your own conversation, the rest of them arguing over some minuscule campaign detail.
“Yeah, you don’t like him?” You finished off a bag of grapes, offering Gareth your last two.
“No, no I do! Just guess I figured you’d like Captain America or Iron Man. Didn’t have you pegged as a sucker for vigilantes.”
“Oh, I do like Cap and Iron Man. Very much so. I guess I just like the color red.” You looked down at your hands, trying not to make eye contact with him following your attempt at a flirty comment.
Your nail picking was interrupted as Gareth’s hand slipped into yours. You’d been thinking about the warmth of his palm against your own since Halloween. The way his fingers rubbed over your knuckles. How reassuring it was to be in his grasp. You looked up at his gesture. “Is that so?” He squeezed your hand, moving your clasped fingers to rest on his thigh.
“Yeah. The ones in red are always the prettiest.”
————
The noise carrying down the hall was predictable, but starting to annoy you still. You were almost finished with your English essay, but you couldn’t concentrate. Not with the loud voice of the dungeon master or dice clattering or Dustin’s ear-piercing shrieks. You didn’t want to be a dick, but you were going to have to sneak out of your room.
You opened the door, following the sound. You took in the party and all it’s glory as you weaved around the table that had been put up in the living room. They were all too immersed in the game to notice you anyhow. You made it into the kitchen, opening the cabinet and reaching up to grab medicine for the headache you now had. You’d just downed the pills when you glanced over at the table again and met Gareth’s eyes. “You okay?” He mouthed.
You tapped your head in response, finishing the last of the water in your cup before setting it in the sink. You didn’t miss the way his eyes traveled down your bare legs as you escaped back to your room.
Safely back in your place of refuge, you grabbed your keys and slipped on shoes, deciding that maybe a milkshake would help you concentrate on the rest of your homework.
You made it down the hall again, walking to the door. Your hand was on the knob when a voice said, “Where do you think you’re going? You’re supposed to be babysitting me.”
You turned around to face Dustin, everyone’s eyes on you. “None of your business, dusty bun. There are plenty of people to babysit you here anyways.” You flipped him the bird when he rolled his eyes and hurried out the door.
Sitting in your room, milkshake—which you’d snuck back into the house—almost finished, there was a knock at the door. You knew it wasn’t Dustin because he’d never knocked a day in his life—only ever shouting before busting through an entrance. “Yeah?”
The door gently pushed open, and you saw his curls before you saw the rest of Gareth. “Am I interrupting?” You nodded your head. “Yeah, but it’s okay.”
You’d finished your essay and were now doing homework for your science class before you called it a night. Gareth wandered into your room, closing the door behind him. He leaned against the desk next to you. “Need something?”
“Just wanted to see if your head was okay. I know we get loud.” You laughed at him.
“It’s better now. Besides, I’m used to it. Just couldn’t concentrate.” His eyes met your milkshake cup, and he was suddenly aghast.
He looked at you, feigning betrayal, “You snuck out to get a milkshake? I’m hurt.” Shit, his eyes were so pretty. Too pretty.
“You contributed to the headache, Gare. You want to try some? There’s a little left.”
“Sure.” He said. You took another sip and then offered it to him, but he shook his head. “Not like that.”
And then he was leaning down to meet you, fingers lifting your chin. Gareth planted his lips on yours, grinning, obviously proud of himself. His lips were softer than you expected, assuming they’d be a bit like his hands, but either way they were gone much too fast.
“Pretty damn good milkshake.” You knew you were beet red, but you didn’t care. You stood, putting your hands on his cheeks and kissing him again, smiling the whole time. When you pulled away, you ran your thumb along the freckles on his nose, like you’d been wanting to.
“That’s what I was thinking too.”
————
please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33
548 notes · View notes
free-for-all-fics · 7 months
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The Lost Boys and Queen of the Damned/The Vampire Lestat crossover prompt! (In my head Lestat is still blond and face claimed by either Tom Cruise or Sam Reid, but if you wanna picture Stuart Townsend, go ahead!) Pls tag me if you’re inspired to write something based off any of the ideas below and I’d love to read it! ❤️🩸
You’re a vampire and the bassist for the rock band Satan’s Night Out with your human band mates Alex, Larry, and Tough Cookie. The band has been struggling for years, but your stage presence helps them gain popularity. As you get a cult following that grows bigger and bigger over time, you rise up from performing in seedy bars and underground clubs and land spots on bigger stages in better venues. When Lestat de Lioncourt is awakened from his decades long slumber after hearing your band rehearsing, he rises from his grave to join as the new lead vocalist. You rename your band as The Vampire Lestat and tour all over the country, playing to crowds of hundreds or thousands of people. You often play at sold out shows and sometimes your band is more anticipated than the main headliner. People really come to see The Vampire Lestat even if you’re just the opening act.
One of your stops is Santa Carla, California - the murder capital of the world! Hell fucking yeah, you and Lestat are so pumped! You just promoted a massive concert in Death Valley, but this is even better! This city really seems to come alive at night and there’s lots of interesting and colorful characters living here. Missing posters are littered everywhere but the police are desensitized to it and won’t lift a finger to investigate. Perfect, easy pickings for you and Lestat. You and Lestat receive several threats from other vampires warning you not to play in Santa Carla, but you dismiss them and have the concert anyway. While you’re performing on the boardwalk, the Lost Boys are completely entranced by the frenetic energy of your music as they watch you play and hear Lestat’s singing voice. You and Lestat can sense there’s vampires nearby, possibly even among the large crowd of fans. You and Lestat attempt to drive back to your hideout afterwards, but several vampires attack you and your car gets lit on fire. David and his Lost Boys swoop in and come to your rescue, fighting off the rival vampires. They urge you and Lestat to hop on their bikes and together you make your escape.
You’re both invited to hang out with them in their cave - It’s like a giant coffin and they live here. It’s full of tons of cool stuff; posters, a fountain, etc. It’s a totally sick setup! You drink, smoke, listen to music, and just fuck around together all night. It’s like a big vampire party. Both you and Lestat are sexy as fuck and would fit right in with them. They would love to have more members join their group since Michael Emerson and Star didn’t work out. It’s a long story. You’re invited to sleepover in their cave/coffin. Hell, you and Lestat could live here permanently if you wanted. There’s plenty of room since Star and Michael are gone, so you and Lestat can take their old “rooms” in the cave and make them your own. Really they’re more like spacious alcoves separated by curtains but you and Lestat have had far worse sleeping quarters so this is a welcomed improvement.
You also join the boys on hunts. Damn, they look so hot when their eyes turn yellow while they feed. Their hair gets messy from the wind, and their faces and clothing get covered in blood. Their fangs are bigger and shaped differently from yours and Lestat’s. You almost want to touch them. You and Lestat lick your lips when the boys ask if either of you are hungry and want a bite. You and Lestat accidentally bite your lips so hard that they bleed. Damn fangs. You try to cover it up and play it cool by sharing a passionate kiss. You and Lestat may have had an ongoing fling and fooled around with each other, but now you’d both like to take a bite out of David and his friends— Wait, what? Fuck, are you both lusting after these vampires? Fuck, are these vampires your mates? You may have to cancel the rest of the tour and stay in Santa Carla longer than you originally planned. This newfound sexual attraction has made things much more interesting, especially if it’s mutual and the boys reciprocate. Lestat may be experiencing ✨Bi Panic✨ and you’re in a similar bind.
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ladycatashtrophe · 2 months
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It is very inch resting being an English Writing student with 3 different disorders that all have obsession/compulsion/impulsivity as symptoms because do I ~like~ Hawthorne or Emerson? No. Am I, perhaps, wasting my time in a library that closes too damn early researching transcendentalism and romanticism and how they lead to a whirlpool that contains gothic literature, surrealism, and sentimentalism because these crotchety old men were out of their gourds but sometimes right? Yes. Yes I am.
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solipseismic · 1 year
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2022 poetry rec list
wrapping up this year w another poetry rec list! this year i’ve leaned a lot more into actively reading and writing much more poetry and hope to be publishing a compilation of my work (hopefully!) this time next year as well :) once again, i’ve tried to link what i could back to original sources + authors but a few of these link to tumblr posts / screenshots. this one is MUCH longer so i’ve organized it into my fav 15 + the rest below the cut!
top fifteen:
desert hymns no.2 (@/prophetfromthecrypt)
despite my efforts even my prayers have turned into threats (kaveh akbar)
erishkigal specializes in butchery (joan tierney)
for the dogs who barked at me on the sidewalks in connecticut (hanif abdurraqib)
fricatives (eric yip)
hammond b3 organ cistern (gabrielle calvocoressi)
let your father die energy drink (daniel lavery)
morning prayer with rat king (kaveh akbar)
not even this (ocean vuong)
on coming back as a buzzard (lia purpura)
the swan (@/tinyghosthands)
sometimes i wish i felt the side effects (danez smith)
song of the insensible (andrew kozma)
space boy wearing skirt (lee jenny)
the stars are warm (chung ho-seung)
everyone else:
14 lines from love letters or suicide notes (doc luben)
blood makes the blade holy (evan knoll)
border patrol agent (eduardo c corral)
carpet bomb (kenyatta rogers)
death comes to me again, a girl (dorianne laux)
desert (john gould fletcher)
do you consider writing to be therapeutic? (andrew grace)
dust (dorianne laux)
first will and testament + missing persons (sam sax)
fish (richelle buccilli)
for the feral splendor that remains (caconrad)
glitter (keaton st james)
gravedigger (andrew thomas huang)
heart condition (jericho brown)
it is maybe time to admit that michael jordan definitely pushed off (hanif abdurraqib)
leaves (lloyd schwartz)
letter to s, hospital (emily skaja)
metaphors for my body on the examination table (torrin a greathouse)
miss you. would like to grab that chilled tofu we love (gabrielle calvocoressi)
my brother, asleep (steven espada dawson)
my brother out of rehab, points, (ron riekki)
my cat is sad (spencer madsen)
notes from jonah's lecture series (tanya olsen)
publick universal friend contends with orthgraphy & meditates in an emergency (day heisinger-nixon)
red stains (allen tate)
red shift (david baker)
salvage (hedgie choi)
shoulders (naomi shihab nye)
social skills training (solmaz sharif)
the 17-year-old & the gay bar (danez smith)
the desert dispels this hallowed ground of coarse insinuations (julia wong kcomt)
the twelfth day (rosanna warren)
two-mom energy drink (daniel lavery)
two poems (rachel nelson)
two times i loved you the most in a car (dorothea grossman)
un [naming] / trans (after golden) (angelic proof)
valentine for ernest mann (naomi shihab nye)
vi. wisdom: the voice of god (mary karr) 
WAITING (keaton st james)
what mary magdalene said to the young transsexual (elle emerson)
wild geese (mary oliver)
worms (shyla hardwick)
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unmotivatedwrit3r · 3 months
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Cloudy Christmastime
damian wayne x reader x jonathan kent
(A/N): Before anyone protests, I headcanon the Wayne family as celebrating both Jewish holidays like Yom Kippur and Hanukkah as well as Christmas and Easter because yes, Bruce is ethnically Jewish (though may have done Christmas as well) but Dick/Jason/Tim/Steph would have likely celebrated Christmas. So they do both.
Anyway, this is a christmas gift for @glorified-red and literally the 5th take on this fic bc they first said Hallmark movie, then damijon hallmark movie, then whump. And then it took me three tries to get something I was close to happy with so I hope you enjoy. This ended up being a mix of domestic fluff and h/c.
warnings: sensory overload
wc: ~2600
~~
“Tell me again why Santa doesn’t bring us gifts if he’s real. Like our dads have met him. And he still doesn’t bring us presents,” Jon lamented from the couch, bundled up in four blankets. 
From your spot on the floor by the tree, you looked up, an eyebrow raised in amusement. “Because we’re not kids anymore? And how do you know Santa ever brought us gifts?” 
“Perhaps,” Damian added, passing Jon a cup of hot chocolate. He placed a second cup on the coffee table and lifted one to his lips. “He only brought gifts to people to make a point. I never received any from him as a child but father has gotten many over the years.” 
Jon listed to the side, head landing on Damian’s shoulder. “I think that’s worse.”
For the first time in a while, Jon felt Damian’s huff of laughter more than he heard it. Your small chuckle was similarly inaudible. Jon hated solar flaring. Not only was it a pain to deal with for the day and change—one could argue he got either lucky or really unlucky by solar flaring the morning of Christmas Eve—but it always threw his senses out of whack as they trickled back in. And, with the gray skies of Gotham’s winter, Jon was expecting it to be even weirder than usual. It was worth it though, to him, in order to spend the day itself with his partners. It was enough that the Kent family Christmas Eve was ruined by Lex Luthor. He wasn’t going to let his Christmas day be ruined too. 
“I’m sorry, mi sol,” you offered with a shrug and a smile. Jon met your grin with his own. A full-body shiver wracked his frame. Your gaze turned concerned. “You okay?” 
“Yeah,” Jon agreed, “Just chilly.” Damian’s arm wrapped further around Jon, pulling their sides flush against each other. Jon maneuvered the blankets away to soak in his warmth. 
“Ameli, we can turn the heat up,” Damian offered. 
“Nope,” Jon argued, nuzzling into Damian’s neck. “This is good.” Damian’s resulting huff of air teased at the hair on the top of Jon’s head. 
“Mi luna?” You asked from the floor. Damian turned to look at you. Jon followed, eyes traveling over the mound of presents arranged under the tree. There was a pile around the back of the tree against the wall for Damian’s family (Jon still needed to give Dick his gift from the Hanukkah celebration a couple weeks ago. The blue dreidel paper was obvious against the sea of brown, red, and green wrapping paper.), and a smaller one for yours. The empty gap left behind after the Kent Christmas was already filled in with a large box Jon was like ninety percent sure was a new easel for Damian. You ordered it, not him, but Jon couldn’t think of anything else on any of your lists that was even close to that size. “Can you hand me that please?” You gestured to a precarious stack on the coffee table. 
Damian acquiesced, passing over a teetering pile of vaguely book-shaped items. Who those were for was anyone’s guess. Jon was grateful Alfred had helped you and him pay for some of the gifts for Damian. Looking at the gift tags, it otherwise would have been horribly uneven. And Damian himself wouldn’t have minded, Jon knew, but you and him would have been upset about it anyway. He deserves the world, your rohi. Damian pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of you, still arranging presents under the tree. He showed it quickly to Jon before texting it to him immediately. 
“This look okay?” You asked, peeking out from behind the tree. Jon looked it over. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for exactly, but he also wasn’t exactly the reigning opinion on artistic presentation. 
“It looks fine, hayati” Damian said, eyes still trained on his phone. You narrowed your eyes at him. 
“You didn't even look.” 
Damian turned to look at you. “Because I knew it looked fine, beloved.” His eyes scanned the presents. “And it does.” 
You shook your head at him, exasperated, before conceding and sitting heavily on the couch. Scooching in, you nearly pressed up against Jon’s other side. 
“Come closer,” He whined, untangling a hand from the blankets to grab yours. “You’re warm.” 
Jon could feel the look exchanged over his head. 
“I’m not that warm,” you argued even as you grabbed the TV remote from the coffee table and arranged the blankets so that you could fit underneath. “You’re just cold.” 
Jon shrugged. The hand that wasn’t holding yours reached underneath Damian’s shirt and he swore, grabbing Jon’s wrist to keep its chill away. Another look passed over Jon’s head. He wondered sometimes if the two of you were aware he knew what you were doing and just didn’t care. Probably. 
“Are you sure you’re okay, amorcito?” You asked. Jon shrugged. 
“It’s cold outside and I’m human but otherwise yeah. I have you two,” he added smugly. Damian’s playful shoulder hit came at the same time as your muttered “sap.” Jon grinned. “So because I’m sick—sort of—I get to pick the movie. And we’re watching Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Despite the protests on both sides, the movie was playing before Damian could even get up to turn the lights off. To the side of the couch, the lights on the Christmas tree bathed the room in a soft white glow. 
~
Jon awoke to a cold bed. On a good day, he’d wake with the sun—or whenever it wormed its way through the bedroom’s black out curtains—or to an international emergency. Okay, not that the emergency was good, just that he was feeling good enough to know it was happening. On a bad day, all bets were off. Jon stuck his hand out of the covers, searching blindly for his phone. After a moment of finding nothing but the wood of the end table, the scratchiness of the sheets was unignorable and he gave up, flinging back the covers to get out of bed. Hanging over the side of the dresser was a dark red sweatshirt. Jon grabbed it and tugged it on, rubbing his arms to get the lingering echo of the sheets off his skin. His off kilter super hearing zeroed in on the crooning of Michael Bublé before zooming back out into the general background noise coming from the kitchen. Jon winced, squaring his shoulders. That was a bad sign. But it was Christmas; he’d be fine. 
A quick squint at his phone told Jon that it was just after noon. No wonder the bed was cold. Jon shivered, then grabbed a pair of your fuzzy socks before opening the bedroom door. 
The smell of cinnamon and chocolate coming from the kitchen was pleasant rather than unbearable. Jon let himself breathe it in as he approached quietly. He didn’t even notice you behind him—though that was often true of an average day—before there were arms around his waist and a head on his shoulder. He let himself lean back into the warmth of you. 
“Merry Christmas, mi amor. How are you feeling?” you inquired. Hot breath ghosted across his neck. Jon shrugged. 
“Fine. Excited for today.” He spun around to face you, eyes taking in your christmas pj pants and sweater with a Robin logo. Over your shoulder, Jon could see flashes of blue, likely Damian’s nightwing sweatshirt. “Merry Christmas,” he added, tucking his nose into the spot just underneath your ear for just a moment. No matter what his super senses were like, he took comfort in the smell of the two of you. A hand weaved through his hair, a kiss pressed to the top of his head. Jon pulled back just enough to give you a peck on the lips before being spun around into a kiss from Damian. 
“Merry Christmas, my heart,” Jon muttered, pressing a second lingering kiss to Damian’s jawline. A steady heartbeat pulsed under his fingers, wrapped around Damian’s wrist. 
“Good morning,” Damian said, wrapping an arm around Jon to keep him close. Jon blindly reached out and a second calloused hand found his. A second warm body curled around him. He missed your heartbeats’ song in his ears, but Damian’s pounding steadily under his ear and yours fluttering underneath his fingertips was good enough for right then. “Are you alright?” Damian continued. “It’s late.” His voice was echoey underneath Jon’s ear and Jon flinched instinctively. The two of you reacted immediately, pulling back. 
“Jon?” you asked, voice laced with concern. 
“Yeah,” he managed. “I’m mostly good. About as expected, you know?” Jon offered up a smile. By the looks on your faces, it didn’t do as much reassurance as he’d hoped. “I’m sorry I slept so late.” 
“Don’t apologize,” Damian argued. “There is no reason to.” 
“Yeah, I guess,” Jon sighed. 
“How are you feeling about breakfast, mi sol?” You asked, tangling your fingers with his. 
“Sounds good,” Jon agreed. 
~
“Oh yeah I should definitely send Dick a text to thank him. And also say Merry Christmas,” Jon said, flopping down on the couch after breakfast. With his partners looking happy, Christmas music in the background, and a breakfast of vegan pancakes in his stomach, Jon could almost forget about the buzzing under his skin. 
“Tt,” Damian scoffed. “He would have swapped with me anyway. Gordon and Father are both working tonight so it was pointless for him to have the evening off.”
Jon shrugged. “Still, doesn’t hurt to say thanks.” 
“Say hi from me too,” you yelled over the running kitchen sink. After a moment more, the water shut off and Jon released a silent sigh at the absence of an irritating bit of noise. He was lucky the x-ray vision hadn’t started acting up. Not only was that like the antithesis of Christmas presents (his mom kept presents out of the house or in a lead box until morning for that very reason), but it was also a huge pain and the hardest to hide. Screwy touch and hearing was more than enough. Dishware clanked around in the kitchen as Damian sat beside Jon on the couch. 
“No change?” He asked, reaching for a Nightwing mug of cider on the coffee table. 
Jon shrugged. “Nope, nothing yet.” Damian narrowed his eyes and Jon attempted to start coming up with excuses. At the very least, he could probably get Damian to leave it alone until after gifts. Less so if you noticed too and started teaming up on him. 
“Ready for presents?” You asked, sitting down on the other side of Damian. You raised the untouched Superman mug to your lips, eyes scanning over Jon. 
“Yes!” Jon butt in before you could say anything. “Let’s do it.” 
You and Damian exchanged a look. On the floor below, the elevator dinged, releasing a family with a horde of kids. “Okay,” you conceded, standing to grab the first load of presents.
In the apartment directly underneath, the front door squealed open. A load of presents was slammed down on the floor beside him. Three kids squealed “gramma!” in unison. Jon’s hoodie was all of the sudden suffocating him. 
Jon jumped up and yanked the sweatshirt over his head, pawing the sleeves off before yanking his socks off too. He didn’t care where they ended up. His hands went up to press against his ears. Stumbling over his own feet, Jon meandered backwards until his back slammed into a wall and then slid down, knees up and head with ears still covered in between them. Sounds zoomed in and out. All of the sudden, he could hear Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer playing eight floors down, then A Christmas Carol on someone’s TV across the street. Focus! Jon yelled at himself through all the noise. One steady beat came into focus, then another. 
Until there was a soft item brushing his feet, Jon didn’t realize he had company. A steady beat pulsed in his ears, too loud even for its familiarity. He pulled the blanket close. Something plastic nudged his shoulder and Jon grabbed it instinctively, slamming special-made headphones over his ears. The sounds faded down into something manageable. Jon took a deep breath. And then another. He didn’t need to hear to know that the two of you were there. When he reached out tentatively with his sense of smell, the usual wave of cinnamon-vanilla-brown sugar-clove and somethings just the two of you tempered by pine and peppermint was comforting rather than overwhelming. Jon let it wash over him, clutching the soft weighted blanket to his chest. 
When he cracked his eyes open, two blurs blinked into focus as his partners, leaning against the back of the couch and hands linked. Damian’s head rested on your shoulder, one of your hands tangled in his hair. Jon noticed as soon as Damian saw he was up. He almost slammed his head into your chin as he shot up and Jon huffed a laugh.  
“Ameli?” Damian asked. Your eyes locked onto Jon’s. 
“You guys shouldn’t sit on the floor,” Jon responded. “It’s bad for your backs.”
You offered Jon a hand, ignoring his remark completely. Jon’s chest ached. If you weren’t willing to banter, he’d scared you. “How are you feeling?”   
Jon took the hand and stood, adjusting the headphones so they stayed on his head. He tossed the blanket over his shoulder and reached his other hand out towards Damian before tugging the both of you up and towards the couch. 
“I’m okay,” Jon reassured you, sitting down on the couch. “I promise.” When neither of you moved, he tugged you both down on top of him, interrupting the bat-assessment written all over Damian’s face.  
“Promise like this morning?” Damian argued. Jon winced. 
“Okay, yeah maybe I shouldn’t have—”
“Been a self-sacrificial dumbass as if we don’t a) know you and b) want you to talk to us?” You cut in. Jon could read the hurt underneath the anger clear as day. His fingers brushed over two sets of knuckles, one scarred from years of fighting without protective gear, the other dry from the winter air. 
“I know. I just wanted today to be a good day, you know? We never get uninterrupted holidays.” Jon resisted the urge to pull his hands away from yours and curl into himself. The two burning gazes on him were ones of love and concern, though, not judgment. 
“And for some reason you think accommodating you makes the day worse, why?” Damian asked. Jon didn’t have an answer. 
“We love you, Jon. Eres nuestro pareja. We picked ‘partners’ for a reason, yeah?”  You squeezed his hand in yours. 
“Yeah,” he agreed, head dropping to your shoulder. Silence was heavy in the room for a moment. 
“You choose what we do next,” Damian stated, tugging the blacket from its bundled blob to instead cover you and Jon. 
Jon moved from your shoulder to halfway on top of Damian, tugging you on top of him. “You guys are going to squish me in between you while we watch a movie and then we can do presents?” 
You shot him a wicked smile. Jon shrieked as Damian pulled him bodily half on top of him along the couch, cut off when you landed nearly on top of Jon. 
“Good?” You asked. Jon let himself sink into Damian, arms coming up to wrap around your waist. 
“Yeah,” he said. “Good.”
Damian grabbed the remote. “We’re not watching Elf.”
Jon stuck his tongue out at him.  
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lcvefriedman · 1 year
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magic trick
content: gareth emerson x afab reader; suggestive; stressed!gareth x tired!reader; nipple play; oral fixation; banter; cuddling and nipple sucking idk what else to say
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gareth was stressed. that much was a constant.
he was always thinking about work and talking about work and answering phone calls about work.
and it wasn't that he neglected you — not at all. there was always time for you, and he made sure to remind you of that whenever you had even a sprinkle of doubt.
but it made you feel bad, even guilty, that you could never seem to find a way to help his stress. to relieve it even a little bit.
you haven't been dating long, only a few months, so you were sure that one day you would learn what the magic trick was-but until then you were left to try all the different things that might ease his mind, even if just for a few moments.
your shift ended late, very late. there was too much to do and the thought of going home at your normal time was unbearable to your boss.
so you ended up getting to gareth and jeff’s apartment a few minutes before midnight.
"hey pretty." he said with a smile as he opened the door.
you tried being quiet as you took your shoes off by the door, but then you noticed there was still very loud music playing from jeff’s room and all the lights were on.
"do you guys just never sleep?"
"night owls." gareth shrugged. he took your bag from you and walked you to his room.
"what were you working on?" you asked as you settled on his bed, crossing your legs under your body.
"just a melody that popped into my head. and then i started writing it and the beat just appeared. so i had to scribble it down."
you nodded with a smile. gareth’s face always lit up when he talked about music, and so you made a point of asking him as many questions as you could about the subject, even though you knew next to nothing. sometimes you weren't even sure how to ask your questions, thinking they'd surely come across as completely juvenile, but gareth always smiled so brightly and explained everything in as much detail as you wanted. so it was so worth it.
"do you wanna keep working on it? i need a shower anyway." you offered with a smile.
gareth nodded, walking around his room to find a pair of sweats that have since became your spare pair, and a tank top.
you turned the fabric over in your hands and chuckled. "must you cut all your shirts?"
"it's called fashion." he scrunched his nose at you with a grin.
"it's called showing too much skin." you teased him.
"yeah," he shrugged, "that's why i gave it to you."
you slapped his chest lightly, clicking your tongue at his flirtatious remark.
gareth just smirked at you in response, leaning in to peck your lips.
"want me to get some food ready while you shower?"
"yes, please. literally anything, i'm starving," you groaned. gareth nodded firmly at you and pushed you towards the shower in his room.
after you washed your very long day away, you quickly put on the clothes he supplied you with. he was very generous when he cut that tank top, and the sides of the shirt were completely gone. if gareth was wearing it, there would've been no problem. in fact, you remember him wearing this exact shirt once and you could so easily see the outline of his belly.
it was a great shirt.
but on you it meant you couldn't possibly not wear a bra-and even though all you wanted after your long day was to rip the uncomfortable cups off you, you couldn't. so you begrudgingly put the bra back on and headed to the kitchen.
gareth kept his end of the bargain and prepared you some food while you were showering. only after you told him three times that you could eat alone and he should get back to working on his song, he listened and resumed his work.
you cleaned up your dishes (and maybe the two other cups that were already in the sink as well) and made your way back to gareth’s room.
all you could hear as you entered the room was gareth scribbling on his notebook paper.
you softly wrapped your hands around his shoulders, careful not to startle him. he wore his concentrated face and his headphones, so you were sure he wasn't even aware of your presence.
when he felt your arms around him he sighed, bringing one side of the headphones off.
"all settled now?" he asked, eyes still on the notebook.
"yeah. can we go to bed soon?"
"i, i'm not tired…" he said.
"you will be in the morning when you haven't slept." you reminded him.
"no, i'm too energised now, this is going really well." he informed you with a smile.
you mirrored his smile, kissing his cheek softly.
"and it's late now and you need to rest. come on." you tried, standing up as you rubbed your thumb against his shoulder, "let's find a way to get you to relax."
"okay, fine. i'll cuddle you until you sleep and then i’ll keep going." he sent you an angelic smile, to which you rolled your eyes.
“or i'll cast a magic spell and you'll finally learn how to relax and sleep."
"mmm, doubtful." he scrunched his nose again, laughing at his own words.
you shook your head at him.
the pair of you slid under his large blanket, your back finally telling you just how sore it was feeling from the day you had.
you groaned.
"are you comfy with your bra on?" gareth questioned after he changed his overhead lights to a lamp on his nightstand, painting the whole room in its glow.
"no," you whined, "but your tank top is too revealing i had to keep it on."
"i mean, it's just me here now. i've seen your tits before, yeah?"
"you're always so romantic." you joked.
"come on," he laughed at you, "just want you to have a good sleep."
"or are you trying to get me naked?" you faked a gasp at him.
"i could get you naked in three seconds if i wanted to," he countered, eyebrows raised. "but we both had a long day so i don't think either of us are up for that."
you nodded.
"right?" he made sure to confirm.
"yeah," you sighed, "i would absolutely love to, but i'm too tired for that."
"same," he let his head fall into the pillow, "my brain is far too loud right now to focus."
"that's fair." you nodded. then you sat up, reaching behind your back and undoing your bra easily. you chucked it to the side, letting out a big sigh as your skin breathed freely.
"i hate those things…" you grumbled.
"yeah." gareth said, his eyes fixed on the way your boobs looked from the side, peeking out of the fabric. "hate those things."
"gare, please," you whined, "don't get horny on me, i'm exhausted."
he laughed. "just said i am too!"
"yeah," you breathed out, "but now i took my bra off and you're staring and soon enough you're gonna get grabby and-“
“-hey!" he protested. he brought his hands to your hips, dragging your body closer to him.
"see?" you exclaimed.
he laughed again, hiding his face in your neck as he moved one of his hands under the tank top.
"i'm not starting something, i promise, he grinned at you, "i just wanna feel your warm skin."
"that's how it always starts," you glare at him. it was hard to keep it up, however. as tired as you were, you didn't mind at all when gareth got handsy with you. his hands were always so big compared to your body, and oh so warm, and physical touch was something both of you loved.
so you grumbled just because it made him giggle, and his giggle was too precious not to do whatever it took to hear it.
"your hands are very warm." you smiled softly, basking in the way his warmth moved up and down your middle, sighing once his hand settled on the hill beneath your breasts.
"can i…" gareth hesitated, "can i kiss?"
you puckered up your lips at him in response. he leaned forward and pecked your lips, giggling as he pulled away.
"actually, i meant uh, can i kiss your tits?"
you laughed loudly. "sure, mr. isn't gonna start something.”
"i'm not starting something!" he defended, lifting his tank top over your chest.
he didn't say anything after that, instead leaning forward and planting kisses all over your chest.
somehow, you actually believed him. the way he kissed you was so different than usual.
not that you didn't enjoy his lips all over your tits-but it was calm. he wasn't desperate and eager, he wasn't teasing and smirking. he was simply peppering kisses on your skin, the same way he did to the back of your hand when you watched a movie together.
he moved his body between your legs, settling on top of you, as his movements turned slower-from pecks to open mouthed kisses.
then he wrapped his lips around your nipple slowly.
you gasped at the feeling, hands wrapping around his shoulders, but even to your own ears it didn't sound sexual. it was like a sigh of relief had finally left your body in a way you haven't felt in months.
gareth sighed into your skin, sucking on the bud slowly.
you looked down at him, his eyes softly fluttering as he simply rested his head on your chest, tongue lapping at your nipple tenderly.
you brought a hand into his soft curly hair, moving your fingers through the locks slowly.
"feels nice, gare…" you said, airily. all the stress you were feeling from the day was gone now, your mind concerned only with gareth’s lips around you.
after a few more minutes gareth started kissing away from your nipple, towards the valley between your breasts, making his way to the side he left unattended. then he repeated his actions, bringing your nipple into his mouth calmly.
his hands stayed on either side of your stomach, rubbing against your skin soothingly.
"feels so nice.” he said, voice slow and heavy. he rested his head on your collarbone, eyes shut.
"my head is quiet now…" he whispered. "everything's so calm."
"yeah." you agreed, embracing the way the slight chill in the air clung to the wetness on your nipples. it woke you up, but only slightly. "so calm."
"i could probably keep going until i fell asleep." gareth confessed, his words tired as he put more effort than usual into speaking. his bones had all but turned to jelly-a serenity around him that was usually so foreign.
"please, gare…" you hummed, brushing your fingers through his hair, "wanna fall asleep like this."
gareth sucked your nipple back into his mouth, humming happily as his tongue slowly and delicately flicked around it, his whole body placate on top of you.
gareth’s eyes dropped shut every few moments. he tucked his head on your collarbone, hummed for a moment or two, and then kept going-his movements getting slower and slower the more he sucked on your nipples.
you weren't even sure if you were awake, too engulfed by the warmth of his mouth and his body on top of you and the peacefulness in his sounds to notice where your consciousness had moved on to. gareth felt the same-only focusing on sucking and licking and finally letting the thoughts in his head disappear for once.
you guessed you found the magic trick to calm gareth down.
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bedsyandco · 6 months
Note
Emerson saw one edit of Will, saved it and now her whole fyp is filled with them. Sometimes she'll just lay in bed and watch edits of him. It's her little guilty pleasure. She gets so embarrassed when Will catches her one day.
PLEASE write a blurb on this
Em woke up way before Will did, so she quietly did her little morning scrolls. she somehow ended up on tiktok watching edits of her boyfriend.
she was so engrossed on what was happening on her screen she didn't even notice Will had begun to stir.
"Are you watching edits of me?" he asks amused, voice still thick with sleep.
"No....." She answeres quickly locking her phone and putting it on the bedside table.
"You were watching edits of me" he says again
"William...I wasn't. You're imagining things." She says and Will chuckles caressing her slightly red cheek.
"You don't have to be embarrassed, princess. If there were edits of your pretty face I'd be looking at them all day too." Will says
"I'm sure you'd love all the comments thirsting after me as well. And I'm not looking at them all day" She replies, and Will smirks.
Will moves, so he's hovering over her, traling little kisses from her neck down to her boobs. Kissing over the hickies he left there last night.
"Baby, I'm literally naked in your bed right now. You don't have to be jealous"
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beansnsoup · 6 days
Text
Jaelyn's fic recs!
Fluff - 🧡
Smut - 💛
Part one! <- Part Two!
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☆ Cupids Arrow (Izuku Midoriya) by @fairytsuk1
prompt: "getting set up by their lovely grandmas, who always go to the same café and gush about their grandkids" 🧡💛
☆ Dressed To Impress (Andrew Siwicki) by @yourlocalsmutwriter
Summary: post Shorty awards smut, because Andrew in a suit makes us all thirsty 🧡💛
☆ Running Wild (Jaeden Martell) by @emmy-writes-sometimes
Summary: Jaeden takes Evans!Reader on a special road trip 🧡
Summary: You convince Gareth to teach you play the drums, after your cousin, Eddie refuses to teach you guitar, much to his dismay. 🧡💛
☆ Lessons (Gareth Emerson) by @mytheoristavenue
☆ Languid (Din Djarin) by @oliviajdjarin
Summary: Lovey dovey sex with your husband, Din. 🧡💛
☆ Experience (Konig) by @rowarn
Summary: in which you live in the same building as a really hot, older, military man 💛
☆ Sitting On Her Face (Hazel Callahan) by @subbypeterparker
Summary: Exactly what the title says... 💛
☆ Bumps & Bruises (Hazel Callahan) by @mphountitled
Summary: "If I put my hands up your skirt right now, am I gonna find you wet?" 🧡💛
☆ Family Affair (Keigo Takami) by @kleftiko
Summary: keigo can’t help that the sight of you with kids makes him want to put a baby in you, and you’re so willing to let him 💛
☆ Cowboy Kisses (Charlie Kelly) by @heartthrobin
summary: Charlie makes a handsome cowboy, covered in fake blood or not. 🧡
☆ Baby Fever (Sal Fisher) by @salfishersface
Synopsis - Sal has baby fever. 🧡💛
☆ Mirror Sex (Sal Fisher) by @cultrise
Summary: Exactly what the title says 💛
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suzyq31 · 4 months
Text
Example of what Harmony authors face
Hi,
I know a lot of you who follow me or are mutuals in this space are more Jily writers/readers. But I just want to share an example of the reasons I'm no longer comfortable engaging in the main Harmony fandom space run by HMS Harmony. I'll be blocking and deleting this user/commenter. I did however want to post this here as a concrete example of why it is that I'm not eager to continue and will be focusing on writing other pairings.
Also want to reiterate that I am not against discussion of fics, I just think entire post dedicated to talking about what we dislike about a fic in public fandom spaces don't adhere to a culture of kindness or respect. Fandom is about having fun, engaging with something we all love. That doesn't mean we all have to like the same things. But I also think we can do better about treating each other decently. I have not sent a single person after this user, or to attack any moderators of these groups. But again, this is the response and while I haven't been there to see it, I do know that I'm being dragged on there. Which does make me afraid to speak up, but sometimes we have to do things or speak up even when we feel anxious about further retaliation.
One last thing about fandom culture/critique. I saw a post on here that I'll try to find again that basically said that fics aren't a meal at a restaurant where you pay and specify what you want. They are more like a home cooked meal. If you don't like it that's fine, don't eat it, but you also don't need to throw it back in the person's face. So anyways, this wasn't the best way to start my morning but I'm going to focus on the positives in my life, like going to a job where I get to plan Harry Potter themed activities for kids ❤️ Hope you all have a lovely day!
The comment can be viewed below:
Let me say this as clearly as possible and hope you don’t construe this as disrespect for the sake of disrespect.
Get over yourself. Really, do that.
Your entire author note is self contradictory to the point that it makes me laugh. You said it wasn’t meant to cast blame but you posted the link to the thread I made on reddit. You said you don’t always expect the internet to be a safe space yet you’re trying to make it that way by not only brigading your friends and supporters against the mods but making an author note to air your own grievances about a thread that did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to rip apart publicly and regularly.
If you think I’ve ripped apart BFL with that thread then I shudder to think what you’ll think when you see something actually being ripped apart. What I did was voice my confusion and frustration at not being able to understand what that story was trying to accomplish. What I did was seek out others to either see if they felt the same or see if they felt different to me. You conveniently ignored that latter part.
And now you’re giving yourself time and grace to make a decision on what you want to do in the fandom. So with all due respect again, GET OVER YOURSELF. You post a work into a public space and expect it not to be critically discussed? The absolute worst thing I could have done was “RiP aPaRt” BFL directly in Emerson’s thread but I didn’t. Instead I went to reddit and sought out others in the community to try and understand. The fact that she ended up seeing that and then announcing that she’s leaving the fandom just to put heat on me is crazy but I’ll let it slide.
I honestly do not know what I could have done better other than shutting my mouth and saying nothing but the truth is that I was a fan of the author and I absolutely refused to believe the story she put out was what it was. Do I regret offering up a discussion on Reddit? Hell no. I wanted to understand so I sought understanding.
Another contradiction. You said you were no God but you are a human but yet you’re asking others to change the subreddit to what you 🫵 want it to be. You want it to be changed to an echo chamber where sensitive people like you won’t be exposed to criticism or discussion of your work. The same bloody work you posted on a public site to hundreds, thousands, of readers. Give me a break.
If you’re so afraid of negativity, as you call it, then may I suggest a policy of perhaps not being on Reddit and not seeking out posts that discuss your work? It’s either that or get over yourself and roll with the punches.
Discussion isn’t always going to be complimentary or kind. If your work is controversial, best believe it will be discussed. And make no mistake, I DISCUSSED BFL. Never once did I levy harsh accusations or insults just because I didn’t like the story. The fact that it has 41 upvotes and counting echoes that. So many people agree with me and I love it. I think that’s what Reddit is about. Promoting discussion and understanding of things.
Once again, please either get over yourself or adopt the fanfic author’s sacred mantra: “Don’t like, don’t read.” You don’t like the way your work is read and discussed, then leave. Join a new subreddit that is the echo chamber you want it to be. Or even leave the fandom like your friend Emerson did. Join the Dramione community because apparently their subreddit is better than Harmony’s according to all yous. Or even join the Nevmione subreddit, I’m sure they could use a few more authors and are “nicer” than Harmony.
Make a note of how stupid and unfair it sounds when I tell you to do all of those things. Make a note of how you feel when I say them. And then ask yourself why “don’t like, don’t read” is a bullshit rule. You can’t just decide to fully dislike a story without reading it all the way through. Stories get better and they win you over as you read them. The fact that BFL didn’t do that after I read it 8 odd times is a testament to me trying to find some positives because that is who I am..
That being said, continue to give yourself time and grace after you read this. Give yourself both of those things which, honestly, could have saved BFL if Harry was given some of it.
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